Page 72 of Frosted Fakes

Elliott watched Julia fold flour into the mixture with something approaching competence and felt a small glow of satisfaction that she refused to examine too closely. Three weeks ago, Julia had been a menace to ovens everywhere. Now she was managing a basic sponge without setting off a single alarm.

Progress. Actual, measurable progress. Okay, so there wasn’t actually any heat or ovens involved yet, but it was a start.

"Am I doing this right?" Julia asked, her brow furrowed in concentration. There was a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her hair had escaped its ponytail in several directions. She looked ridiculous. Elliott found it annoyingly endearing.

"You're not actively destroying it," Elliott said. "Which, for you, is basically a standing ovation."

"Your praise overwhelms me."

"I save my enthusiasm for things that deserve it." Elliott leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "Like my cookbook."

"How's that going?" Julia glanced up, her expression softening. "You were working late last night."

"Nearly finished." The words felt strange in Elliott's mouth. She'd been working toward this for so long that the end felt almost unreal. "Just the final edits now. Then it'll be done. I think. Everything’s been tested about a million times, and nothing’s going to poison anyone."

"That's amazing." Julia set down her spatula, her whole face lighting up. "You must be so excited."

"Terrified, mostly." Elliott hadn't meant to say that. The admission slipped out before she could stop it.

"Terrified? Why?"

Elliott stared at the industrial mixer, unable to meet Julia's eyes. "Because I don't know what comes next. I've got this book, right? All these recipes I've spent years perfecting. But having a book and getting it published are two very different things."

"Can't you just show it to your agent?"

Elliott's head snapped up. "My what?"

"Your agent." Julia blinked, looking confused. "Or take a publisher to lunch? My mum does that all the time. She knows people at every major publishing house. You have to do something she calls ‘shopping it around’."

The words hung in the air between them.

Elliott felt something cold settle in her chest. Of course. Of course Julia thought it was that simple. In Julia's world, you had agents. You had connections. You had mothers who could make things happen with a single phone call.

In Elliott's world, you had talent and desperation and absolutely nothing else.

"I don't have an agent," Elliott said flatly. "I don't know any publishers. I don't have a mum who can introduce me to the right people over canapés."

Julia's face fell. "Oh. I didn't mean…"

The bell above the shop door chimed. Elliott heard heels clicking on the floor, a sound that had become depressingly familiar over the past few weeks.

"Darling!" Gabby Richardson's voice carried through from the front. "Anyone home? You’ve got a customer waiting out here."

Julia's eyes went wide. "Oh no."

"Go," Elliott said. "It’s probably just Mrs. Monmouth at this time of day. I'll handle your mother."

"Are you sure?"

"Go."

Julia pulled her apron off and fled toward the front. Elliott heard the murmur of apologies, the bright chirp of Julia's customer service voice, and then Gabby Richardson walked into her kitchen.

Gabby stood in the doorway, surveying the space like a health inspector with a grudge. Today she was wearing crimson, making her look appropriately vampiric.

"Elliott," Gabby said. "How nice. I was hoping we'd have a chance to chat. Just the two of us."

Elliott's stomach tightened. "Can I help you with something?"