Macarons at Midnight (6 page)

“Here, have a seat on this section of the counter. It’s clean. Sorry it’s a disaster in here. I’m trying to get a really big order out.” He was gracious and sweet. How could anyone that beautiful be so nice?

Tristan smiled at him. He knew he looked like a shy, awkward school mouse who hadn’t quite grown into his oversized legs and feet. Of course,
he
was graceful and lean, average height but perfectly formed. He had eyes that matched his voice, golden brown and mellow, long lashed and sleepy, lush lips, high cheekbones, and waving dark hair that was pulled back into a tiny short stub of a low ponytail that would tug out easily and be thick and cool and silky running through Tristan’s fingers when he—
Fuck me sideways
. Tristan wanted to groan out loud.

“It, um, looks like a lot of work what you’re doing there. Lovely, though.”
Quit babbling. You sound like a moron.

The baker smiled. “I like the way you talk.”

Probably wouldn’t find it so charming if you knew what I was thinking about you right now.
Tristan didn’t answer with anything more than another awkward grin. If he opened his mouth, who fucking knew what would come out? Any number of potentially humiliating things, most likely. He thought he might be imagining the appraising look that was shot his way. He hoped he wasn’t. Beautiful baker guy could look all he wanted. Especially if he paired the look with a kiss or two. Or some naked cuddling among the baked goods. They stood there for a moment, smiling at each other silently before the baker finally started moving again. Tristan jumped up onto the counter and watched.

He looked around curiously. The kitchen was messy, but nothing close to what he’d call a disaster. Someone had clearly never seen his room in the residence halls back in uni. He could teach anyone the true definition of disaster. The walls were the same cheery yellow as the front room, but most of them were taken up by cavernous ovens, huge mixers, and towers of cooling racks. In the center of the room was a large island covered in marble and butcher block, and row after row of baking sheets dotted with black, bright pink, green, and turquoise rounds of raw batter.

“When do all of these have to be ready?” Tristan finally asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Tomorrow at five. I’m looking at an all-nighter to get them done, and then I have to start the regular stuff for the shop. I’m Henry, by the way. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bitch at a stranger.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and stuck one of them out at Tristan.

“Tristan. It’s really lovely to meet you. See? Now I’m not a stranger anymore. Bitch away.” Tristan was treated to another dazzling smile. He figured by the time he left, he’d need resuscitation. Henry was the first person he’d met since he’d gotten here who wasn’t business related or someone who sold him something. He’d sure picked a hell of a person for that first meeting.

“What are you making? They look fancy. And colorful.”

Henry grinned. His smile was big and open. Charming. A small bit of dark hair fell in his face and got caught on his ridiculously long eyelashes before he batted it away. “Macarons. They’re for a very upscale birthday party, and I got
very
little notice.”

“I’m guessing it wasn’t something you wanted to turn down?”

“Not exactly an option.” Henry shrugged, pulling the thin fabric of his T-shirt over his shoulders. “It’s one of my sister’s friends, and she’s pretty intense, you know? Not the sort of woman you say no to. She walked right in here this morning with her list in hand and didn’t even ask if I had time. Just ordered.”

“Scary?”

Henry shuddered. “You have no idea—the woman, not my sister. Trixie hasn’t scared me since I was ten.”

That got a full-on chuckle out of Tristan. He liked pretty Henry with the cognac eyes and mellow voice already. He deliberately tried not to think of the “pull on me while we’re shagging” hair. That was too damn much for his sanity.

“My older brother used to scare me too,” he said before he said something else. “Now I just miss him. I guess I miss home.”
Why am I talking about my brother? I’ve known this man for literally five minutes.
Tristan shook himself out of it. He’d just met his first nice person. The last thing he wanted to do was be so depressing he’d scare the poor bloke away. The poor
gorgeous
bloke who had a dusting of flour on his nose and a smile that could easily melt glaciers, let alone Tristan’s knees.

