Page 43 of Frosted Fakes

Her mixer. The one she'd used to develop every recipe in her cookbook. The one that cost more than she'd ever spent on anything in her life.

"I'll replace it," Julia said quickly, already pulling out her phone. "I'll order a new one tonight. Same model, right? Or a better one. Whatever you want. It's no problem."

No problem.

The words hit Elliott like a slap.

No problem. Because to Julia, it wasn't. Julia could just buy another one. Julia could buy ten of them without blinking. Julia had probably never in her life had to choose between equipment and groceries, never counted coins to see if she could afford both ingredients and electricity, never understood what it meant to save for something, really save, making sacrifices and going without.

Suddenly, Elliott couldn’t breathe for altogether different reasons.

"Elliott?" Julia's voice was uncertain now. "I said I'll replace it. I know it's not the same, but—"

"It's fine." Elliott's voice came out flat. Dead. "Don't worry about it."

"But I want to—"

"I said it's fine."

Julia flinched. "You're upset. I can see you're upset. Please let me—"

"Goodnight, Julia."

Elliott turned and walked out of the kitchen, up the stairs, into the flat. She closed her bedroom door behind her with a soft click that felt more final than a slam.

Behind her, she could hear Julia's footsteps on the stairs. A pause outside the door. The soft sound of breathing.

Then retreating footsteps, and silence.

Elliott sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, her hands still covered in flour, and remembered why getting close to people was always a mistake.

Chapter Fourteen

Julia had apologized fourteen times.

She knew this because she'd been counting, partly out of habit and partly because Elliott's responses had become increasingly monosyllabic with each attempt. The first apology had earned her a grunt. The fifth had received a door closing. By the fourteenth, Elliott had simply walked past her as though she were a particularly uninteresting piece of furniture.

It had been three days since the mixer incident.

Three days of Elliott starting work before Julia woke and disappearing upstairs and into her room the moment the bakery closed. Three days of conversation limited to "the croissants are ready" and "we're low on butter." Three days of Julia lying awake on the uncomfortable couch, replaying the moment over and over, trying to understand what she'd done that was so unforgivable.

She'd offered to replace it. That was the right thing to do, wasn't it? When you broke something, you replaced it. That was basic human decency. Basic manners. The kind of thing her mother had drilled into her since childhood, right alongside "Richardsons don't slouch" and "presentation is everything."

So why had Elliott looked at her like she'd suggested something obscene?

Julia was wiping down the already-clean counter for the third time when Tara emerged from the back, carrying a tray of scones that smelled delicious and looked like something from a magazine. Elliott's work, obviously. Everything beautiful in this bakery was Elliott's work. It was disconcerting and yet weirdly made her proud at the same time. Proud that Elliott could do something so clearly incredible.

"You're going to wear a hole in that counter," Tara said.

"Sorry." Julia put down the cloth. "Lost in thought."

"Mmm." Tara slid the scones into the display case with practiced ease. Her movements were efficient, but she just didn’t seem… happy. God, Julia hoped she didn’t want to quit. Having Elliott’s help with the baking was great, but she needed Tara too. Actually, she needed all the help she could get.

Julia cleared her throat. "Everything okay?"

"Fine."

"You seem distracted."