Macarons at Midnight Page 8

  “Guilty.” Tristan leaned forward and took a long swallow of his wine. Henry wondered if he was nervous. He hoped he didn’t make him nervous. “Well, that and every superhero film ever. I’ll watch them all, even if they’re pants.”

  “So, New York? How’d that happen?”

  “I came here for work. Like I said.”

  “It has to be a big change from a small town.”

  “It is. Like, I lived in London for four years, just about, but even London never felt like this. Maybe because I was in school for most of it and spent a lot of my time on campus.”

  “Probably. It’s hard to be somewhere like this on your own. Daunting.”

  “Yeah.”

  THEY WERE quiet for a little while after that. Henry hoped he hadn’t inadvertently ruined the night by grilling his date. It didn’t feel like that, though. Tristan seemed happy and calm. Just quiet. He finally put his fork down.

  “You know what?” he asked. He looked almost thoughtful.

  “What?” Henry wondered what could possibly be about to happen.

  “The whole time we were in your kitchen, then last night, and since I got here tonight, I’ve been thinking something.”

  “What were you thinking?” Thudthud. Henry’s heart clenched a little in his chest. He leaned closer.

  “I’ve been thinking that I want to kiss you.”

  Henry nearly choked again. Tristan had a way of catching him off guard. “Really? You want to kiss me?”

  “Mmhmmm.”

  Henry dropped his fork onto his plate. All thoughts of garlic bread and the dessert he’d planned for later flew out of his head. He stood and walked over to where Tristan was sitting. “Like, now?”

  “I don’t know about you, but now works for me.”

  Tristan put his hand in Henry’s. Henry pulled him up so he was looming over him. Henry looped his arms around Tristan’s wide shoulders. Yes. It hadn’t been very long, but Henry felt like he’d been waiting for this kiss forever. At least since that first moment when he’d watched Tristan take an appreciative bite of his first macaron and lick his lips. Damn. Tristan leaned over and brushed his lips across Henry’s. It was soft at first, sweet, but like he knew what he was doing. It was good one of them did, because Henry’d pretty much forgotten everything he’d ever learned. Ever.

  “You taste like wine,” Tristan murmured.

  “So do you.”

  Tristan didn’t talk anymore. Just rested his hands on Henry’s hips and leaned in for another kiss. They kissed for a long time, soft and deep and slow on the roof in the low-lit evening. It was exactly how Henry wanted to be kissed. Always. Tristan was amazing at it; he paid attention to Henry’s breath, the way his hands clutched at Tristan’s shoulders. He sank his tongue in gently at exactly the right time, drew back, and nipped at Henry’s lips when he needed a break. It was perfect.

  “You’re… damn,” Tristan finally said. His breath bathed Henry’s mouth. “I should’ve known.”

  “What?”

  “Just. It’s you. I should’ve known kissing you would be like this.”

  “Like what?” Henry didn’t know why he was talking when all he wanted to do was kiss more and longer and all damn night if he could.

  Tristan rubbed his thumb across Henry’s cheekbone. Again. Perfect. “I think you know.”

  He did. He wasn’t going to play coy. “Like we’ve been kissing forever.”

  “Exactly. But like it never got old.”

  Henry leaned in for another. He didn’t think he’d ever want to stop.

  “How do you feel about dessert?” Henry asked against Tristan’s mouth.

  Tristan raised one sandy eyebrow. “Dessert? Or are we talking sweets?”

  “Well, that too, maybe.” Henry couldn’t help chuckling, even if it sounded breathy and crushy and a little ridiculous. “But I actually meant cake. Real cake with, like, ingredients.” You just sounded so cool, it’s amazing he’s not already naked. “Would you like some? Cake, that is? And then maybe dessert.”

  Oh Jesus Christ.

  “Always,” Tristan answered. “Lead the way to the cake. And the dessert.”

  “So, um, I haven’t made it yet. I thought you could help me,” Henry said. He gave Tristan his best charming grin to make up for the lack of available cake and his blatant loss of any sort of suaveness.

