Macarons at Midnight (15 page)

The day was warm but breezy, lifting the dark hair out of Henry’s eyes without permission and blowing it into something that probably looked like a huge ball of cotton candy. Henry half-wondered why he’d decided to wear it down. Probably because every time they saw each other, Tristan managed to take his hair out of whatever was holding it back so he could play with it. Henry knew he was in trouble. The best kind, though. He didn’t even feel like fighting it. It had been a long time since anything had felt this good. Since he didn’t know which apartment Tristan lived in, he dumped the canvas grocery bags at the foot of the stoop and pulled his phone out of his back pocket.

“Hey. I’m outside,” he said when Tristan answered.

“Okay. I’ll buzz you in. I’m on the second floor, first door on your left.”

The door didn’t actually buzz, but Henry heard a lock click, and rushed to get through it before it locked again. Inside, it was dark and cool, the floor covered with cracked tiles. A lot of the buildings in the village looked like that in the hallways, old and a bit run-down. Once you got into the actual apartments, they’d all been remodeled and fixed up. Henry always wondered why they didn’t bother with the common areas. There wasn’t an elevator, so Henry trudged up the stairs, thankful for all the time he’d spent beating eggs and whipping batter—at least his arms weren’t straining from carrying the groceries.

At the door, Tristan greeted him barefoot, wearing jeans and a simple T-shirt. Henry paused to grin and kiss him on the mouth before stepping past him into the apartment.

It was a nice place, if a bit small; open, with high ceilings and clean, bright walls other than the tall ubiquitous expanse of exposed brick. The kitchen was down at the front, nearest the street, and an open window let in the sounds of the city beyond.

A breakfast bar separated that space from the main living area, which contained a trendy but uncomfortable-looking dark blue couch, a stark coffee table, and a big flat-screen TV.

Tristan’s bed, covered in dark red sheets, was tucked away against the back wall in an alcove made by the space the bathroom took up. It wasn’t very personal, but it was clean and nice. Especially for a twenty-three-year-old in an expensive neighborhood.

“Great place,” Henry said. He meant it too.

“It’s nothing compared to your flat.” Tristan rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously.

Henry dumped the grocery bags on the breakfast bar and crossed back, drawing Tristan into a slow, searching kiss. Tristan immediately relaxed in his arms, smiling against Henry’s lips and flicking his tongue out, silently asking for more. This wasn’t what Henry had planned, but he was more than okay with the turn of events. As Tristan wound his arms around Henry’s neck, Henry found a place for his hands tucked into the back pockets of Tristan’s jeans—a tight fit, but a great place to rest his hands.

They kissed slowly, their tongues carefully sliding together and their bodies pressed close. It was intimate and strangely fun just to kiss. Henry hadn’t gone so slowly, physically, in years. He didn’t know what it was that made him want to take it slow with Tristan, but he liked it. Henry bit at Tristan’s pouting bottom lip, stretching it with his teeth until Tristan whimpered. Then he kissed it better.

“You smell good,” Tristan said in a low voice.

“Yeah?” Henry asked with a laugh.

“Mm. Like… vanilla. Sugar. And….” He buried his nose in the crook of Henry’s neck, which tickled, but he didn’t mind. “I’m not sure. Something woody? Not food. You usually smell like food.”

Henry smiled against Tristan’s neck. “I’ve got a few different bottles of cologne. I can’t remember which one I put on this morning, but I actually did, for once.”

“It’s good. A little different than usual, but I like it.”

Tristan carefully worked through Henry’s hair, untangling the messy strands. Henry had let it grow out recently, and it actually brushed against his jaw when he didn’t have it tied back. His mom hated it—she took every opportunity to let him know—but he kinda liked it, especially when it was wavy and thick and falling in his face. It made him look a lot cooler than he was. For a while, he’d considered getting it cut. Now that it could be tied back in a ponytail—albeit a very short one—it was easier for work. And if Tristan kept doing that
thing
with his fingers, then Henry would never cut it again.

Leaning in even closer, Tristan nudged Henry’s nose with his own, then kissed him again, softly, softly. Lips closed, gentle brushes that sent shivers down his spine.

