Macarons at Midnight (10 page)

Frosting

• ¾ cup heavy cream or whole milk
  
• 8 ounces cream cheese
  
• 8 tablespoons butter
  
• ½ cup powdered sugar
  
• ½
  teaspoon
  mint extract
  
• 1 to 3 drops green food coloring (optional, depending on desired color)
  

Chocolate syrup and chocolate mint candies to garnish

For the cakes, mix flour, cocoa, salt, baking soda, and baking powder in small bowl. Set aside. Mix brewed coffee and milk. Set aside. In a large mixing bowl, beat butter and sugar for 5 minutes until fluffy. Add the egg and beat again. Slowly add in dry ingredients, alternating with milk mixture until it’s fully incorporated. Pour into lined cupcake pans and bake in a 350°F oven for 15 to 18 minutes. Remove and cool completely before frosting.

For the frosting, beat cream, butter, and cream cheese for 3 minutes until fluffy. Add in mint extract and powdered sugar and color, then beat an additional 3 to 5 minutes. Pipe frosting onto cupcakes from a plastic bag with a corner cut off, or a pastry bag with the wide tip of your choice. Garnish with drizzle of chocolate syrup and a chocolate mint!

H
ENRY
DIDN
’
T
know why he was nervous. He’d been raised for the exact purpose of entertaining, being a good host, knowing what to do in the precise situation he found himself in. Sort of. Except the exact situation he found himself in was that he was very, very attracted to one sweet but sarcastic beanpole of a British guy who had soulful baby blue eyes and the ability to make Henry turn into a pile of adolescent giggles. Henry had
not
been trained for that. No manners could really mask blatant and quite ridiculous infatuation. And that’s what he was in the thrall of, no doubt about that. Two long nights together—one in his bakery, one dealing with venomously vapid socialites and flirty teenaged girls—had taught him he wanted to know a lot more about Tristan. Tristan, who was on his way over.

He wanted to know about his childhood in England, what he did every day in the city, how he smiled when he was happy or embarrassed, what he smelled like in the morning, how he kissed when he really, really meant it. Henry wanted to know it all. Already. Infatuation. It was a serious bitch.

Henry jogged through his apartment, tossing things away into his laundry bin or various drawers, straightening piles of magazines, making sure his bed was made because, hey, you never knew what could happen even if that wasn’t the plan, it might happen, and he wouldn’t say no if Tristan wanted it to happen, and—
knock it off. You’re freaking out.

Yeah, he was freaking out. Tristan was adorable and he made Henry awkward, and he’d be there in less than an hour. Ostensibly, it was for a thank-you dinner, one Henry had been quick to offer in exchange for Tristan’s services, aka self-sacrifice at the altar of drooling teenaged girls and Pernicious Poppy the evening before. But it wasn’t just that. It was a date, and they both knew it. There was pretty much zero chance Tristan had missed the less-than-subtle vibes Henry had been throwing his way. Zero.

It had taken them until nearly the end of the night to get to the question, the one where Henry figured out for sure Tristan was a lot like him in the lack of interest in the female sex, and maybe, just maybe, feeling exactly the same way Henry did, which was overwhelming, ridiculous, take-your-clothes-off-now attraction. That same moment where he knew if he invited Tristan over for dinner, it wasn’t just to eat. Henry smiled. Then he worried at his lip.

Chill. Out.

He showered quickly when his place was clean enough to be presentable. Then he threw on some faded jeans that were better than the ones he baked in, but far less than anything he’d wear to see his parents, and an old soft Henley that was dark green, showed off his collar bones, and which Trixie had once said made him look sexy. He hoped she hadn’t been lying.

The heat had broken a bit, and the crisp hint of fall was in the air. Pasta. That would be perfect. He figured he’d make something simple, something Tristan could identify with. It would be too obvious and make him look a bit sad if he whipped out one of his fancy culinary school meals. Maybe spaghetti and some bread and salad, nothing fancy. No showing off.

He started the dinner and put on some music. Then turned it off. Too much of a seduction scene, right?
No, put it back on.
His apartment was too quiet without it.
Good Lord. Chill. For real.
He kept the music on because he figured he’d spin out of control without it. Henry got to work and was just spooning his pasta into the simmering sauce when he got a text from Tristan saying he was downstairs.

It was time.

H
ENRY
BUZZED
Tristan in with a whole herd of giant atlas moths flopping around in his belly and told him to trek it all the way to the door at the end of the hallway on the third floor. Henry took one more look around his place. Clean. And big. Henry always forgot just how big his apartment was until he was about to show someone new into it. He realized an entire floor of a West Village townhouse didn’t exactly match his job description, and he figured they’d get into it eventually. Just not yet.

Henry knew Tristan was there before he even knocked. He galloped down the short flight of stairs to the door to let Tristan in.

“Hey there,” he said, going for casual.

“Hi,” Tristan answered. His voice was quiet. Shy. Henry felt shy too. He’d thought they’d gotten past that the night before on the way back from Poppy’s townhouse, or in the coffee shop they’d sat in until Henry had to go home and go to sleep. He guessed distance had made them unsure of each other again, and he tried to overcome it with a huge, friendly smile.

“Come in. I’ll show you around, and then we can eat.”

Tristan followed him in. Henry saw him glancing around, a little wide-eyed. Probably wondering what a baker was doing with an apartment like his. He didn’t say anything, though. Just smiled.

“So, uh, I thought we could eat outside. It’s going to be a great night for it.”

