Macarons at Midnight (8 page)

H
ENRY
FELT
completely faded by the time he made it home, but it was a good kind of tired, the kind that came from hard work and something done right. Henry had always liked feeling like he’d managed something worthwhile. Might have come from growing up in a world where everything that was accomplished was intangible—a charity donation, organizing something. There weren’t any dirty hands, no tired muscles. Henry had learned early on to enjoy those feelings. The kind of tired that came from wrestling with his parents, making small talk at the few social events he had to attend, or dealing with paperwork? He didn’t like that very much at all.

The walk was only a few blocks from the bakery on Bleecker to his quieter, tree-lined corner of Waverly Place, but it felt like every step took forever on heavy, sore feet. Tired as he was, though, he couldn’t quite manage to wipe the smile off his face. He couldn’t forget his odd perfect night with adorable Tristan from England. Tristan, with his sweet voice and fluffy hair and big, melty blue eyes. Henry reached into his pocket and felt the little scrap of paper with his number on it. Delivery partner or not, he planned to use it. Soon.

Henry had just finished loading the trays in the front of the shop when Millie had come in. Despite his lack of sleep, he’d waved happily and given her a kiss on the cheek in return for his daily latte. Millie had given him a few suspicious looks, and then she’d shrugged and shooed him off to get some sleep before he collapsed and scared the customers. Henry had gladly obeyed her.

He could already tell it was going to be another hot day. He felt the humidity rise by the minute, heavy and somehow a little sweet under the green canopy of the trees, of course with the typical city fragrance notes of garbage, dirt, and exhaust he’d come to love. Buildings passed in a sleepy blur of stone and little courtyards surrounded by wrought-iron fences peeked out in the early morning light. Henry nearly tripped once or twice on a section of sidewalk that had been pushed up by old roots and not yet repaired. He managed to stay on his feet, though, and smile at the early morning joggers and people out for their coffee and Saturday newspapers.

The long, steep stoop on his building was daunting, as was the walk up to the fourth floor, but he managed to make it up both, barely. He’d been smart enough to open his windows before he’d left the night before too, so his apartment felt breezy and comfortable, with the muffled sounds of birds and cars and people floating in. Perfect to pass out in. Henry poured himself a glass of juice and wandered over to his bed, where he stripped down to boxers and threw himself down face-first.

He took a moment to set his alarm so he’d have time to clean up and get to the bakery. And call Tristan. Yes. Tristan. He leaned over his bed and dug into his jeans pocket, pulling out the little slip with Tristan’s number. He’d already programed it into his phone, but he still smoothed the paper out and put it under the corner of his phone as a reminder. Call Tristan. Not that he thought he’d forget. He only lay in his bed for a few moments, eyes closed, with the faint noises of the city washing over him, before he was drifting off to sleep. It’d been a good night. He hoped he had another coming his way.

B
Y
THE
time Henry’s alarm went off, he felt drugged. Hazy and sluggish and dizzy, not at all the same floaty, happy, drunk-on-new-attraction kind of tired he’d been earlier. Henry tried to clear the fuzz out of his head. The early morning breeze had died, leaving his apartment heavy and hot. His curtains, which had been billowing about earlier, hung limply from their rods all the way to the floor. Henry could almost see the heat shimmering in the air, floating on little motes of dust, reflecting the intense afternoon sun. He fanned himself off with his hand as he dragged his tired body out of bed.

Henry closed all the windows that had let in a lovely, refreshing breeze earlier, and switched on a few of the various AC units that were perched in the other windows. Henry didn’t like air conditioning, but he needed to sleep when he got home. There was no way he could do that if his place felt like the inside of an oven.

He showered and dried his hair, brushed it into a neat, short stub of a low ponytail that would last until he got out into the humidity and it started waving all around his face. Then he put on his nicest jeans and newest button-up with a bright white T-shirt underneath it. There wasn’t much he could do about the tired shadows under his eyes, other than down a few cups of coffee and a green smoothie or two.

