Page 6 of Frosted Fakes

Now she was pulling into the high street of a town that looked like it had been designed by someone who’d watched too many BBC period dramas. Stone buildings lined a narrow road. Flower boxes spilled over with blooms in cheerful colors. A church spire rose in the distance, and somewhere, a bird was singing.

Julia hated it immediately.

Not because it wasn’t lovely. It was lovely. That was the problem. It was lovely in a way that suggested everyone here had their lives figured out, that they baked their own bread and knew their neighbors’ names and had never once set fire to an ice sculpture at a charity gala.

She found a parking spot in front of the estate agent’s office, turned off the engine, and sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the steering wheel.

She didn’t want to do this.

She really, desperately, with every fiber of her being, did not want to do this.

But the thing about being Julia Richardson was that what Julia wanted had never particularly mattered. She’d spent twenty-nine years doing what her mother expected, following the path that had been laid out for her, smiling and nodding and pretending she didn’t dream of a completely different life. At this point, obedience was less a choice than a reflex, like blinking or breathing or apologizing when someone else stepped on her foot.

She got out of the car.

The estate agent was a cheerful woman named Sheila who had clearly been briefed on exactly who Julia was, or more accurately, who Julia’s mother was. She treated Julia with the sort of careful enthusiasm usually reserved for minor royalty or potentially dangerous wildlife.

"Miss Richardson! Such a pleasure! Your mother has told us all about you!" She spoke with too many exclamation marks.

Julia smiled weakly and wondered exactly what her mother had said. Probably something about "untapped potential" and "just needs the right opportunity". Definitely nothing about the ice sculpture.

Sheila pressed a set of keys into Julia’s hand with the gravity of someone handing over nuclear launch codes. "The bakery is just down the street. Sweet Oakhaven. You can’t miss it. Lovely little place. The previous owner was a treasure, absolute treasure. The whole town adored her."

Wonderful. So Julia would be replacing a beloved local institution. No pressure at all.

She found the bakery easily enough. It was, as promised, impossible to miss: a charming storefront with "Sweet Oakhaven" written in elegant script across the window and a striped awning that looked like it belonged in a children’s picture book. The window display was empty, which somehow made it worse. Like a stage waiting for a performer.

Julia unlocked the door and stepped inside.

The front of the shop was small but welcoming, with glass display cases and a wooden counter worn smooth by years of use. She could almost imagine it filled with pastries, customers queuing out the door, the warm smell of fresh bread.

Then she walked into the kitchen and her blood pressure spiked.

It was a proper professional kitchen. Stainless steel everywhere. Industrial ovens that looked like they could cook for an army. A mixer the size of a small car. Racks and trays and tools she couldn’t even begin to identify. Everything gleamed under the fluorescent lights, pristine and intimidating and absolutely, definitely capable of killing her.

"Oh God," Julia whispered. She swore quietly under her breath.

She walked slowly past the equipment, her reflection distorted in the polished surfaces. That was a proofing cabinet, she was fairly sure. And that was probably a sheeter, for laminated doughs, maybe? Or was it for something else entirely? And what on earth was that thing with all the attachments? It could either knead bread or launch satellites, she wasn’t sure which.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her mother:

Remember, the early bird gets the worm. I expect a full report by end of week. Make me proud.

Julia stared at the message for a long moment, then very carefully did not throw her phone across the room.

A knock on the front window made her jump so violently she nearly knocked over a tray of baking sheets. Through the glass, she could see a man waving enthusiastically. He was tall and dark-haired, with the kind of easy smile that suggested he didn’t panic over industrial kitchen equipment.

Julia smoothed down her hair, plastered on her best people-pleasing smile, and went to open the door.

The man stepped forward just as Julia stepped back, and somehow, she didn’t quite understand the physics of it, her foot caught on the doorframe while his foot caught on hers. There was a moment of terrible, slow-motion inevitability, and then they were both falling, his arms windmilling, her hands grabbing instinctively at his jacket.

They ended up frozen in an awkward tableau, his arms around her waist, her hands fisted in his shirt, their faces approximately three inches apart. It was, Julia thought distantly, exactly the sort of moment that would lead to a sweeping romance in a different story.

Unfortunately for any potential romance narrative, Julia felt absolutely nothing. Not a single flutter. The man’s breath smelled pleasantly of cloves though, which she thought was quite nice.

"Well," the man said, his voice warm with amusement, "this is a first. I usually buy someone dinner before we get to the dramatic catch."

Julia scrambled upright, her face burning. "So sorry. I didn’t mean to… you were just… and then I…"