  “I’m hopeless at baking. I thought I told you that already.” Tristan’s sweet little face was twisted up and concerned, like he thought Henry would actually care if he were a good baker. Henry only cared that he was adorable and seemed like the sweetest, most sarcastic guy Henry had ever met. And the way he kissed. Moan sigh. There would have to be more kissing. Very soon. Dessert. Tristan’s baking skills were nowhere near the top of his care list. Henry could bake enough for the both of them.

  TRISTAN SAT on the thick stone slab counter in Henry’s very posh kitchen in his huge, posh flat. He wondered if it was going to become some sort of tradition with them, Tristan watching Henry bake, salivating over gorgeous smells and a beautiful man. That would be quite alright with him, thanks.

  Tristan already liked it in Henry’s flat. Sure, it was a bit intimidating, so grown-up and decorated in a casual, comfortable, masculine way. But still, very grown-up. Henry didn’t have posters left over from uni, or some leftover sofa his friend’s mom’s aunt didn’t want after she got rid of all her vintage florals. It all looked so much like him. Three walls were this color between green and blue, pale but still noticeable, and his sofa brought out colors in the huge exposed-brick wall that went all the way along the far end of the massive room. His floors were wooden and pale, and the windows went from knee high all the way to the ceiling, which had to be close to ten feet. Tristan could imagine how beautiful they’d be in the morning, letting in lots of light through the long, gauzy white curtains Henry’d hung.

  “You think you’d be able to manage the apples?” Henry asked.

  Tristan was skeptical, but he didn’t want to look like an incompetent mum’s little baby. “What exactly would I need to do with them?”

  Henry chuckled. That low, sugary laugh did things to Tristan’s insides. Things. “Peel them.”

  Oh. That was easy enough. Even he had peeled some things at home before. “Yes,” Tristan said with a slow, growing smile. “I think I can handle at least that much.”

  “What about grating them when you’re done? Just try to keep the seeds out of it. And your fingers.”

  “I think I can do that too.”

  Tristan had to slither off the counter to deal with the apples. Too bad, really, because he liked to watch Henry work. Instead, he got Henry’s lovely hands at his hips and a soft, brushing kiss across the back of his neck. It was rather familiar for people who’d only kissed for the first time only half an hour before, two people who’d just met, really, but it felt good to Tristan. He liked having Henry’s nimble, graceful hands on him, and he liked the thought of Henry guiding him around and giving him intimate kisses and just being in his space.

  “I could get used to this, you know. I like having you here,” Henry said. “I probably shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered after. He looked down at the ground for a moment. Beautiful Henry with his gorgeous bakery and perfect flat, Henry who had nothing at all to be insecure about, looked at the ground like a shy year nine with a crush. Tristan was hopelessly endeared.

  “I like being here, if that makes you feel any better,” he said, crowding into Henry’s space a little. “I could probably get used to it too. Really easily.”

  They kissed again, but kept it light. Tristan thought he might like the little familiar kisses just as much as the hot, gut-pounding ones. It wasn’t the same, of course; it didn’t get his heart spinning out in quite the same way, but it just felt good. Like he’d said, Tristan could get used to it.

  He dealt with the apples, peeling and grating, probably quite lucky he didn’t manage to shave off bits of his fingers along with the fruit despite
Henry’s warning because he couldn’t quite manage to keep his eyes off of Henry. Couldn’t stop watching him for a single second. There was something about him when he cooked, something about the sway of his hips when he danced around the island or the way he held the spoon when he stirred the batter; it was mesmerizing. Tristan pictured those hands on him, kneading and touching, peeling his clothes off layer by layer like he was unwrapping some delicious treat to eat. He wanted to touch and kiss back, feel Henry’s soft bits and the places where he was wiry and strong. Tristan couldn’t help it any longer.