“Outside?” Tristan asked.

“Yeah.” Henry smiled and gestured to an old wrought-iron staircase in the corner of the living room. He felt a little sheepish sometimes, when he brought his chef friends over, or guys he’d known in college. At least, the ones who lived in the city and knew what his apartment was worth. Maybe Tristan didn’t have enough experience yet to realize his place came with a multi-million-dollar price tag. “This apartment came with exclusive roof access. I don’t have a lot of free time, but I’ve been slowly turning it into something cool.”

“So, the roof is… yours?”

“I don’t own the whole building, of course, but I’m the only one with access, so I suppose so. I have to let the maintenance guys up there every once in a while, but mostly, it’s mine.”

Tristan giggled, a little nervously. “This flat is amazing.”

Henry hoped he wanted to spend more time there. A lot more time. “Let me get everything ready. I usually use a picnic basket to haul it all up there.”

He wandered back to his kitchen, which was separated from the rest of the open floor by an island and a hanging pot rack filled with gleaming copper cookware. He’d gotten some containers out, ready to box their dinner for the roof, but Tristan came over before he could put any of the food into them.

“I think, with the two of us, we can manage without you having to dirty more dishes.” He stuck out his hands. “Here. Let me carry that.”

Tristan took the pasta with an oven mitt and a heat pad, and the salad. Henry managed to squeeze everything else into the basket so he’d have an open hand to get the door. “Follow me,” he said with a smile.

Henry jogged up the stairs and opened the door for Tristan, ushering him out onto the rooftop, which Henry had turned into a sort of small park. Sometimes, when he got too busy, he forgot to appreciate how beautiful it was and still had the potential to become. He’d decorated it with potted trees and herbs he used in his cooking sometimes, a big picnic table to eat dinner with friends, and a smaller seating area near a charcoal fireplace that was perfect for two. The whole sky had turned pale and pinkish, and the Village spread out around them with only the wall of the taller townhouse behind him blocking the view from that side.

“This is amazing. I can’t believe you live here. I can’t believe I
know
someone who lives here.”

“It didn’t look like this when I bought it. It was just an empty roof with a few old beer bottles. The apartment needed work too. It’s been a long haul getting them to look the way they do.”

“Still, the flat, this roof. I hate to ask, but….”

He knew it was coming. Everyone thought it. “It’s not the bakery. I wish it was, but alas.” He laughed a little. “My family, well, you saw my sister’s friend’s house, right? That’s the neighborhood I grew up in.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. I know. I like it a lot better down here. I was just lucky enough that I could afford to do it this way.”

“So, your parents didn’t….” Tristan hesitated. “Cut you off or something?”

“Not at all.” Henry did laugh at that. “We’re civil and polite, I go there for dinner a few times a month and I have my trust fund”—he rolled his eyes a little at that—“which I haven’t touched other than to buy this and Honeyfly. There’s no drama there, just your typical Upper East Side glacier.”

“O-oh.”

“Is your family okay?” he asked. “You know, with everything?”

Tristan grinned. “They’re great, about
that
and everything else. It wasn’t an issue at all for my parents. A bit of a hot topic in town at first, but my mum shut that down faster than you’d even believe. She hates that I’m here, though. Didn’t really like it when I was in London either, but this is worse. We Skype at least once a week.”

Of course they did. Somehow, Henry could already picture Tristan’s rowdy, close-knit family and nosy neighbors. He’d long ago accepted his family situation for what it was and how it could’ve been a lot worse, but he was jealous of people who had it like Tristan did.

“C’mon. I’ll light a fire in the fire pit and we can eat over here. It’ll be nicer than the hard table.”

Henry led them over to the squashy orange-cushioned chairs in the corner that had a small glass table between them, and another table close by with a cluster of citronella candles. Tristan sat down the salad and pasta pan, and Henry pulled out wine, garlic bread, and their plates and glasses. He lit the fire pit and the candles, and decided that was good enough. He’d installed more lighting a few months back, but he didn’t want Tristan to feel like he was in the middle of an interrogation. Firelight was nice.

“I can’t tell you how much I’ve been wanting something like this,” Tristan said. “Just home cooked and good. I miss it.” Tristan eyed the dishes appreciatively, like he wanted to dive right in and start inhaling. Henry only wished he’d look at him like that sometime soon. He decided he’d better talk before he did some diving himself. Like across the small table that divided them and into Tristan’s lap.

“I haven’t cooked for anyone in a long time.” Not since his last relationship had failed spectacularly. Brian had met Henry’s family and run for the closest set of hills he could find.

“You do it every day,” Tristan said, scrunching up his eyebrows.

“You know what I mean. Like this. Not the baking. Just, you know, us. Normal dinner.”

Tristan took a bite. “Well, it tastes fantastic, whatever you’ve done,” he said.

Henry tried not to stare or say something dumb like “so do you.”

“This all smells amazing as well,” Tristan said. “I’m starved.”

“Me too. Let’s dig in. I had the longest day at the bakery today. Did you get to relax at all?” Henry served Tristan pasta, bread, and salad, and a
very
generous glass of wine.

“A little. I think I was still recovering from yesterday.” Tristan leaned on the table and watched Henry, like he had the entire first night they’d been together. “It was, well, I’ve never met anyone like Poppy. She was… a force of nature.” He hadn’t said much about her when they’d left. Henry could tell he’d been a bit shell-shocked by the whole experience. He probably would’ve been too, if it weren’t all so unfortunately familiar.