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.
"Mmmm, yes. She was very passionate about it. Called me specially." Gabby's smile turned knowing, the kind of smile that made Elliott want to check her pockets for missing valuables. "It's rather sweet, actually. She clearly thinks the world of you."
Elliott felt like the floor had dropped out from under her. The warmth of the morning, the perfect croissants, the stupid smile she'd worn watching Julia leave, all of it curdled into something cold and sharp in her chest.
Julia had sent her manuscript to Gabby. Without asking. Without even mentioning it. She'd taken Elliott's work, her dream, the thing she'd poured years of her life into, and handed it over to her mother like it was a school project that needed a gold star.
"I didn't ask for your help," Elliott heard herself say.
Gabby's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. "No, Julia did. On your behalf. I assumed she would have told you by now."
"She didn't."
A flicker of something crossed Gabby's face. Surprise, maybe. Or the dawning realization that she'd walked into the middle of a domestic situation. "Ah. Well. That's… awkward."
"You could say that."
The bell chimed again, and Julia appeared in the doorway, a carton of milk in her hand and a smile on her face that faltered the moment she saw her mother. "Mum? What are you doing here?"
"Delivering good news, apparently." Gabby's tone had cooled considerably. "Though it seems I may have been premature."
Julia's eyes darted to Elliott, and Elliott watched the realization dawn. Watched the color drain from Julia's face like water down a sink. "Elliott, I can explain…"
"Can you?" Elliott's voice came out flat. Controlled. The way it always did when she was trying very hard not to fall apart. "Because I'd love to hear you explain sending my manuscript to your mother without telling me."
"And that’s my cue to leave," Gabby said, sidling toward the door. "I don’t do drama if I don’t have a starring role, and this is all so boringly domestic."
She left, and Elliott stared at Julia.
"I was trying to help," Julia said, her face pale.
"I didn't ask for your help."
"I know, but…"
"You never ask, do you?" The words were sharp now, sharper than Elliott intended, but she couldn't stop them.
"You just decide what people need and then you fix it.
Like we're all just problems to be solved.
Like I'm a problem to be solved. Throw money at the problem, throw influence at it, and it’ll all go away. "
Julia flinched. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" Elliott laughed, and it came out bitter. "Your mother bought you a bakery you didn't want. So you fixed it by getting me to do all the baking. Now I've got a cookbook I can't sell, so you fix that too. Send it to mummy. Let her connections do the work. Problem solved."
"I was standing up for you. For the first time in my life, I asked my mother for something, and it was for you."
"I don't need you to stand up for me!" Elliott's voice cracked.
She hated that. Hated that Julia could get under her skin like this, could make her feel so much when she'd spent years building walls specifically designed to prevent this exact thing.
"I needed you to trust me. To believe that I could do this on my own.
But you don't, do you? You look at me and see someone who needs saving. A charity case. A fixer-upper."
"That's not—"
"I was going to ask her myself."
The words fell into the silence like stones into still water. Julia stared at her.
"What?"
"Your mother." Elliott's throat felt tight.
"I was working up to it. Trying to find the courage to ask for help, even though asking for help makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
And then you just… you took that from me.
You decided I couldn't do it, so you did it for me. You made me look like a coward."
Julia's eyes were bright with tears. "I didn't know. Elliott, I swear, I didn't know you were planning…"
"Because you didn't ask." Elliott turned away, pressing her hands against the counter, trying to steady herself. "You just assumed you knew what was best."
The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Elliott could feel Julia behind her, could practically hear her searching for the right words. But there weren't any right words. That was the whole point.
The bell over the door chimed a third time, and Elliott thought she might actually scream.
"Well, well, well." Candice Green's voice sliced through the tension like a knife through fondant. "Isn't this cozy? A proper family gathering."
She was standing in the doorway with her phone in one hand and a folder tucked under her arm, looking like the cat who'd not only got the cream but had also foreclosed on the dairy.
"Not now, Candice," Julia said wearily.
"Oh, I think now is perfect, actually." Candice's smile was sharp enough to cut glass.