  He cupped a hand around Henry’s jaw, sticky apple juice fingers and all, and went in for a kiss. It had been long, long minutes after all, and Tristan’s lips had gotten lonely. Henry sank into the kiss with a smile and a shiver. Tristan smiled in return. He loved kissing Henry—that much he’d figured out in about two seconds flat up on the roof, although he was more than happy to do some more research into the subject. He loved how Henry got into kissing, seemed to lose focus on everything else around him, closed his eyes and reveled in the scents and sounds and feelings of it.

  Henry bit at Tristan’s lower lip. “It’s not time for dessert yet,” he muttered.

  “I think it is,” Tristan answered. Cake was nice. Henry was a lot nicer.

  “Mmm, come here.” Henry turned in Tristan’s arms, keeping them wrapped around his waist. He leaned his head back against Tristan’s chest for a moment. Tristan couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and nipped lightly at Henry’s neck. “Stop that. We have a cake to finish.”

  Henry kept Tristan’s arms secured around his waist with one hand, as if Tristan were even considering letting go, and he dumped the grated apple in with the other before he stirred the whole thing together.

  “Is it done?” Tristan asked.

  “Yep. We just have to put the batter in this pan and into the oven. The whole apartment will smell amazing soon.”

  Tristan leaned forward and sniffed at Henry’s neck. “Smells pretty amazing in here already.”

  Henry giggled and leaned back into Tristan. “That tickles.”

  Tristan did it again. He sniffed at Henry’s neck, then nibbled and kissed it until he had Henry shivering against him. His belly melted, and he pulled Henry closer until they were plastered together. Henry’s spoon clattered to the counter, and he wound his arm backward around Tristan’s neck.

  “Put the cake in the oven,” Tristan murmured. “I want to kiss you.”

  “We’ll have about forty minutes until it’s done,” Henry said as he picked up the glass baking dish with shaky hands and slid it into his hot oven.

  “Barely enough time.”

  HENRY HAD been right. Soon, the flat filled with gorgeous wafts of vanilla and cinnamon, baking apples and spice cake. It formed a backdrop, in a way, infused their kisses with the scents of autumn and sweetness. They’d lain out on his sofa; Tristan had thought it might be too soon to fall into bed, but bed or not, it didn’t matter. He had Henry’s kisses, and his skin where Tristan had slipped his hand underneath annoying fabric. It was everything he wanted in that moment. He’d have been happy to kiss Henry forever.

  Tristan groaned when the oven timer went off. Henry stumbled to his feet, glassy-eyed, with puffy red lips and finger-combed hair. Tristan wanted to drag his clothes off bit by bit until there was nothing but lovely skin and limbs and touching. It was too soon. It had to be too soon.

  “I’ll be right back,” Henry muttered. He swayed a little when he turned toward the kitchen. Tristan watched him walk, graceful and leggy for his height, to pull his cake out of the oven. He was only gone a minute. Soon he was sinking back onto the sofa and running seeking, shivery fingers up under Tristan’s shirt.

  “N-no cake?” Tristan asked.

  “Well,” Henry grinned. “It really is best the next morning.” He shrugged and tried to look innocent. Tristan smiled back.

  “Am I going to get to taste it, you know, in the morning?” Tristan hoped Henry had been offering what he thought.

  “I think that can be arranged.”

  COUNTY KERRY APPLE CAKE

  A Honeyfly Tradition, our apple cake is fragrant and tender.

  It’s perfect on its own or with cream cheese frosting for extra sweetness. Delicious fresh out of the oven, even better the next day.

  4 cups grated apples (Golden Delicious are the best for this cake)

  3 eggs

  2 cups white sugar

  1 cup vegetable oil

  1 teaspoon vanilla (extract, not flavoring)

  2½ teaspoons cinnamon

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  2 cups flour

  First, peel and grate four large apples to make the four cups of grated apple. It might take five apples. You’ll want to err on the high side. If you have a little bit too much apple, no one’s going to complain.

  After you have your apples peeled and grated, it’s time to start the batter. Mix the eggs and the sugar together. Then add the oil, vanilla, and cinnamon. Sift the baking soda, salt, and flour into the batter while stirring slowly until incorporated. Last, add the grated apple to the batter and mix that in as well. Make sure you scrape the sides of the bowl to catch any dry ingredients.

