Chapter Thirteen
The morning rush had just started to thin when Gabby Richardson swept through the door.
Julia, who had been cheerfully ringing up Mrs. Ridgely’s order of almond croissants, felt her entire body go stiff. Her mother was supposed to be in fittings all day. That was what she'd said. Fittings. All day. Not here. Not now.
"Darling!" Gabby's voice carried across the shop with the projection of someone who'd spent decades making sure cameras could hear her. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd pop in. See how my investment is doing."
Investment. Julia's eye twitched.
"Mum! What a surprise." She handed Mrs. Ridgely her change with slightly trembling fingers. "I thought you had fittings."
"Canceled." Gabby waved a perfectly manicured hand. "The designer had some sort of crisis. Apparently chartreuse is no longer the color of the season. As if I care about chartreuse. It looks awful on camera." She was scanning the shop as she spoke, and Julia knew exactly who she was looking for.
Jamie was not here. Small mercies.
"The place looks… functional," Gabby said, which in Gabby-speak meant she'd expected worse. "And those pastries actually look edible. Progress."
"Thanks, Mum." Julia resisted the urge to mention that she hadn't made any of them.
The kitchen door swung open, and Elliott appeared, carrying a tray of fresh scones. She took one look at Gabby and froze like a deer in the headlights.
"Elliott!" Gabby's smile sharpened. "The girlfriend. How lovely."
Right. The girlfriend. Julia's brain kicked into gear approximately three seconds too late. They were supposed to be a couple. In love. Comfortable with each other. Not standing on opposite sides of the shop like strangers at a bus stop.
She moved toward Elliott with what she hoped was casual affection and not the gait of someone approaching a suspicious package. "Hey, you."
Elliott's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Then, with impressive speed, she set down the tray and slid an arm around Julia's waist.
"Hey yourself." Her voice was warm, her smile convincing, and her grip on Julia's hip was firm enough to be grounding. "I didn't know your mum was stopping by."
"Neither did I," Julia said through her teeth, still smiling.
"Surprise visits keep everyone on their toes," Gabby said. She was studying them with the intensity of a food critic examining a suspicious amuse-bouche. "You two seem… comfortable."
"Very comfortable," Elliott agreed. She turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to Julia's temple.
Julia's brain short-circuited.
It was nothing. A peck. The kind of casual affection couples displayed all the time without their entire nervous system going into overdrive. And yet Julia could feel the exact spot where Elliott's lips had touched her skin, warm and tingling, like she'd been branded.
"Isn't that sweet," Gabby said, in a tone that suggested she might be thawing slightly to the idea of Julia having a girlfriend.
The door chimed again, and Julia's stomach dropped further. Candice swept in wearing a pink tweed jacket and an expression of pure calculation.
"Gabby Richardson!" Candice's voice went up an octave. "I thought I saw you through the window. What an absolute honor. I'm Candice Green. I own The Sweet Spot across the street." She thrust out her hand. "I'm such a tremendous fan of your work. I’ve seen everything you’ve ever done."
Gabby shook Candice's hand with the enthusiasm of someone handling a damp flannel. "How nice."
Julia looked at Elliott and Elliott pulled a face. If anyone was going to blow things now, it was going to be Candice.
"I simply had to come and say hello. And try one of these croissants, of course." Candice's smile turned pointed as she looked at Julia. "I've heard such interesting things about the baking here. Everyone's saying how much it's improved since Elliott arrived."
Julia felt Elliott's arm tighten around her waist.
"The croissants are exceptional," Gabby said, and Julia nearly fell over from shock. "I had one yesterday. Perfectly laminated. Excellent butter distribution."
Candice's smile flickered. "Oh. Well. That's… lovely."
"Mmm." Gabby was already looking toward the window, clearly bored with Candice's existence. "Julia, darling, I really can't stay. I've just remembered I have a fitting after all. The chartreuse crisis has apparently been resolved."
"Of course, Mum." Julia couldn't quite keep the relief out of her voice.
Gabby leaned in and air-kissed both of Julia's cheeks. "We'll have dinner soon. All three of us." She shot Elliott a look that promised interrogation. "I just can’t deal with the adoring public today, darling."
Julia fought back a smile and determinedly did not look in Candice’s direction.
Gabby swept out as dramatically as she'd arrived. And Candice, looking thoroughly deflated at being dismissed so quickly, muttered something about checking on her own shop and followed.
Julia and Elliott stood frozen, still pressed together, until the door closed behind them both.
"Well," Elliott said. "That was something."
"That was a disaster." Julia stepped away, immediately missing the warmth of Elliott's arm. "She's going to want dinner. She's going to ask questions. She's going to—"
"We'll figure it out." Elliott's voice was calm, steady. "We've got our story straight. We just need to sell it better."
"Sell it better how?"
Elliott looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable in her dark eyes. "Practice. Tonight, after closing. I'll teach you some baking basics so you can at least sound like you know what you're talking about. Hopefully, that’ll help put Candice off the scent as well."
"I thought you said I was hopeless."
"You are." The corner of Elliott's mouth twitched. "But even hopeless cases can learn theory."