“I came here to cook, not spend all day kissing you,” Henry whispered. “You know, not that I’m complaining or anything.”

Tristan pouted, then laughed a little and reluctantly let Henry go. “Okay. I spoke to my mum last night and she e-mailed some recipes over. I’ve got a conversion thingy on my phone so you can translate it into something that makes sense for you. If you need it. You’re probably super baker anyway, right?”

“Yes. It’s my hidden ninja power. I will probably use the chart on your phone, if you don’t mind.” Henry ran his hand once more down the length of Tristan’s arm and squeezed his hand. “Are you ready to get to work? You can be my sous chef today.”

Tristan pointed a thumb to himself. “Burns water, remember?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can get you to do something useful.”

His mind was immediately filled with dirty thoughts—he could make Tristan very useful indeed. Later. Baking first.

Tristan had an iPad and pulled up the e-mail from his mother, which contained several recipes all written into the body of the message. Henry leaned on the breakfast bar to read.

“It must have taken her forever to do this,” Henry said softly as he scanned through the lists of ingredients and directions.

“She doesn’t mind,” Tristan said. “Mum loves to bake, and she and her friends share recipes all the time.” He rested his hand on Henry’s lower back, and leaned forward to rest his chin on Henry’s shoulder and watch as he scrolled through the iPad. “I told her about you, you know.”

Henry’s belly fluttered at the thought of someone’s mom in another country knowing how much he liked her son. “Yeah? What did she say?”

“Not much. She always wants to hear about New York. I think she’s pleased I’ve finally met some people outside of work.”

“Met some people? What exactly did you tell her about me?”

Tristan laughed. “Well, I didn’t go on and on about how hot of a kisser you are, if that’s what you mean, but she knows we’re seeing each other.”

Henry nuzzled Tristan’s head with his own. Tristan turned to kiss him on the cheek.

“Bakewell tarts,” Henry read. He scanned the ingredients and the directions. They didn’t seem very complicated. “I think I can try those. We’ll need to go and get some almonds or almond flour ideally, but there’s a place on the corner that should sell it.”

“I love Bakewells,” Tristan said with a dreamy sigh. “So good.”

“Okay. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be back.”

“You don’t want me to come with you?”

Henry shrugged. He did, but…. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes. Why don’t you just relax? E-mail your mom and say thank you for me, maybe.”

It was hard to explain how the people in the food world were more family to him than his own family, and taking Tristan around to his typical haunts would be like bringing him home to meet the parents. He’d met Millie a few times. That was enough pressure for now.

H
ENRY
’
S
FAVORITE
little specialty baking shop right off of Eighth had the almond flour Tristan’s mom’s recipe called for, and he grabbed two bags, just in case. He forgot how much the recipe called for, and he didn’t feel like making another trip later. He waltzed back to Tristan’s, barely able to keep himself from grinning openly at nothing and looking like a nutjob.

Back in Tristan’s kitchen, he dumped the supplies out of his grocery bags and set the iPad propped up against a bag of flour so he could read the instructions. Tristan immediately wrapped himself around Henry when his hands were empty and plastered his face with slobbery kisses. Henry laughed and pushed at him halfheartedly.

“You’re like a big puppy, aren’t you?”

“My mum says hi. She says you should teach me how to cook so I don’t starve to death on takeaway.”

Henry smiled. “I’m trying, although I don’t think dessert is what she had in mind.”

“I like dessert.” Tristan leered at him.

“I think we’ve established that.”

“I’m ready to learn. For real.” Tristan gave him an adorably sweet, sincere look. Henry had this moment where he pictured Tristan as a boy, and wondered how his mother had ever said no to him. He figured she rarely did.

“Okay, let’s take a look at this recipe.” He scanned over it again. “This really doesn’t look too bad. We can start with the pastry.” Tristan gave him a blank look, and he laughed. “Okay, come on. I promise, it’s easy.”

E
VEN
THOUGH
Tristan had warned Henry how awful he was at cooking, Henry had thought in the back of his mind that Tristan couldn’t possibly be as bad as he claimed; he had to be exaggerating because, really, how hard was it to simply follow a recipe? Apparently, very hard. Tristan was absolutely, unequivocally terrible.