"I've been doing some research, you see.
Gathering evidence." She held up the folder with a theatrical flourish.
"Photos. Receipts. Delivery schedules. All proving that your charming little baking arrangement is a complete fraud. "
Elliott felt Julia go still beside her.
"Elliott does all the baking," Candice continued, clearly enjoying herself immensely.
"Has done from the start. Which means this entire bakery is built on a lie.
The famous Gabby Richardson's daughter can't actually bake.
" She turned to Julia, who was watching the scene with an expression of detached fascination, like she was observing wildlife.
"I'm sure your mother’s fans would be very interested to hear about that. "
"Candice—" Julia started.
"I could go to the papers. Social media. Make sure everyone knows what a sham this place is." Candice's eyes glittered with vindictive pleasure. "Unless, of course, you decide to close up shop. Save everyone the embarrassment."
Elliott looked at Candice. At her smug smile and her folder full of evidence and her petty, small-minded vendetta. Then she looked at Julia, pale and stricken. At Tom, hovering anxiously behind the counter with a tray of pastries he'd clearly forgotten he was holding.
She was so tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of lying. Tired of building her life around other people's secrets and schemes. Tired of trying to be someone she wasn't. And suddenly the solution to it all seemed so very simple.
"Do it," Elliott said.
Candice blinked. "What?"
"Tell whoever you want. I don't care anymore." Elliott pulled off her apron and set it on the counter with a deliberate calm she didn't feel. "You're right. I did all the baking. Julia can't cook. Our relationship started as a lie. Congratulations. You win."
"Elliott…" Julia reached for her arm.
Elliott stepped back. "This was a mistake.
All of it." She couldn't look at Julia. If she looked at Julia, she'd crack, and she couldn't afford to crack right now.
Not in front of Candice. Not in front of Tom.
Not in front of anyone. "The arrangement.
The fake dating. Living here. Pretending this was real. I can't do it anymore."
"What are you saying?" Julia's voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm saying I'm done." Elliott's voice was steady. Flat. Dead. "I'll get my things and stay with Shay. You can tell your mother whatever you want. Tell the whole town whatever you want. I don't care anymore."
She walked past Julia, past Candice's triumphant smirk, and up the stairs to the flat. It took her less than ten minutes to pack. She didn't have much. She'd never had much. That was the point, wasn't it? Travel light. Don't get attached. Don't let anyone close enough to hurt you.
She'd forgotten that somewhere along the way. Let herself believe that maybe this time would be different. That maybe Julia was different.
More fool her.
Julia was waiting at the bottom of the stairs when Elliott came down with her bag.
"Please don't do this." Julia's voice was barely a whisper. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face blotchy. She looked terrible. She looked like Elliott felt. "I'm sorry. I should have asked. I should have told you. But please, can we just talk about this?"
Elliott paused on the bottom step. For a moment, she let herself look at Julia properly. At her sunshine smile, dimmed now. At the tears tracking down her cheeks. At this ridiculous, clumsy, well-meaning woman who'd somehow made Elliott believe that maybe she didn't have to be alone.
That was the cruelest part, wasn't it? Julia had made her hope. And hope was the most dangerous thing of all.
"There's nothing to talk about," Elliott said. "You don't understand me at all. You think you can fix everything with money and connections and good intentions. But some things can't be fixed, Julia. Some people don't want to be rescued."
She walked to the door. Julia didn't try to stop her. That hurt more than Elliott wanted to admit.
"Elliott." Julia's voice was small.
Yesterday, that one word might have been enough. But not now, not today. Not when Julia's love came with conditions. With fixes. With the unspoken assumption that Elliott wasn't enough on her own. That she needed to be somehow… worked on.
She’d been an idiot to think that Julia understood who she was, what she needed.
Julia was a spoiled little rich girl and Elliott…
wasn’t. There was no fix for that. No minimizing the differences between them.
No escaping the fact that Julia thought she couldn’t do this alone, when alone was all she’d ever been.
She opened the door and walked through it.
The slam echoed behind her like a full stop at the end of a sentence.
Elliott didn't look back.