Page 88 of Frosted Fakes

She could do this. She could be this person, the one who knew how to help, who stepped up in emergencies, who made a difference. She could see herself in scrubs, in a hospital, part of a team that mattered.

But that thought didn’t exactly make things better. Because as much as she might be able to picture herself in the hospital, there was one thing that she couldn’t do.

She couldn't see herself here. In this bakery. Forever.

The thought was unwanted and unwelcome, but once it was there, Julia couldn't shake it. She thought about the kitchen, the ovens she barely knew how to use, the flour-dusted surfaces, the business she'd never wanted, and felt the weight of it settle on her shoulders.

She loved Elliott. She could see them together. Marriage, even. The whole domestic fantasy. Okay, so it was early, but in her head, she knew that they had something special. She knew that there was something about Elliott that made her want to stay.

But could she see herself living here? Running this bakery? Playing at being something she wasn't, day after day, year after year?

The answer sat heavy in her chest.

No.

She couldn't.

And that felt like a betrayal. Like she was already planning an exit before they'd properly begun. But the truth was the truth, and Julia had spent too long lying to herself about what she wanted.

She wanted Elliott. She wanted the life they could build together.

She just… didn't want it here. And yet here was the only place Elliott would ever want to be. It was the place she belonged.

Julia groaned, closed the laptop, and pressed her hands against her face. One problem at a time. First, Elliott's cookbook. Then Candice and whatever vendetta she was planning. Then the future. Then everything else.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Elliott was having a good morning. That should have been her first warning.

The croissants had come out perfectly, golden and flaky and smelling like a French countryside fantasy. Tom had arrived early, practically bouncing with energy, and had immediately started on the display case with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested he'd had far too much coffee. The sun was streaming through the windows. Julia had kissed her goodbye before heading out to grab milk, and Elliott had caught herself smiling at the door for a full thirty seconds afterward like some kind of lovesick idiot.

Disgusting, really. She'd become one of those people. The kind who hummed while they worked. Who looked forward to coming home. Who used the word "home" and actually meant it.

Shay would be insufferable when she found out.

Elliott pulled a face at herself in the window. She was turning into some sort of fairytale princess and… she didn’t hate it. Which somehow made it worse. Alright, so not everything was perfect. She had a laptop full of a cookbook that she didn’t know what to do with. But then, she had a bed full of Julia, and she definitely did know what to do with that.

She was just sliding a tray of pain au chocolat into the oven when the bell above the door chimed with rather more authority than a small brass bell should possess.

"Elliott Sinclair!"

The voice hit her like a bucket of ice water. Elliott straightened up so fast she nearly brained herself on the oven hood.

Gabby Richardson stood in the doorway of the shop like she was making an entrance at the BAFTAs. She was wearing… Whatever she was wearing was suddenly erased from Elliott’s thoughts by the sudden realization that Gabby was smiling. Actually smiling. At Elliott.

This was wrong. This was very, very wrong.

"So, I’ve spoken with my publisher," Gabby announced, sweeping into the shop. Behind her, Elliott could see Mrs. Monmouth and two other customers watching with naked curiosity. "And I'm delighted to say that I'd be happy to write the foreword for your charming little cookbook."

Elliott's brain short-circuited.

"I… what?"

"The cookbook." Gabby waved a manicured hand as if Elliott were being deliberately slow. "Julia sent me the manuscript. Quite rustic, but there's potential. Raw talent, I suppose one might call it. That thing with the raspberries in caramel… innovative. I’m not saying I’ll put it in my show, but I’m not saying that I won’t either. My publisher agrees that with my name attached, we could make something of it."

The words didn’t seem to make sense. Julia. Sent. Manuscript.

"Julia sent you my manuscript," Elliott repeated slowly.