  Pour the batter into a buttered baking dish. Once the batter is in the pan, you’d bake it at 350°F for 55 minutes. Check the center with a toothpick to make sure it’s done. If the toothpick comes out with batter stuck to it, you have to leave it in just a little longer. Remove the cake and let it cool.

  Chapter 6

  EVEN THOUGH he hadn’t had had much sleep in days, Henry walked to work Friday feeling lighter than he had in a very long time. Sure, it was ass thirty in the morning as he plodded through the streets of the Village, but he crossed West Fourth with a spring in his step all the same. Henry hummed to himself as he made his way through his neighborhood. Even at this time of morning, there was a buzz in the air—more than summer bugs, it was the energy of New York itself, teeming with life even under the quiet, deserted, tree-lined solitude of early morning.

  He unlocked the door to the bakery and threw the lights on. Henry breathed in. He’d always appreciated the smell of clean counters in the morning. They said something about hard work or industriousness. He wasn’t sure what it was he liked so much. But cleanliness and the warm, sunny color of the walls always made him smile. He’d picked yellow on purpose. He’d wanted the bakery to be a bright place where he could work and where people would feel welcome to sit and talk with their friends over pastries and coffee, a bit of sun even when it got bitter and cold in the city during the winter.

  Henry opened the blinds so the sun could peek in as soon as it rose, lending a glow to the whole place, and then got to work prepping the pastries for the morning. It didn’t take long for him to get the ovens going and to start pulling bags of flour and sugar onto the counter like some sort of mad scientist with a vision in his head that changed constantly.

  One of Henry’s favorite things about owning his own bakery was getting to choose what he made each day. Even though there were always the basics—cinnamon rolls, black-and-white cookies, muffins, breads, cupcakes, and croissants—he liked to mix it up every now and then and try out new recipes. It meant that even his regulars had the chance to try something different from time to time.

  While he rolled out, cut, and shaped the dough for the regular items, Henry hummed along to “The Head and the Heart” on his sound system and thought about what he might try that would be different, something to liven up his shelves.

  His mind wasn’t completely focused on work, though—how could it be? Henry inadvertently shivered. The week he’d had with Tristan had been more than he could have hoped for. He’d been so amazing at Poppy’s party. Dealing with any of his sister’s society friends was almost a foregone disaster, but Tristan had handled with it with the sort of grace and charm Henry had come to expect of him. And then after….

  Every day, Henry l
earned a little bit more. More about his kisses and his personality, more laughs and smiles and long conversations. Everything Henry learned made him like Tristan even better.

  There was a part of him that hoped things between the two of them were heading in a more serious direction, even so soon. So far, they’d kept their interactions light and easygoing, long nights of kissing and talking aside, and although that was good, Henry wanted more. He liked waking up to Tristan’s sleepy face, even if the rest of him was still fully clothed and only half-awake most mornings when Henry woke him in the dark. He liked winking and offering him free pastries on the way to work along with a lusty kiss good-bye.

  Tristan….

  Inspiration struck in a flash, and Henry grinned to himself, wondering why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. While the first batch of sugar cookies baked, he pulled his iPad out of his bag and flicked through a few of his favorite baking recipe sites, searching for traditional British cookies. There was no way of knowing whether Tristan would take him up on his offer to stop by on the way to work, but that almost didn’t matter.

  When he saw the recipe for something called jammie dodgers, he laughed aloud and decided immediately this was definitely what he’d make for the customers. It sounded delightfully British, kind of weird and old-fashioned and like something his patrons would love to order out loud for a laugh. Plus, he could make them easily with the ingredients he already had in the kitchen. Perfect.

  In between batches of his regular cookies, Henry went about customizing the recipe, changing it to American units and tasting as he went along to make sure he was on the right track. The picture he’d found on the Internet showed two cookies sandwiched together with a layer of bright red jam between, and a heart shape cut out of the top cookie to reveal the jam inside.