Page 35 of Frosted Fakes

"Good? Elliott, this is incredible. This is the best thing I've ever tasted." Julia took another bite, closing her eyes. "How do you do this? How do you make something this perfect?"

"Practice. Technique. Not burning things." Elliott's mouth twitched. "The usual."

Julia opened her eyes. Elliott was watching her with an expression that was almost fond. Almost.

"I'm serious," Julia said. "This is… you're really talented. Like, genuinely, impressively talented."

"It's just a scone."

"It's not just anything." Julia studied Elliott's face, the sharp features, the guarded eyes. "You're brilliant at this. You know that, right? I should know. I might not be able to make things, but I’ve certainly tasted enough of other people’s cooking."

Elliott looked away first. "Eat your scone."

But there was color in her cheeks, just a hint, and Julia felt absurdly pleased to have put it there.

She couldn’t help but think that she’d taken on more than she’d bargained for. Why was she doing all this? To please other people. She knew in her head that that didn’t make sense. But in her heart, she couldn’t help it. She’d spent so long trying to make her mother happy that she didn’t know another way to be.

And now Elliott had made pastries at four in the morning so Julia wouldn't fail. Had saved her from disaster with her mother. Had agreed to this mad scheme, even though Julia was clearly the weaker link. After all, she was the one most likely to crash and burn. Either reveal the whole lie to a stranger or, more likely, burn the bakery down.

"You're doing it again."

Julia jumped. Elliott was watching her. "Doing what?"

"That thing where you go all thoughtful and worried." Elliott's voice was matter-of-fact. "What were you thinking about?"

"Nothing. Just… Just that maybe this wasn’t the best idea."

"Maybe not, but we’re doing it now. And acting has to be better than explaining the truth to your mum." Elliott's hand landed on Julia's shoulder, warm and steadying. "You're just nervous. It'll get easier."

"Will it?"

"It has to." Elliott's dark eyes met hers. "We're stuck with each other now."

They stood there, Elliott's hand still on Julia's shoulder, and Julia found herself noticing details. The faint smell of vanilla that clung to Elliott's clothes. The soft down on her cheeks. The way her mouth softened when she wasn't actively scowling.

The bell chimed. Elliott's hand dropped, the moment was over.

Julia turned to greet the customer, her shoulder still warm where Elliott had touched her.

AT CLOSING TIME, Julia tallied the register and couldn't quite believe the numbers. They'd nearly sold out. The display cases were empty except for a few croissants and one slightly wonky scone that Elliott had declared "not fit for public consumption."

Julia had watched the fire alarm all day. It hadn't gone off once. Not even a hint of smoke.

Progress. Actual, genuine progress.

She locked the front door and headed to the kitchen. Elliott was cleaning up, methodical and efficient as always.

"We did well today," Julia said.

"Mmm." Elliott didn't look up from the counter she was wiping.

"Really well. Like, surprisingly well."

"The baking was competent. People bought it. That's how businesses work."

Julia picked up the wonky scone. "Can I have this?"

"It's imperfect."