Page 5 of Frosted Fakes

Come out tonight. I need you.

Elliott had time to take half a breath before her phone buzzed again.

Really cute new bartender at the pub and I need moral support. El? Are you ignoring me?

Elliott shook her head as another message came through.

I can see you’ve read these, you know?

She typed fast: can’t, busy.

The response was immediate. Busy doing what? Staring at your unfinished cookbook and brooding? You do that EVERY night.

Despite everything, Elliott felt her mouth twitch. Shay was chaotic, optimistic, and fell in love approximately once a week, sometimes more often. She was also the only person besides Milly who had ever managed to crack Elliott's defenses.

Not tonight, Elliott typed. Had some news.

There was a brief pause, then: what news? You can’t just say that and not explain! ELLIOTT DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!!!

Elliott sighed and typed. Milly sold the bakery. Moving to a retirement home. I'll fill you in later.

She turned off her phone before Shay could respond with the inevitable flood of sympathy and questions. She didn't want sympathy. She wanted to sit in her flat and eat raspberry tart straight from the dish and pretend that everything wasn't about to change.

She sighed, and ate a mouthful of tart despite her lack of hunger, standing at the window, watching the sun set over Oakhaven's rooftops, and tried to convince herself this was fine. Better than fine, really. This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Freedom. Independence. Time to focus on her cookbook without the distraction of working in the bakery. It was practically a dream come true.

So why did it feel like having a layer of her skin peeled off?

Later, lying in bed with the lights off, she stared at the ceiling and made a mental list of all the reasons this was actually a good thing. She'd have more time for her cookbook. She wouldn't have to deal with customers asking stupid questions about whether the croissants were "really French." She could sleep past four in the morning for the first time in years.

All of which was brilliant. But then there was going to be the issue of downstairs. A new person.

Elliott groaned and pulled a pillow over her face.

If she didn’t die of suffocation in the foreseeable future, she was going to have to deal with the new bakery owner.

She'd probably be one of those perpetually cheerful types. All bouncy enthusiasm and bright ideas and "let's make this an adventure!" Elliott could picture her already: blonde, probably. Expensively dressed. The kind of person who'd never worked a real day in her life and thought running a bakery would be "fun."

The kind of person who'd want to be friends.

Elliott shuddered.

She had work to do. She was going to be busy. She’d just have to keep the doors locked and not answer any knocking, that was all.

She didn′t need another friend. She had Shay.

How hard could it be to avoid one person?

Chapter Three

Oakhaven was, Julia had to admit, unreasonably pretty. The kind of pretty that made you want to punch it.

She’d been driving for four hours through increasingly picturesque countryside, her tiny car stuffed with suitcases and boxes and one very wilted houseplant that she’d optimistically taken from her office and had called Baby. Baby was not looking well. Neither was Julia, if she was honest with herself. The M4 had been a nightmare, she’d taken two wrong turns somewhere around Bath, and her mother had called three times.

Three times. In four hours.

The first call had been to remind Julia that she needed to "hit the ground running" and that there was "no time for moping about". The second had been to inform her that Marcella’s restaurant had just been featured in the Financial Times, in case Julia needed additional motivation. The third had been to ask if Julia had remembered to pack the family recipe book, the one that had been passed down through three generations of Richardsons and would definitely solve all of Julia’s problems if she would just apply herself.

Julia had not remembered to pack the family recipe book. She had, however, packed seventeen episodes of "Emergency Room: Critical Care" on her tablet, and a book of uncommon diseases that she’d found at a flea market. Two facts she wisely kept to herself.