Page 91 of Frosted Fakes

She opened the door and walked through it.

The slam echoed behind her like a full stop at the end of a sentence.

Elliott didn't look back.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The bakery had never felt so quiet.

Julia stood behind the counter, staring at the empty display cases. Three croissants. A single scone. Half a loaf of sourdough that looked like it had given up on life. The shelves seemed to mock her, all that gleaming glass with nothing behind it.

A customer peered through the window, saw the desolation, and kept walking.

Julia didn't blame them.

"I've tried the scones twice," Tom said, emerging from the kitchen covered in flour. He looked like a ghost. An apologetic, slightly panicked ghost. "They're… they're not good."

"How not good?"

"I think they could be classified as weapons." He held up something that might once have aspired to be a pastry. It landed on the counter with a thunk that suggested structural integrity well beyond acceptable baked goods parameters. "Also, the first batch caught fire."

"Scones don't catch fire, Tom."

"These ones did. It was impressive, honestly. In a horrible way."

Julia picked up the scone-weapon and examined it. Dense. Gray. Vaguely menacing. She'd seen more appetizing doorstops.

"It's fine," she said, even though nothing was fine. "I'll try to make some biscuits. Biscuits aren’t hard, are they?"

Tom's expression suggested he knew exactly how hard biscuits could be, both figuratively and literally, when Julia Richardson was the one making them.

"I could call Shay," he offered. "Maybe she knows where Elliott…"

"Don't." Julia's voice came out sharper than she intended. "Sorry. I just… don't."

Tom nodded and retreated to the kitchen to attempt another batch of something. Julia appreciated his determination. She did not appreciate the ominous clanging sounds that followed.

She pulled out her phone for the hundredth time. No messages. Elliott's contact stared back at her, the little thumbnail photo showing a rare half-smile Julia had captured when Elliott wasn't looking. She'd been photographing a tart for her cookbook. The light had caught her just right, and Julia had snapped the picture before she could stop herself.

She should delete it. She should probably delete the forty-seven other candid shots she'd accumulated over the past months too. The one of Elliott frowning at a soufflé. The one of her laughing at something Shay said. The one of her asleep on the sofa with flour still in her hair.

Julia put the phone away before she did something unspeakable, like cry. She was desperately trying to keep herself together, at least until she could close the shop.

The bell over the door chimed, and her heart did a stupid, hopeful leap before she saw it was just Mrs. Monmouth.

"Hello, love. I'll take a…" Mrs. Peterson surveyed the wasteland of empty shelves. "Oh. Is everything alright?"

"Supply issues," Julia lied, with a smile so brittle she was surprised it didn't shatter. "Should be sorted tomorrow."

Mrs. Monmouth bought the sad sourdough out of what was clearly pity and left with a worried backward glance. Julia watched her go and felt something crack in her chest.

"Julia?" Jamie was standing in the doorway, takeaway coffee in hand, looking at her with an expression that made her want to either hug him or throw something at him. Possibly both.

"Don't," she warned. "Whatever you're going to say, don't."

"I was just going to offer you coffee."

"Oh." She took the cup. "Thank you."