Page 73 of Frosted Fakes

"Just getting to know my daughter's girlfriend." Gabby moved into the kitchen with the predatory grace of someone used to owning every room she entered. "We've barely had a chance to talk properly. I feel like I know nothing about you."

"There's not much to know."

"Oh, I doubt that." Gabby picked up a whisk, examined it, set it down again. "For instance, I don't even know where you trained. Which culinary school did you attend?"

The question landed like a punch. Elliott kept her face neutral. "I didn't."

"Sorry?"

"I didn't go to culinary school."

Gabby's perfectly sculpted eyebrows rose. "How unusual. An apprenticeship, then? Le Cordon Bleu does a wonderful program. Or was it the Culinary Institute?"

"I learned here." Elliott gestured at the kitchen around them. "From Milly. The woman who used to own this place."

"From…" Gabby's expression flickered through several emotions, settling on something between pity and disdain. "You're self-taught?"

"Yes."

"How… quaint." The word dripped with condescension. "So no real training then?"

"I’m perfectly capable of baking," Elliott said, wanting very much to slap the woman and trying very hard to remember that this was Julia’s mother and that under no circumstances should she come to bodily harm.

"Are you?" Gabby smiled, and it was the smile of someone who'd just confirmed a suspicion. "So you're an amateur baker with no formal training and no credentials." It wasn’t a question.

Elliott's hands curled into fists at her sides. "If you’d like to put it that way."

"What I’m wondering is…" Gabby picked up a croissant from the cooling rack and broke it open. "Just what exactly you’re doing working in my bakery if you’re not qualified to be here?" She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully.

Elliott opened her mouth to respond, but Julia appeared in the doorway.

"Mum." Julia's voice was strange. Tight. "That's enough."

Gabby turned. "I'm just having a conversation with your girlfriend, darling."

"No, you're interrogating her. And being cruel about it." Julia stepped into the kitchen, and Elliott saw something she'd never seen before: Julia's spine was straight. Her chin was lifted. She wasn't shrinking.

"I'm being realistic," Gabby said. "Someone has to be."

"Elliott is the most talented baker I've ever met," Julia said. "She's self-taught because she had to be. She didn't have a famous mother to pay for culinary school. She didn't have connections or money or any of the advantages we take for granted. She built her skills from nothing, with no help from anyone, and she's better than half the trained chefs I've met."

Gabby's eyes narrowed. "Julia—"

"I'm not finished." Julia's voice didn't waver. "Elliott is brilliant. And this isn’t your bakery, it’s supposed to be mine. Have you forgotten? Elliott doesn't need credentials to prove her talent. Her work speaks for itself."

Elliott couldn't breathe.

"And if you can't see that," Julia continued, "if all you can see is what she doesn't have instead of what she does, then maybe you're not as good a judge of culinary talent as you think you are."

Silence.

Gabby stared at her daughter like she'd never seen her before. For a moment, something strange crossed her face. Then she straightened, smoothed her jacket, and produced a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Well," she said. "It seems you've found your voice."

"Maybe I have."

"Hm." Gabby glanced at Elliott, then back at Julia. "I have an interview in an hour. We'll discuss this later."