Page 53 of Frosted Fakes

They clinked glasses. Drank.

And if their fingers touched again, if they stood there a moment longer than necessary, if something new and fragile hung in the air between them…

Well. Neither of them mentioned it.

But Julia thought about it for a very long time afterward.

Chapter Seventeen

When the phone rang, Elliott was elbow-deep in a batch of brioche dough, the kind that required precisely timed folds and absolutely no interruptions. But when Milly's name flashed on her screen, she wiped one hand on her apron and answered nevertheless, still working the butter into the dough with her other hand.

"Milly. You're up early. I thought you were supposed to be retired." She swallowed down the stab of guilt she felt at still not having visited.

"Old people don't sleep, you know. It's one of the great injustices of aging." Milly's voice was warm but thinner than Elliott remembered. "All those mornings of wishing for just five more minutes in bed, and now I’m awake with the birds anyway. Just thought I'd check in. See how my favorite grump is doing."

"I'm not grumpy. I'm focused."

"You've been grumpy since you were seventeen and showed up at my door looking like a drowned cat with an attitude problem." Milly coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made Elliott's hands still on the dough.

"That cough sounds bad."

"It's nothing. Just a tickle. The heating in this place is dreadful, you know. Dries everything out." Another cough. "I'm fine, love. Stop fussing."

"I'm not fussing."

"You're fussing. I can hear it in your voice." Milly paused. "You should come and visit, you know. It's been weeks. I'm starting to think you've forgotten where I live." Trust Milly not to tiptoe around matters.

Elliott's stomach tightened. The thought of seeing Milly there, not here, not with sleeves rolled up to her elbows and flour on her face… "I've been busy," she said. "The bakery, the cookbook…"

"The pretty blonde you're pretending to date?"

"Shay told you about that?"

"Shay tells me everything. It's very entertaining." Milly's voice softened. "I'm not going anywhere, Elliott. You can come and see me. I promise I won't look too different."

That was exactly what Elliott was afraid of. Not seeing the Milly that she knew. "I'll come soon," Elliott said. "I promise."

"Mmm." Milly didn't sound convinced. "How's the cookbook coming?"

"Good. Nearly done."

"And the new owner? Julia? Shay says she's hopeless in the kitchen but very pretty."

"Shay needs to stop giving you reports on my life."

"Shay is a wonderful girl and I adore her updates." Another cough, longer this time. "Right, I should let you go. It’s just about brioche making time, I think, and you won’t want to mess up the folds."

"Milly…"

"I'm fine, love. Really. Just old." Her voice went gentle. "Take care of yourself. And visit soon. Before I forget what you look like."

The line went dead.

Elliott stood there for a long moment, phone pressed to her ear, listening to silence. Then she set it down and turned back to her dough with hands that weren't quite steady.

THE DAY WENT badly from there.

Elliott over-proofed her croissants, something that hadn't happened since she was nineteen. She burned a batch of scones. She dropped an entire tray of perfectly piped éclairs and had to start over.