Page 33 of Frosted Fakes

"Fair."

They looked at each other across the counter. Julia's hair had dried in soft waves. She had flour on her cheek. Her eyes were warm, almost honey-colored in the afternoon light.

She was, Elliott thought, really quite pretty.

If only she had a backbone. If only she'd stand up to her mother, claim her own life, stop apologizing for existing. Then maybe she'd be someone Elliott could respect.

But the ends were justifying the means here. She didn’t have to respect Julia to pretend to be her girlfriend, did she?

Chapter Eleven

Julia woke at 5:47 a.m. to the sound of someone moving around downstairs. The flat was dark.

For a blissful three seconds, she thought she was having a nightmare. Then reality crashed in along with the smell of butter and sugar, and she remembered: fake girlfriend, business arrangement, Elliott baking in her kitchen at an ungodly hour.

Her kitchen. Like ownership implied possession. Whatever else happened, that kitchen downstairs was more Elliott’s than it would ever be hers.

She sighed, rolled off the couch with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, pulled on yesterday's jeans and made her way downstairs.

The kitchen was transformed. Where yesterday there had been chaos and smoke damage, now there were trays of perfect croissants, rows of immaculate scones, and what looked like a lemon tart that made Julia’s mouth water. Elliott stood at the counter, hair tied back, flour dusting her forearms, piping cream into choux pastry.

"You're up early," Julia said.

Elliott didn't look up. "Bakers' hours. Four a.m. start if you want fresh pastries for opening."

"Four in the morning?" Julia's voice came out slightly strangled. "You've been up since four?"

"Mmm." Elliott finished the last pastry and set down her piping bag. "Professional kitchens don't sleep in. Neither do professional bakers."

Julia looked at the display of perfect baking and felt a twinge of something. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps something else. "This is incredible," she said. "Elliott, seriously. This is… I don't even have words."

"It's competent." But there was the tiniest hint of pleasure in Elliott's voice. "Nothing special."

"It's special to me." Julia moved closer, studying a croissant. The layers were perfect, golden and buttery. "I couldn't do this in a million years."

"No," Elliott agreed. "You couldn't."

"You could pretend to disagree."

"I could. But I'd be lying." Elliott wiped her hands on a tea towel. "You handle front of house. I'll handle production. That's the deal."

Right. The deal. The fake girlfriend, mutually beneficial business arrangement deal.

A deal that, in the almost-light of day was perhaps not the most sensible thing Julia had agreed to. Having Elliott bake was great. But what was the end game here? That they kept up the pretence, got married, and ran a little bakery their whole lives just to placate her mother?

THE BAKERY OPENED at eight, and by five past, Julia understood what Elliott had meant about her role. Packed shelves again meant a packed shop.

Mrs. Monmouth came in wanting two dozen scones for her book club, but only if they were "the proper kind, not those American monstrosities with chocolate chips." Mr. Fisk needed a birthday cake for his grandson, dairy-free because of allergies, and could Julia do something with dinosaurs? The vicar's wife wanted to know if they did wedding cakes, and if so, could she see a portfolio?

Julia smiled and took notes and made promises she had no idea if Elliott could keep. But she was good at this part. The talking, the remembering details, the making people feel welcome.

She was updating their sad excuse for a social media presence, three followers, two of whom were spam bots, when Jamie walked in carrying coffees.

"Bearing gifts," he announced. "And also gossip."

"Please tell me the gossip isn't about us," Julia said.

"The gossip is absolutely about you." Jamie set down the coffees with a grin. "The whole town's talking about how Gabby Richardson's daughter has a girlfriend. Mrs. Monmouth asked me if I thought you two were serious. The vicar's wife wanted to know if you'd be having a commitment ceremony. Old Fred at the pub said he saw you holding hands yesterday and it looked 'right proper romantic.'"