Page 49 of Frosted Fakes

"The deal."

Elliott pushed through the kitchen door and set the mixer on the counter. Her old mixer. Her new mixer. It wasn't the same, and it never would be. But as she plugged it in and watched the beaters spin, she found that she didn't mind as much as she'd expected.

Julia Richardson was impossible. Clumsy and wealthy and chronically apologetic. She didn't belong in a bakery, didn't know the difference between bread flour and all-purpose, couldn't be trusted near an oven without supervision.

But she was trying. Really trying, in her own fumbling way.

And Elliott was starting to think that maybe, just maybe, she liked having her around.

Not that she'd ever admit it out loud. She had a reputation to maintain, after all.

But alone in her kitchen, with her new mixer humming and the smell of éclairs in the air, Elliott let herself smile.

Just a little.

Chapter Sixteen

There was a queue.

An actual, honest-to-goodness actual queue of people waiting to buy pastries from Sweet Oakhaven, and Julia had to resist the urge to take a photo and send it to her mother with the caption "See? Not completely useless."

She wouldn't, of course. Gabby would find something wrong with it. The queue wasn't long enough. The customers weren't prestigious enough. The lighting was unflattering. Or, God forbid, the shop wasn’t big enough. That was the last thing she needed, her mother launching a chain of patisseries for her to run. She couldn’t fake-date every baker in the country.

But still. A queue.

"Mrs. Monmouth!" Julia beamed as the elderly woman reached the counter. "Your usual? And how's the grandson? Did he pass his driving test?"

Mrs. Monmouth’s face lit up. "He did! Third time lucky. Though between you and me, I'm not getting in a car with him anytime soon."

"Wise woman. One almond croissant and a coffee, coming right up."

Julia moved through the morning rush with an efficiency that surprised even herself. She remembered that Mr. Peterson took his coffee black with two sugars. That the woman with the red coat was allergic to nuts. That the vicar's wife always wanted her pastries boxed separately so that the donuts didn’t touch the cream slices.

It was strange, really. She couldn't bake to save her life, but this part, the talking, the remembering, the making people feel welcome, this part she could do. This part she liked doing.

By eleven, the queue had thinned, and the display cases were looking pleasingly depleted. Elliott emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and surveyed the damage.

"Busy morning," she said.

"Busy week." Julia couldn't keep the grin off her face. "We're nearly sold out of the raspberry tarts. Again."

"Mmm." Elliott's expression was carefully neutral, but Julia had learned to read the slight softening around her eyes. That was Elliott-speak for pleased.

"Oh, and Mrs. Ellenson wants to know if you can do a three-tier cake for her daughter's engagement party. I told her I'd ask."

"When?"

"Next month. She's flexible on design but very particular about the sponge. Apparently her daughter has opinions about crumb density."

Elliott's eyebrow rose. "Crumb density?"

"Her words, not mine. I wrote it down." Julia held up her notebook, where she'd been keeping meticulous records of every custom order, every special request, every preference mentioned in passing. "Also, the delivery driver said the flour order came in, and I've reconciled the books for last week. We're up twelve percent on the previous week."

Elliott stared at her.

"What?" Julia felt her cheeks warm. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No." Elliott's voice was odd. "You did something right. Several things, actually."