“Hey, no worries. I’m sure I’d miss my family too. How long have you been here?”

“A couple months.”

Henry bit his lip. “I get it. Sometimes the city just kind of sucks people in, you know? Nobody really looks at you, you’re just a cog in the machine or something?” Tristan nodded, and Henry chuckled softly. “Well, that got a bit heavy. I think I’ve inhaled too much almond flour. Either that, or I’ve been up since four this morning with only a two-hour nap and I’m getting a little loopy.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” Tristan said, glancing at his watch. “Don’t you need to go home and sleep?”

He couldn’t imagine functioning on that little sleep. He was an eight-hours-a-night kind of guy. More since he’d come here and he didn’t have much to fill his hours other than work. He thought Henry must be about to pass out on his feet.

“Well, yeah. Of course. It doesn’t mean I get to.” Henry gave Tristan another one of his disarming grins. “I promised you a cookie. Maybe you can be my taster. Are you okay with anise?”

Anise? Is that something dirty? It sounds dirty.
Tristan figured he’d better nod before he looked like the biggest rube to ever live in a city that was far too sophisticated for him. “Sure. Anise is great.” He hoped.

Henry handed him a black biscuit. It was light and smooth and glossy, and it looked like there was some sort of thick black cream on the inside. He’d watched Henry dump loads of colored gel into the other batters, though. The color didn’t help him much. He sniffed it curiously.

“Your first macaron?”

Tristan nodded. “That easy to tell? They’re not exactly a staple of the small-town Yorkshire diet. At least, I don’t think they are. I’ve not seen them before.”

“Just try it.” Henry watched him expectantly, obviously amused at Tristan’s reluctance. “I think you’ll like it.”

Tristan took a bite of the biscuit. It was chewy and squidgy after he bit through the crunchy shell, and it tasted of… licorice? Was that what anise meant? He supposed posh people who ordered special-made biscuits for parties would have special words for things too. He liked it. It was different, but tasty. Nice. He took a second bite, and now that he knew what to expect, found himself enjoying the unusual texture even more. He liked the slight crust and the way the macaron disappeared in his mouth like some sort of lovely licoricey cloud.

“It’s good,” he mumbled around his third and final mouthful. “I don’t always like licorice, but I like this.” He wished he could have another, but he wouldn’t ask. That would be very rude.

“Maybe if you stick around for a little while, you can try the other flavors.” Henry pointed at the pink ones. “These will be blackberry cassis, the turquoise one’s passion fruit, the green is classic pistachio. I don’t usually make them so bright. Birthday girl’s request.”

Tristan didn’t want to admit he didn’t have a bleeding clue what cassis was, and the thought of a pistachio biscuit was kind of weird, but he smiled and nodded. At least the other flavors sounded familiar. They would make a pretty display when Henry finished them, if nothing else.

“I have to let the trays sit and cure for a bit. But I can offer you a chocolate-chip muffin, or I have some rosemary croissants if you’re in the mood for something savory.”

“You don’t have to keep feeding me.” Tristan chuckled.

“Well.” Henry smiled. “I don’t want you to leave. I’ve decided if I keep giving you treats, you’ll stick around.”

“I think I’ll stick around anyway. I like it in here.”

“I’m glad. But if you don’t mind, I’ll split a croissant with you. I didn’t have dinner, and I’m starving.”

“Oh, that’s awful. Do you want me to get you something? There has to be a shop open somewhere near here.”

“Nah.” Henry winked at him. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost again.”

“True.” He knew he was being made fun of, but he really didn’t want to leave on the off chance Henry’s perfect bakery and perfect smile and perfect voice were really just figments of his sad imagination, and they’d disappear on a poof of smoke the moment he walked through the door to the outside.

Henry bustled around for a few minutes, slicing up two rosemary croissants and slathering them with soft cream cheese. He handed half to Tristan and took a big bite out of the other half. Tristan bit a little more gingerly, but just like the macaron, Henry’s croissants were tender, flavorful, and perfect. Tristan had to hold himself back from shoving the whole thing in his mouth.