Henry thought his instructions were fairly clear—cut the butter into small cubes, then rub it into the flour. Henry did all the measuring himself, weighing the ingredients to make sure the recipe was followed correctly.

And still, Tristan ended up with butter in his hair and a streak of flour across his cheek.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Henry laughed, wiping the offending smudge away from Tristan’s face. “How did you manage that?” Tristan was so cute it wasn’t annoying. But he was going to have to remeasure the butter.

“I told you,” Tristan said with a pout. “I’m really bad at this.”

Henry quickly washed and dried his hands, then stood behind Tristan, pressing their bodies close together.

“You want to push the butter into the flour,” he said, his chin propped on Tristan’s shoulder. His hands reached around and guided Tristan’s, working a new batch of cold butter chunks into the flour. “I usually start by squishing each of the cubes down. Then just rub the butter between your thumb and fingers—like that! And use the flour to stop it sticking to your hands.”

From this close, Henry could smell the stuff Tristan used on his hair and the very faint sweat at the nape of his neck. It was nice, a clean, manly sort of smell. He also couldn’t help but notice how well his hips fit against the curve of Tristan’s ass, even if he could barely reach his chin over Tristan’s slouched shoulders. Very nice indeed.

Just making the pastry took nearly thirty minutes due to frequent, and necessary, kissing breaks and lots of tickling. Of course, Tristan didn’t have any cookie cutters, and seemed disproportionately impressed when Henry shrugged and used a wine glass to make the round discs instead.

“You really are good at this,” he said.

“Thanks. Hey, there’s a muffin tin in one of those bags, could you grab it for me?”

Henry gave Tristan the task of spreading butter in each of the indents on the tray, something he couldn’t possibly mess up.

“Okay. It doesn’t look like we need to blind bake these, which is good, because I don’t have any baking beads.”

“I didn’t understand a single word of that,” Tristan mumbled, and wiggled his greasy fingers in Henry’s direction. “Hey, did you ever see
Last Tango in Paris
?”

Henry snorted. “Yes. And you’ve got a dirty mind. Go wash your hands.”

The rest of the recipe was fairly straightforward—mixing up a sweet, almondy batter, layering first jam, then the almonds into the cases and sticking them in the oven to bake. After a few moments, a delicious smell started to fill the kitchen.

Tristan hoisted himself up into one of the high stools at the breakfast bar and sighed dramatically.

“Baking is tiring,” he said.

“You made a dozen tarts,” Henry said with a laugh. “I make about five hundred cookies a day. More on the weekend.”

“Baking is
very
tiring,” Tristan said emphatically. He blew his hair up out of his face. His forehead was sweaty, although for the life of him, Henry didn’t know why. It was too adorable to be irritating.

“Come here, you lazy ass, and help me do the dishes. You made a huge mess.”

“Washing up is even more tiring,” Tristan groaned, but slid down from his perch and took over the task of drying the bowls and utensils as Henry passed them to him.

Instead of taking a break, Henry immediately started work on his next creation—salted caramel macarons, to use up the rest of the almond flour and stop it from going to waste. And because they were his favorite. While he worked on the notoriously tricky macarons, Tristan made them tall glasses of lemonade, then took his seat again, watching Henry work.

When the tarts came out of the oven, Henry decided they looked pretty damn good, and had to smack Tristan’s hand away when he tried to take one straight out of the hot tray.

“Leave them to cool down. They need to be decorated.”

“Henry.” Tristan gave him a despairing look. “I’m going to eat the whole lot. You don’t need to decorate them.”

“I’m a perfectionist. It comes with the territory. Sit down.”

Tristan did as he was told, and with a little prompting, started a story about his childhood in Yorkshire. It was something Henry was desperate to know more about, though he didn’t want to push too hard. Their relationship—or whatever this was—was still in its early days. Talking about families and histories seemed almost too intimate. He still wanted to hear everything about Tristan.

Maybe someday soon, Tristan would hear everything about him too. He wasn’t quite ready for that yet. Henry’s family needed a bit of warm-up before they were sprung on some poor, unsuspecting guy. Even with warm-up, it hadn’t ever turned out well. Henry decided it was probably better to wait. Maybe forever.