???
The kitchen was quiet after closing, the kind of peaceful silence that Elliott usually treasured. No customers, no fire alarms, no chaos. Just her and the familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights.
And Julia, standing at the counter looking at a ball of dough like it might attack her.
"It's just flour and water," Elliott said. "It's not going to bite."
"You say that, but I've had dough do unexpected things before." Julia poked it gingerly. "It's sticky."
"That's because you haven't worked it enough. Here." Elliott moved to stand beside her, close enough that she could smell Julia's shampoo. Something citrus. Distracting. "Put your hands in."
Julia complied, her fingers sinking into the soft dough with visible reluctance.
"Now push the heel of your hand forward. Fold it back. Push again." Elliott watched Julia's awkward attempts and sighed. "You're not kneading bread, you're fighting with it. Relax your shoulders."
"My shoulders are relaxed."
"Your shoulders are up around your ears."
Julia huffed but made a visible effort to drop them. Her next push was marginally less aggressive.
"Better." Elliott reached over without thinking, adjusting Julia's grip on the dough. Their hands touched.
Julia went still.
So did Elliott.
It was nothing. Just fingers brushing. Flour-dusted skin against flour-dusted skin. The kind of incidental contact that happened constantly in kitchens. Elliott had touched hundreds of hands over hundreds of lessons with Milly.
None of them had made her feel like this.
Julia's hands were soft. Warm. Her fingers were slim and delicate. Her hands were soft and smooth and nothing at all like Elliott’s callused fingers.
Different. They were so different.
"Elliott?" Julia's voice was quiet.
Elliott realized she'd been standing there, frozen, her hand still covering Julia's. She could feel Julia's pulse beating against her palm, quick and light. She could feel her own breath coming harder, faster, could feel warmth welling up inside her. And… she didn’t want it to stop.
"The dough," Elliott said, her voice coming out rougher than intended. "You need to feel when it's ready. When it becomes smooth. Elastic."
She guided Julia's hands through the motion, trying to focus on the teaching and not on the warmth spreading up her arm. Push. Fold. Push. Fold. The rhythm was meditative, familiar, and yet nothing about this felt familiar at all.
"I think I'm getting it," Julia said softly.
"Maybe." Elliott should step back. She should absolutely step back. Instead, she stayed where she was, her front brushing Julia's back, watching Julia's hands work the dough with increasing confidence.
Julia turned her head slightly. They were close. Too close. Elliott could see the individual freckles scattered across Julia's nose, could count them if she wanted to. There were seven visible ones, plus two more that disappeared into her hairline.
Not that she was counting.
"You're good at this," Julia said. "Teaching, I mean. Patient."
"I'm not patient. I'm resigned."
Julia laughed, and Elliott felt it more than heard it, a vibration that seemed to travel through both of them. "That's very you."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just that you pretend to be grumpy but you keep helping me anyway." Julia's smile was soft in the dim light. "You didn't have to do this. Any of it."
"We have a deal."
A deal that was infinitely more attractive with Julia’s warm spine pressed up against her. Elliott was finding it harder and harder to breathe.
Then Julia shifted her weight, her elbow catching the edge of the counter, and Elliott saw what was going to happen a split second before it did.
The stand mixer, Elliott's stand mixer, the one she'd saved for months to buy, the one she'd brought down because the bakery ones were just too big, wobbled, tipped, and crashed to the floor with a sickening crunch of metal and broken parts.
Silence.
Julia's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh God. Oh no. Elliott, I'm so sorry, I didn't even—"
Elliott stared at the mixer. The bowl had cracked clean in half. The beater attachment was bent at an angle that would never work again. The motor housing had a dent in it that suggested internal damage.
Her mixer. The one she'd used to develop every recipe in her cookbook. The one that cost more than she'd ever spent on anything in her life.
"I'll replace it," Julia said quickly, already pulling out her phone. "I'll order a new one tonight. Same model, right? Or a better one. Whatever you want. It's no problem."
No problem.
The words hit Elliott like a slap.
No problem. Because to Julia, it wasn't. Julia could just buy another one.
Julia could buy ten of them without blinking.
Julia had probably never in her life had to choose between equipment and groceries, never counted coins to see if she could afford both ingredients and electricity, never understood what it meant to save for something, really save, making sacrifices and going without.
Suddenly, Elliott couldn’t breathe for altogether different reasons.
"Elliott?" Julia's voice was uncertain now. "I said I'll replace it. I know it's not the same, but—"
"It's fine." Elliott's voice came out flat. Dead. "Don't worry about it."
"But I want to—"
"I said it's fine."
Julia flinched. "You're upset. I can see you're upset. Please let me—"
"Goodnight, Julia."
Elliott turned and walked out of the kitchen, up the stairs, into the flat. She closed her bedroom door behind her with a soft click that felt more final than a slam.
Behind her, she could hear Julia's footsteps on the stairs. A pause outside the door. The soft sound of breathing.
Then retreating footsteps, and silence.
Elliott sat on the edge of her bed in the dark, her hands still covered in flour, and remembered why getting close to people was always a mistake.