Page 7 of Frosted Fakes

"Tripped me and swept me off my feet simultaneously?" he supplied with a grin, straightening his jacket. "No harm done. I’m Jamie. I run the restaurant next door." He gestured vaguely to the left. "I saw the car pull up and thought I’d come say hello. Welcome to Oakhaven."

"Julia. Julia Richardson." She shook his hand, grateful that he seemed more entertained than offended. "And I’m not usually this… coordinated. Uncoordinated. Clumsy. Whatever the word is for assaulting strangers in doorways."

"Richardson?" His eyebrows rose. "Not as in Gabby Richardson?"

And there it was. The flicker of recognition, the reassessment. Julia nodded and braced herself for the inevitable questions about her mother, the comparisons, the assumptions.

But Jamie just hummed thoughtfully. "Tough act to follow, I’d imagine. Well, if you need anything, supplier recommendations, local gossip, someone to commiserate with about the peculiarities of small-town life, I’m right next door. We culinary types have to stick together."

Julia felt something in her chest loosen slightly. An ally. She hadn’t expected that. "Thanks. I might take you up on that."

"Please do." He paused at the door. "You’ll be living upstairs, I suppose?”

Julia blinked. The flat. Right. Her mother had mentioned that, hadn’t she? Somewhere between lectures about heritage and threats about being cut off. She looked at the keys in her hand, found one that looked appropriately residential, and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Ah,” he said, looking discomfited. “Right.”

She didn’t want to question him, so she just beamed a smile. "I suppose I should go and settle in."

Jamie gave her a little salute and disappeared back to his restaurant. Julia watched him go, then turned to face the stairs at the back of the kitchen.

A flat. Her flat, apparently. At least she’d have somewhere to collapse after covering herself in flour all day and presumably exploding multiple items of kitchen equipment. As long as she didn’t burn the place down.

She went back to her car, grabbed her largest suitcase, and hauled it back through the bakery to the narrow staircase. The stairs creaked ominously under her feet. The suitcase banged against her leg at every single step. By the time she reached the top, she was out of breath and thoroughly annoyed.

The door to the flat was slightly ajar.

Julia frowned. That was odd. Maybe the estate agent had left it open? Or there was a cleaner? She shifted her grip on the suitcase, pushed the door wide, and stepped through.

Several things happened very quickly.

First, Julia registered that the flat was not empty. There was furniture. Personal belongings. A camera on a tripod.

Second, Julia registered that there was a woman standing in the middle of the room. Tall. Dark-haired. Sharp-featured. Carrying what appeared to be an absolutely exquisite strawberry tart.

Third, the suitcase caught on the doorframe, Julia stumbled forward, and her flailing arm connected solidly with the tart.

The world went into slow motion. Julia watched in horror as the tart left the woman’s hands, arced gracefully through the air, and landed…

…directly on the woman’s face.

Strawberry glaze dripped from dark eyebrows. Pastry cream oozed down cheekbones. A single perfect strawberry slid slowly down the woman’s nose and plopped onto the floor.

Julia stood frozen, suitcase still clutched in her hand, staring at the cake-covered stranger.

The stranger stared back.

Through a mask of ruined tart, her eyes were absolutely murderous.

Chapter Four

Elliott had experienced rage before. She was intimately acquainted with it, in fact. But there was something uniquely infuriating about standing in your own kitchen with strawberry tart dripping down your face while a blonde stranger stared at you like you'd just materialized from another dimension.

"Oh my God." The woman's voice was high and horrified. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't know anyone was here, I just… the estate agent said… I mean, I assumed…"

"You assumed what?" Elliott wiped pastry cream from her eyebrow. Another strawberry slid down her cheek and plopped onto the floor. "That you could just barge into people's homes and assault them with their own baking?"

She was particularly annoyed because this was now her fourth strawberry tart of the day and this one had the perfect consistency to be cut and photographed. Just the right amount of ooze. Which was now oozing all over her face.