Page 11 of Frosted Fakes

The cheerful presenter was a liar.

Julia stared at the smoking tray of what could charitably be called "charcoal" and less charitably "evidence of arson." The smoke alarm shrieked overhead like an accusation.

She grabbed a tea towel and waved it frantically at the detector, which did absolutely nothing except make her arms tired. Finally, she dragged a chair over, climbed up, and yanked the battery out with more force than strictly necessary.

Silence fell.

Julia plugged the batteries back in and climbed down from the chair, surveyed the destruction, and wondered if it was too early for wine.

The door to the flat opened upstairs. Footsteps on the stairs. Elliott appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair sleep-mussed and expression cross.

"What," she said flatly, "was that?"

"Buns." Julia gestured weakly at the smoking tray.

Elliott looked at the tray. Looked at Julia. Looked at the tray again. "Those aren't buns. Those are… I don't actually know what those are."

"Mistakes. Those are mistakes."

Elliott made a sound that might have been a laugh if it had come from anyone less hostile. "You weren't joking. About being terrible at this."

"I really, really wasn't."

For a moment, Elliott just stood there, arms crossed, watching Julia with those sharp dark eyes. Then she shook her head and turned back toward the stairs.

"Good morning," Julia called after her.

The only response was the sound of the flat door closing.

Right. Fine. She could do this. She'd just… try something else. Something simpler. She just wasn’t really sure there was anything simpler.

By 8:15 a.m., the smoke alarm had gone off again.

This time it was bread. Simple, basic bread. The kind that literally required three ingredients and patience. Julia apparently had none of the latter, because she'd gotten distracted reading about proper kneading techniques on her phone and had left the oven on too high.

The bread was now a brick. A very dense, very charred brick that could be used as a weapon.

She was contemplating throwing it in the bin when the front door of the shop opened and a young woman walked in.

She was maybe twenty, with limp, shoulder-length blonde hair, and an uncertain expression. She stopped just inside the door, taking in the empty display cases, the faint smell of smoke, and Julia standing there holding what was definitely not bread.

"Um," the young woman said. "Is the bakery… open?"

"Yes! Sort of. I mean, technically. The door’s unlocked anyway. Not that there’s really anything to sell. I don’t know why I unlocked the door, actually…" Julia hastily set down the bread brick. "I'm Julia. I'm the new owner. Are you a customer?"

"I'm Tara." The young woman shifted her weight. "I work here. Or I did. I don't know if I still do?"

Julia's brain finally caught up. Right. There had to be staff, didn’t there. No one ran a bakery alone. She wasn’t sure she’d ever been quite so grateful to see another person.

"You absolutely still work here," Julia said firmly. "Please. I need all the help I can get."

Tara's expression flickered between relief and concern as she looked around the kitchen. "What happened in here?"

"I attempted to bake. It went poorly." Julia ran a hand through her flour-dusted hair. "Actually, that's an understatement. It went catastrophically. I'm terrible at this. I mean truly, genuinely terrible. I once set fire to—"

"An ice sculpture, yeah, I heard." At Julia's surprised look, Tara shrugged. "Small town. Word travels fast. Especially when Gabby Richardson's daughter moves in."

Of course it did. Julia sighed. "So you know I'm a fraud."