He texted Tristan on the off chance he’d already stumbled out of bed and did, in fact, want to help still. He was mildly but very pleasantly surprised when Tristan texted back immediately, and said he’d meet Henry at the bakery by four. He was about to leave by foot when his overworked brain remembered he needed transportation. The van.
Can’t believe I almost went all the way to the bakery to deliver to a client without the freaking van. What was I going to do? Walk?

Henry sighed for a moment, then took a cab to the storage garage where he kept the somewhat worn but meticulously cared-for white van he’d bought a few months before, and plastered the bakery logo on. He realized he was getting the van out more and more for these uptown delivery clients Trixie kept shoving his way, and decided he might need to find a closer place for it. It was probably time for a nicer one. He’d had the money for a brand-new van, of course he had, but it had seemed like a waste back when he’d barely ever needed it. That was certainly before he was driving up to the Upper East Side every other weekend, delivering party treats to Trixie’s thoroughbred friends.

B
Y
THE
time Henry got to Honeyfly, Tristan was waiting in the main room, talking to Millie and eating a cupcake. Tiny bits of chocolate cake and pale green frosting stuck in places to his pink lips, his sandy hair was flipped off his forehead like a prep school boy, and he’d dressed up in khakis and a nice button-up as well. Henry’s stomach swooped. He’d forgotten how adorable Tristan was in the time between dawn and now. Tall and sandy haired, broad shouldered, pale skinned, freckly, and so very not American. He hadn’t been so attracted to a guy in longer than he could remember. He caught Millie giving him a knowing look, and schooled his face into something that hopefully looked platonic.

“Hey,” Henry said with a wave. Casual. Totally. Henry couldn’t remember being so casual.

Okay, really, he couldn’t remember being so unsure of himself, not since he was seventeen and had no idea how to pick out other boys like him, ones who probably wouldn’t punch him if he tried to kiss them. He didn’t think Tristan would punch him, but he wasn’t completely sure if he was actually interested either, or just charming and British. Henry didn’t quite know how to act after the perfect night they’d had together. By the time the sun rose, he and Tristan had been so comfortable with each other. But that had been hours ago, and maybe Tristan had decided he was crazy to hop in a van with some guy he barely knew after their immediate connection faded in the light of the day. That wouldn’t explain his big sweet smile, though. Henry had reason to hope, it seemed.

“Hi, mate,” Tristan said back. He brushed his hair off his face. It looked so soft and fluffy compared to Henry’s thick waves. He wanted to touch it. He’d wanted to touch it for most of last night as well. Tristan’s hair, his peaches-and-cream skin, his big, slim-fingered hands. Henry gripped his hand into a fist to keep from doing anything dumb. “These cupcakes are brilliant. I could eat ten of them.”

“Thanks.”
Super cool, Henry. Say something else. Now.
“Um, I have the boxes in the fridge. You want to help me load them into the van?”

“You have a van?” Tristan asked. He looked impressed, by his face. Henry’s awkwardness broke into a smile.

“Yeah. We have a van. It’s in the alley. Even has a refrigerated section. Top of the line.”

“Really?”

Henry chuckled. “Van, yes. Top of the line, no. That was a lie. Come on. Let’s grab the macarons.”

Henry couldn’t help but notice the look Millie gave him as he escorted Tristan back into the kitchen. Probably because she pinched him really hard when he passed. He tried to glare at her so she’d keep her mouth shut and not torture him for his obvious and rusty flirting. Not likely to work for any length of time. He was surprised she wasn’t already texting Trixie. She probably would, the moment they pulled away. Henry was too happy to be back in Tristan’s company to even care.

