Chapter Eleven
For a blissful three seconds, she thought she was having a nightmare. Then reality crashed in along with the smell of butter and sugar, and she remembered: fake girlfriend, business arrangement, Elliott baking in her kitchen at an ungodly hour.
Her kitchen. Like ownership implied possession. Whatever else happened, that kitchen downstairs was more Elliott’s than it would ever be hers.
She sighed, rolled off the couch with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, pulled on yesterday's jeans and made her way downstairs.
The kitchen was transformed. Where yesterday there had been chaos and smoke damage, now there were trays of perfect croissants, rows of immaculate scones, and what looked like a lemon tart that made Julia’s mouth water.
Elliott stood at the counter, hair tied back, flour dusting her forearms, piping cream into choux pastry.
"You're up early," Julia said.
Elliott didn't look up. "Bakers' hours. Four a.m. start if you want fresh pastries for opening."
"Four in the morning?" Julia's voice came out slightly strangled. "You've been up since four?"
"Mmm." Elliott finished the last pastry and set down her piping bag. "Professional kitchens don't sleep in. Neither do professional bakers."
Julia looked at the display of perfect baking and felt a twinge of something. Perhaps guilt. Perhaps something else. "This is incredible," she said. "Elliott, seriously. This is… I don't even have words."
"It's competent." But there was the tiniest hint of pleasure in Elliott's voice. "Nothing special."
"It's special to me." Julia moved closer, studying a croissant. The layers were perfect, golden and buttery. "I couldn't do this in a million years."
"No," Elliott agreed. "You couldn't."
"You could pretend to disagree."
"I could. But I'd be lying." Elliott wiped her hands on a tea towel. "You handle front of house. I'll handle production. That's the deal."
Right. The deal. The fake girlfriend, mutually beneficial business arrangement deal.
A deal that, in the almost-light of day was perhaps not the most sensible thing Julia had agreed to. Having Elliott bake was great. But what was the end game here? That they kept up the pretence, got married, and ran a little bakery their whole lives just to placate her mother?
THE BAKERY OPENED at eight, and by five past, Julia understood what Elliott had meant about her role. Packed shelves again meant a packed shop.
Mrs. Monmouth came in wanting two dozen scones for her book club, but only if they were "the proper kind, not those American monstrosities with chocolate chips.
" Mr. Fisk needed a birthday cake for his grandson, dairy-free because of allergies, and could Julia do something with dinosaurs?
The vicar's wife wanted to know if they did wedding cakes, and if so, could she see a portfolio?
Julia smiled and took notes and made promises she had no idea if Elliott could keep. But she was good at this part. The talking, the remembering details, the making people feel welcome.
She was updating their sad excuse for a social media presence, three followers, two of whom were spam bots, when Jamie walked in carrying coffees.
"Bearing gifts," he announced. "And also gossip."
"Please tell me the gossip isn't about us," Julia said.
"The gossip is absolutely about you." Jamie set down the coffees with a grin.
"The whole town's talking about how Gabby Richardson's daughter has a girlfriend.
Mrs. Monmouth asked me if I thought you two were serious.
The vicar's wife wanted to know if you'd be having a commitment ceremony.
Old Fred at the pub said he saw you holding hands yesterday and it looked 'right proper romantic. '"
Julia's face went hot. "We held hands once. For thirty seconds. Actually, twice, I think."
"In a small town, that's basically an engagement announcement. Oh, and Candice from across the street is telling anyone who’ll listen that it’ll never last." Jamie leaned against the counter. "How's the performance going, anyway? Gabby convinced?"
"Dunno. She hasn't been back since yesterday."
"She will be." Jamie looked both somewhat sympathetic and anticipatory.
"Like a bad penny, always showing up." Julia bit her tongue. She shouldn’t say things like that about her mother.
Jamie laughed. "You two will just have to work a bit harder on being convincing then, won’t you? Yesterday you both looked like hostages reading out a ransom note."
"Any tips?" Julia asked weakly.
"Stand closer. Touch casually, not like you're handling explosives. Look at each other like you actually like each other." He grinned. "Though that last one might be asking too much."
"I like her fine," Julia protested.
"You're terrified of her."
"I'm not terrified. I'm… cautiously respectful of her boundaries."
Jamie laughed. "Right. Well, whatever you're doing, do it better. And quickly. Besides, your mum’s terrifying, and you can hug her, right?"
Julia pulled a face and Jamie left, taking his wisdom and his irritating accuracy with him.
The kitchen door swung open. Elliott emerged, carrying a tray of something that smelled heavenly.
"Raspberry and white chocolate scones," she said. "For the display case."
"They smell amazing."
"They are amazing." Elliott set down the tray. "How's the front going?"
"I've taken three orders I have no idea if you can fill, promised a wedding cake consultation, and apparently the entire town thinks we're madly in love."
Elliott's eyebrow rose. "Efficient."
"Jamie says we need to be more convincing. He says we look like hostages."
"Charming analogy."
"He's not wrong though, is he?" Julia fiddled with her phone. "We're not amazing at this. You almost pulled my arm off this morning when I was talking to that man from the shop on the corner. That’s not romantic."
"You were about to explain our entire fake relationship in detail to a stranger," Elliott said. "Including timelines, motivations, and probably a PowerPoint presentation if you'd had time to make one."