“I make that cream cheese myself,” Henry said.

“Really?”

Henry laughed. “No. I was just kidding. I think I am going cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs from lack of sleep, though.” He kept chuckling as he walked to his refrigerator and gathered an armful of ingredients.

“Here we are,” Henry said as he pulled out a big mixer. “I’m going to make the blackberry cassis filling next.”

“Is this a bad time to admit I don’t know what cassis is?” He wasn’t going to touch anise, but he’d admit to the other.

Tristan was rewarded with a flash of a grin. “It’s blackcurrant flavor. Sometimes I use liqueur to make this flavor, but since they’re kids….”

“Yeah, I rather imagine you don’t want to get them pissed.”

“Probably not.” Henry chuckled and started measuring ingredients into the big mixing bowl. Something that looked like jam and butter and sugar, and another dark syrup he assumed was the cassis, and then he added a hefty squirt of something else in a purple bottle before he lifted out the beater.

“That look bright enough to you?” Henry asked. He had the purple bottle in his hand.
Must be the dye
.
The filling was already very bright, but who knew if it was bright enough? Tristan didn’t have a clue.

He snorted. “I don’t know. Why on earth would you ask me?”

“You look like you’d know,” Henry said, and shrugged.

“It looks awfully purple. You going to put that frosting on the pink ones?”

“Yup. It’s going to look like 1989 exploded all over these trays. Amazing but hideous.”

Tristan wasn’t sure he knew what that meant, but he nodded knowledgeably. Henry’s timer went off and he started another graceful dance, pulling tray after tray of baked macaron rounds from his various ovens and sliding others in. It was fascinating to watch, even if Tristan hadn’t ever been interested in cooking, er, baking before. It really was like a dance, the way he turned and moved and shuffled things around. It was efficient and pretty, and Tristan decided for the second time that he’d be happy to sit there all night.

Henry went back to his mixing bowl and started scooping out the filling into a long plastic bag. Tristan stayed there, sitting silently at the counter, for a long time. He barely wanted to move. Moving might mean Henry would remember he was there. Moving might mean he’d have to leave, and then he’d not get to watch Henry’s graceful kitchen ballet any longer. Sure, Henry said he wanted company, but why would he want Tristan’s long gangly legs and awkward big feet in his way? Tristan didn’t want to leave. For the first time, he’d found somewhere in the city that felt warm, a little corner, a place where he could be happy, something cheery and homely and… warm. That was really the only word for it.

It smelled like something between his mother’s kitchen and a dream he’d barely remembered having; the glow and the smells and Henry’s little humming made Tristan smile. A real smile, not polite, not a work smile. A real one. The kind he hadn’t smiled in months.

Henry sang a lot too, Tristan noticed, as he sat there and watched him work. Sang with the radio, sang to his cookies, just hummed little tunes like he didn’t care that Tristan was right there. Or maybe he forgot.

A
LONG
time later, when there were lush piles of pink-and-purple biscuits and another batch of filling, this time bright yellow, and more trays of cooled bright rounds ready, Henry finally spoke.

“You okay?” Henry asked. “I can make tea. Are you bored? Sorry, I sometimes get into my own little world when I bake. I don’t mean to ignore you.”

Tristan shook his head. He’d been so fascinated by the colors and the smells and the piles of puffy bright pretty things that he had barely noticed time flowing by. “No. Not bored. To be honest, it’s nice to be around someone who I don’t work with, and you’re fun to watch. You kind of remind me of home, in a weird way.”

“I do?” That earned him a surprised smile.

“Yeah. I don’t know what it is. Something about this place is familiar. I like it. My mom’s kitchen always smells good like this, and there’s always something baking or about to be baked. This is the first place in the city where it’s felt like that.”

Henry’s smile grew. “Of course, you can stay as long as you want. It’s nice to have company for me too. Usually it’s just me and Millie in the shop. Or me on my own.”