Page 102 of Frosted Fakes

Elliott was gone.

Julia stood in the kitchen doorway, staring at the evidence of her presence like a detective at a crime scene. Flour dusted the worktop. The industrial mixer had been cleaned and returned to its proper position. The display cases out front were filled with croissants and pain au chocolat and those lemon tarts with the torched meringue tops that Julia definitely didn't steal from the display case on a regular basis.

Elliott had been here. Elliott had baked. And Elliott had left without saying a word.

Julia's heart, which had done something embarrassingly agile when Elliott had walked through the door earlier, now sank somewhere around her knees. She'd felt such a rush of hope when she'd seen her. Elliott coming back, Elliott facing this mess together, Elliott saying "we both made this" like they were still a team.

And then… nothing. Radio silence. A kitchen full of pastries and an empty flat upstairs.

"She left about half an hour ago," Tom said from behind her. "Out the back. Didn't say anything."

"Right." Julia's voice came out steadier than she felt. "Of course she did."

Tom gave her one of those looks that suggested he was resisting the urge to bang their heads together. "You two are exhausting, you know that?"

"So I've been told."

Julia made a decision. Standing around moping wasn't going to fix anything, and she'd done quite enough of that lately. "Can you manage the shop for a bit? I need to go see Jamie." At least Jamie might be somewhat sympathetic to her plight. Tom was the least sympathetic person on Earth.

Tom waved her off. "Go. Sort yourself out. We don’t want you scaring customers off with your sad penguin impression."

"I don't look like a—" Julia caught sight of her reflection in the glass of the display case. Okay, maybe a little bit penguin. "Fine. I'm going. Sad penguin, indeed."

SHE FOUND JAMIE in the restaurant kitchen, staring at his phone with a look of absolute horror on his face.

"What’s got into you?" Julia asked, sliding up to sit on a metal counter. Jamie held up the phone. The screen showed a text from "Gabby Richardson" that included three wine glass emojis and a suggestion about dinner that made Julia want to bleach her eyeballs. "Jesus, Jamie, that’s my mother we’re talking about here."

"She's relentless," Jamie said weakly. "I've tried being polite. I've tried being busy. I've tried pretending I've joined a monastery. Nothing works."

"Ah. That's because you haven't actually told her no."

Jamie looked at her like she'd suggested he wrestle an alligator. "She's Gabby Richardson. THE Gabby Richardson. She could destroy my career with a single bad review, remember."

"She could," Julia agreed. "But she won't. And even if she tried, is this really how you want to live? Hiding from your phone? Dreading every notification?"

"It's not that bad."

"Jamie." Julia fixed him with a look. "You just told me you pretended to join a monastery."

He had the grace to look embarrassed. "It was a silent order. Very exclusive. She seemed almost impressed."

Julia held out her hand. "Give me the phone."

He scowled at her. "What? No. Why?"

Julia shook her head at him. "Because enough is enough. Because you're going to call her. Right now. And you're going to tell her, politely but clearly, that you're not interested and that she needs to stop."

Jamie went pale. "Julia, I can't…"

"You very much can." She kept her hand extended. "I'll be right here. Moral support. But you have to do this yourself."

For a long moment, Jamie just stared at her. Then, with the expression of a man walking to his own execution, he pushed her hand away, took the phone himself, and dialed.

Julia watched him pace the kitchen as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Then…

"Gabby. Hi. It's Jamie." His voice cracked slightly on the name. "Yes, I got your message. All of them, actually. That's why I'm calling."

He paused, listening, and Julia saw his shoulders tense.