Page 60 of Frosted Fakes

"I know."

Julia's breath caught.

She should say something sensible. Something about boundaries and timing and all the reasons this was complicated.

Instead, she rose onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips to Elliott's.

The kiss was gentle. Tentative. A question rather than an answer.

Elliott made a soft sound against her mouth, somewhere between surprise and surrender. Her hands came up to cup Julia's face, holding her with infinite tenderness.

Julia couldn't believe she was doing this. But Elliott's lips were soft and warm, and she tasted like hospital coffee and something sweeter underneath, and Julia never wanted to stop.

They stood there in the dim kitchen, kissing like the world outside had stopped existing, and Julia felt something bloom inside her chest.

Chapter Nineteen

Julia woke to pale morning light filtering through the kitchen curtains and spent approximately three seconds in blissful ignorance before the previous night came flooding back.

The kiss.

She sat bolt upright.

She'd kissed Elliott. In the kitchen. After Elliott had cried in her arms. While covered in flour and hospital anxiety and the general chaos of the day.

She groaned.

She'd kissed Elliott, and Elliott had kissed her back, and now Julia was here on the world's most uncomfortable couch trying to figure out if she'd ruined everything or made it better.

The flat was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that suggested someone else was also awake and also pretending not to be.

Julia stared at the ceiling and considered her options. She could get up and act normal, like nothing had happened. She could hide under the blanket until Elliott left for the bakery. She could climb out the window and start a new life somewhere far away where she'd never have to make awkward eye contact with anyone ever again. Papua New Guinea sounded good.

Option three was looking increasingly attractive.

The bedroom door opened.

Julia lay back down, her entire body rigid. She heard footsteps. The soft pad of bare feet on floorboards. The click of the kettle being filled.

Then silence.

Julia counted to ten. Counted to twenty. Counted to fifty before she finally worked up the courage to sit up again.

Elliott was standing at the kitchen counter, her back to Julia, doing something with the kettle. Her dark hair was messy from sleep. She was wearing an old t-shirt and shorts that showed off the tattoos on her arms and legs. She looked soft and rumpled and completely unlike the controlled, sharp-edged Elliott that Julia had come to know.

She also wasn't turning around.

"Morning," Julia said, her voice coming out rusty.

Elliott's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. "Morning."

And that was it. No mention of the kiss. No acknowledgment that anything had changed. Just two syllables and a whole lot of silence.

Julia's stomach sank.

She'd done something wrong. Obviously. She'd misread the situation. Elliott had been emotional, vulnerable, not thinking clearly. The kiss had been a mistake, and now Elliott was going to pretend it never happened, and Julia would have to go along with it because that's what she did. Went along with things. Made everyone else comfortable.

The kettle finished boiling.