Julia felt her face heat. "I talk when I'm nervous."
"I've noticed." But Elliott's voice had softened slightly.
"Look, we just need to be more careful. Your mother is famous.
And gossip spreads fast in small towns, especially about celebrity families.
If anything seems off, if we slip up even once, someone will mention it to someone else, and eventually it'll get back to her. "
"So, no pressure then."
"Exactly." Elliott picked up one of the scones and broke it in half, steam rising from the warm interior. "Here. Try this."
Julia took the offered half, their fingers brushing. The scone was still warm, the white chocolate melting slightly, the raspberry tart and sweet. She bit into it and nearly moaned.
"Oh my God."
"Good?"
"Good? Elliott, this is incredible. This is the best thing I've ever tasted." Julia took another bite, closing her eyes. "How do you do this? How do you make something this perfect?"
"Practice. Technique. Not burning things." Elliott's mouth twitched. "The usual."
Julia opened her eyes. Elliott was watching her with an expression that was almost fond. Almost.
"I'm serious," Julia said. "This is… you're really talented. Like, genuinely, impressively talented."
"It's just a scone."
"It's not just anything." Julia studied Elliott's face, the sharp features, the guarded eyes. "You're brilliant at this. You know that, right? I should know. I might not be able to make things, but I’ve certainly tasted enough of other people’s cooking."
Elliott looked away first. "Eat your scone."
But there was color in her cheeks, just a hint, and Julia felt absurdly pleased to have put it there.
She couldn’t help but think that she’d taken on more than she’d bargained for.
Why was she doing all this? To please other people.
She knew in her head that that didn’t make sense.
But in her heart, she couldn’t help it. She’d spent so long trying to make her mother happy that she didn’t know another way to be.
And now Elliott had made pastries at four in the morning so Julia wouldn't fail.
Had saved her from disaster with her mother.
Had agreed to this mad scheme, even though Julia was clearly the weaker link.
After all, she was the one most likely to crash and burn.
Either reveal the whole lie to a stranger or, more likely, burn the bakery down.
"You're doing it again."
Julia jumped. Elliott was watching her. "Doing what?"
"That thing where you go all thoughtful and worried." Elliott's voice was matter-of-fact. "What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing. Just… Just that maybe this wasn’t the best idea."
"Maybe not, but we’re doing it now. And acting has to be better than explaining the truth to your mum." Elliott's hand landed on Julia's shoulder, warm and steadying. "You're just nervous. It'll get easier."
"Will it?"
"It has to." Elliott's dark eyes met hers. "We're stuck with each other now."
They stood there, Elliott's hand still on Julia's shoulder, and Julia found herself noticing details. The faint smell of vanilla that clung to Elliott's clothes. The soft down on her cheeks. The way her mouth softened when she wasn't actively scowling.
The bell chimed. Elliott's hand dropped, the moment was over.
Julia turned to greet the customer, her shoulder still warm where Elliott had touched her.
AT CLOSING TIME, Julia tallied the register and couldn't quite believe the numbers. They'd nearly sold out. The display cases were empty except for a few croissants and one slightly wonky scone that Elliott had declared "not fit for public consumption."
Julia had watched the fire alarm all day. It hadn't gone off once. Not even a hint of smoke.
Progress. Actual, genuine progress.
She locked the front door and headed to the kitchen. Elliott was cleaning up, methodical and efficient as always.
"We did well today," Julia said.
"Mmm." Elliott didn't look up from the counter she was wiping.
"Really well. Like, surprisingly well."
"The baking was competent. People bought it. That's how businesses work."
Julia picked up the wonky scone. "Can I have this?"
"It's imperfect."
"I don't mind imperfect." Julia bit into it. Still good. Still somehow better than anything she could make. "Elliott?"
"Mmm?"
"How do you do it?" The question came out before Julia could stop it. "How do you make things this good when you're so…"
"So what?"
Julia searched for the right word. "Bitter. How can someone who's so bitter and jaded make pastries that are so sweet?"
Elliott's hands stilled. She turned, expression unreadable. "I'm not bitter."
"You are a bit."
"I'm realistic."
"Really?"
Elliott looked at her for a long moment. Then she turned back to her cleaning. "Baking is different," she said finally. "Baking is chemistry. Follow the recipe, do it right, you get the right result. No variables. No disappointment."
"That's sad."
"That's practical."
"Right," Julia said.
Elliott continued cleaning, muscles rippling under colorful tattoos as she wiped. "Go upstairs. I'll finish here."
"Thank you," Julia said. "For today. For all of this."
"It's the deal."
"Still. Thank you." She headed for the stairs, then paused. "Elliott?"
"What?"
"Maybe we're not completely terrible at this fake relationship thing after all."
"We're still pretty terrible."
"But maybe not hopeless?"
Elliott was quiet for a moment. "Maybe not hopeless."
Julia smiled and climbed the stairs, something light and warm blooming in her chest.
Behind her, she heard Elliott begin to hum. Something soft and almost content.
Upstairs, Julia fell onto the uncomfortable couch and pulled out her phone, but for once, she didn't open her nursing videos.
Instead, she found herself thinking about tomorrow. About standing close to Elliott. About casual touches and convincing performances.
About the way Elliott's hand had felt on her shoulder, warm and steady and real.
Business arrangement, she reminded herself firmly.