Page 64 of Frosted Fakes

"I was thinking something else."

She leaned in and kissed Julia softly, deliberately. Intentionally. A choice made in daylight with clear heads and open eyes.

And Julia melted into it.

The kitchen door banged open.

"Oh, ew." Tara stood in the doorway, her face screwed up in exaggerated disgust. "I came to ask about the scone display and now I need therapy."

Elliott pulled back but didn't let go of Julia's hands. "You could try knocking."

"Where's the fun in that?" Tara was grinning despite her protests. "Seriously though, get a room. Some of us have to work in this kitchen."

"This is my kitchen," Elliott pointed out.

"And I have to use it. Without the image of you two snogging burned into my retinas." Tara grabbed a tray of pastries and headed back toward the door. "I'm happy for you, by the way. Even if you are disgusting."

The door swung shut.

Julia looked at Elliott. Elliott looked at Julia.

"Actually, it’s my kitchen," Julia said, breaking the silence.

"Actually, your mother’s kitchen. Technically," said Elliott.

Julia snorted a laugh. "This is a mess."

"Our mess?"

And Julia’s heart beat a little faster. "Our mess," she agreed.

And standing there in the flour-dusted kitchen, holding hands while croissants cooled on every surface and the morning light streamed through the windows, Julia thought that maybe, just maybe, things were finally going right.

Chapter Twenty

Elliott had always prided herself on her ability to compartmentalize. Feelings in one box, work in another, inconvenient attractions to blonde bakers in a third box shoved to the back of a mental cupboard.

That strategy had worked beautifully right up until she'd kissed Julia Richardson.

Now, a few days later, she was finding it impossible to maintain any semblance of professional distance when Julia kept doing things like existing. And smiling. And being generally adorable.

Case in point: closing time, Julia wiping down the counter while humming something off-key, a smudge of flour on her cheek. Elliott should have been prepping tomorrow's bake. Instead, she was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, watching Julia like some lovesick teenager.

Pathetic.

"You've got flour," Elliott said. "On your face."

Julia looked up, blinking. "Where?"

"Everywhere, basically." Elliott crossed the shop floor before she could think better of it. "Here."

She reached out and brushed her thumb across Julia's cheekbone. Julia's breath caught. Her eyes went soft and warm, and Elliott found herself leaning closer, drawn in like gravity was conspiring against her.

"Elliott..."

"You're very distracting," Elliott murmured. "It's annoying."

"Sorry?"