T
RISTAN
WASN
’
T
quite sure Henry was real. Even in broad daylight, grumbling at New York traffic, he still seemed a bit like an apparition, something Tristan’s sad little attention-starved psyche had procured out of nothingness to save him from his pathetic life.
Please
.
You’d never be able to imagine a guy this fit.
He probably wouldn’t have. He’d never seen one, for sure. Not a drop of hyperbole either. Henry was literally the hottest guy Tristan had ever seen. By far. For the life of him, he hadn’t a clue why Henry was paying attention to him.

“Have you spent much time on the Upper East Side?” Henry asked.

Tristan wasn’t very familiar with the parts of the city that didn’t contain his flat, his office, or the curry takeaway he’d practically moved into. He shook his head. “I did a bit of sightseeing when I first arrived, and I’ve been to Central Park a couple of times, but I don’t really know my way around my own neighborhood. I didn’t want to wander too far.”

“It’s a different world,” Henry said. “The people are….”

“Well-off?”

“That’s a word for it,” Henry replied. Tristan thought he might hear a little bit of bitterness in his voice.

“I mean, I’ve seen it in films. Looks a bit stuffy. Too posh for me.”

At that Henry smiled. “Too posh for me too.”

“Are you mimicking me again?” Tristan asked. His belly warmed at the thought of Henry teasing him.

“Maybe a little. Are you going to tell me to piss off again?”

“Maybe a little.”

They were quiet after that. Tristan watched block after block pass, numbered streets getting higher, buildings getting taller. He’d always liked the buzz of the big streets of New York. London was big and busy too, but it never felt quite the same, like there was this current of energy pushing the whole place along and everyone with it. He supposed it was easy to get lost in the shuffle, to forget yourself in the crowd. He’d been doing that for weeks, slowly blending into the scenery until there wasn’t much of him left. He’d felt a little of himself coming back after the previous night. Maybe, at least.

“You said this woman is friends with your sister?” he finally asked. They’d made it through what he knew to be midtown. The buildings were slowly pulling apart, not as squished, not as tall or crowded. He thought they might be getting close.

“She is friends with Trix. I’m not sure how close they really are. Trixie tends to collect a lot of frenemies. This Poppy woman might be one of them. Honestly, I’d never heard of her until the other night. That doesn’t mean much, though. I tune Trix out a lot when she starts on her friends.”

“Why?”

Henry looked uncomfortable. “Not really my scene.”

“I get it. Who is your scene, then?”

That got a smile. “I have some really good friends who I went to culinary school with. I’m a little older than them. They all went right after high school, and I wasted four years at college first. I think you’d like them. Great people. They all love food.”

Tristan chuckled. He liked the idea that Henry wanted to introduce him to his mates. “I’d love to meet them,” he said.

They were quiet a little longer, letting the navigator perched on the dashboard lead them through block after block of tall, looming buildings, a mix of brick and stone and glass. Finally, the rather intimidating voice informed them their destination was on the right. Tristan gawked at the huge stone townhouse. They pulled around back to the alley entrance where Henry said Poppy had instructed him to go.

“Seriously? This is where she lives?”

Henry sighed. “Seriously.” He looked like he was psyching himself up to go inside. Tristan couldn’t blame him. “We’re dropping the macarons off, doing a little setup, grabbing a check, then leaving. Our mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get out of here as quickly as possible.”

Tristan looked at the resignation on Henry’s expressive face. “Why do I have the feeling that’s not going to happen?”

“Because it usually doesn’t. We’re going to make it happen, though.” In their short-lived time together, Tristan hadn’t seen Henry look so determined. He must really not like his sister’s friend.

“Mission accepted,” he replied with a serious face. At least he made Henry smile.

“I like you,” Henry said. “I’m glad you’re with me.”

He reached out and brushed gentle fingers along the top of Tristan’s wrist. The touch seemed tentative, as if he weren’t certain how it would be received. Tristan wanted to tell him to touch more, touch as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted. It probably wasn’t the time for that. If Tristan had his way, they’d already be kissing. Probably not something Henry wanted to do right in front of one of his clients’ houses.