Macarons at Midnight (12 page)

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.”

H
ENRY
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.”

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.

E
VEN
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 learned 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.

He didn’t have a heart-shaped cutter small enough on hand so used a star instead, setting a hundred and fifty round discs of dough on sheets to make seventy-five of his newest creation. If they were as popular as he hoped, he’d try it again. If not, well, he had a lot on hand to send home with Millie for her kids and their classmates. It was fun to create new things, no matter the reason, and the ingredients were cheap enough that it wasn’t a big loss either way.

By the time Millie arrived at seven, the cooling racks were full of the first batches of their usual fare: croissants, muffins, and cookies frosted and ready to go into the display cabinets. He had a tray of his jammie dodgers—
snicker
—
ready to go too, all round and golden, with pretty raspberry jam-colored stars.

“My, my, someone’s been busy this morning,” she said as she turned the coffee maker on and started to fix two mugs. Henry wasn’t very good with the coffee maker. He tended to make do with instant crap if he needed it while working, or he locked up and ran to the Starbucks on the next corner once they opened. Once Millie was there, though, he was juiced up for the morning.

“Yeah. I’ve got a good amount done,” Henry said. “The displays are looking good this morning.”

He wiped his hands and leaned back against a counter, stretching his back. It ached from being hunched over piping for the past half hour, and it felt good to straighten up. His fingers were numb too, and his wrists hurt, but he wouldn’t complain. He was doing exactly what he’d always dreamed of doing.

“You’re mighty perky for this time of the morning too,” Millie teased. “It couldn’t have something to do with a charming young British chap, could it?”

“Your accent is terrible.” Henry rolled his eyes. “Please stop before you hurt yourself.”

“Oh, and all of a sudden, you’re the expert? Have we been spending even more time with him than I thought?”

Henry decided to say nothing, and accepted his mug of coffee with tons of sugar and a good inch of cream with a silent nod of thanks that Millie knew him so well. She started to poke through the trays, taking a look at the different shapes and colors he’d picked when baking through the early hours.

“What are these?” Millie said, pausing at the trays of sandwiched cookies. “They’re cute.”

“Um, jammie dodgers,” Henry said, feeling his face heat. To distract himself, he pulled the elastic band from around his wrist and scraped his hair back into a tight nub. He’d pulled it out for a few minutes when his scalp had started to ache, but he needed to finish the rest of his morning trays. He secured it with the band and appreciated the cool waft of air across the back of his sweaty neck.

“Jammie what?” Millie snorted.

“Dodgers. Jammie dodgers.”