by Anna Martin
“Wow. So you’re a baby,” Henry said. Tristan hoped it wasn’t a bad thing. He was a mature twenty-three. He thought. Not many other guys from his year at home had made it much further than Ripon. Manchester or Sheffield if they were moving to the “big city.” Tristan had made it all the way to America. He felt grown up.
“You don’t look very old, yourself,” he said. He hoped it didn’t sound defensive.
“Twenty-nine. I have a baby face.”
“I’m twenty-three. Nearly twenty-four. Not that much younger.” Not that it mattered. Henry could be forty-seven and Tristan seventeen, and he would still be mid-drool at any given moment over Henry’s big-lashed brown eyes, waving hair, and glamorous smile.
* * *
Tristan watched Henry lean over pipe another row of rounds onto a sheet. More hot pink. A whole sea of pink.
He smiled, satisfied, when he stood upright again. “That’s the last of them. Two hundred, with ten extra of each color as a safety net. The others should be ready to get out of the oven now.” He waltzed over to the oven and started pulling out sheets of baked shells, bright lime green, orange, black, and of course, pink. “These things are really temperamental. Easy to mess up if you haven’t tried them before. Macarons are like art. Beautiful, colorful, sweet, and about a half step away from disaster at any turn.”
“I liked the black one.”
“Yes. Anise.”
Tristan chuckled. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use for black licorice. Sounds a bit rude. Naughty, you know?” He wriggled his eyebrows.
“Knock it off, or I’ll make you help me deliver these.” Henry was about as threatening as, well, something not very threatening. Still, more time with him? Yes, please.
Tristan shrugged, tried to play it cool. “I’ve not made any plans for tomorrow.”
He never made any plans. Who was he going to make plans with?
“I haven’t even given you any of the other flavors to taste yet.” Henry grinned and started filling a pastry bag with bright-purple cream. “How do you know you want to get behind my product in public?”
I’d get behind your product anywhere you’d like.
“I can still deliver them if I don’t like them.” Tristan snort-coughed, trying to clear his head of stray pervy thoughts. “I write ad copy for things I think are ridiculous all the time. Plus, I’m sure they’ll be amazing.”
It was surreal, the whole scene. Tristan had to keep reminding himself he was sitting in a stranger’s business in the middle of the night watching him bake cookies. That he’d offered to help deliver them, that he didn’t even know Henry’s last name. It didn’t matter. He’d do it anyway. He’d have done it if he’d never even caught Henry’s first name.
“So, Ad Man, what did you really want to be when you were a little boy?”
Tristan grinned. “David Beckham. Of course. I reckon every English boy does.”
“Well, other than David Beckham. Did you have a backup if the glamor of professional soccer didn’t claim you?”
“Soccer.” Tristan fake gagged. “I’ll have you know it’s called football. Colonists,” he muttered and shook his head. Tristan figured they were in the place where teasing was okay. He must’ve been right. Henry laughed.
“I apologize, your regal and august highness. Football. What were your plans in the absence of a great football career?”
“Writing. I had great plans to be Britain’s next big novelist.” Still did, in the dark little corners of his heart. Wasn’t exactly the way to pay rent, though.
“Why didn’t you go to school to do that instead, then? Writing’s very different than advertising.”
“My parents weren’t really interested in funding the noncareer of Britain’s next big nobody. Basically, I was told to pick a practical degree, and so I did.”
“You could be an amazing writer.” Tristan liked how Henry put so much faith in someone he barely knew. “Maybe someday soon, you can go back to it.”
“Sure, if you want me to sell you some starlet’s perfume, I can write. Other than that, I’m a bit useless.”
“Don’t put yourself down.” Henry looked up from his cookies. “I’m not exactly at the Four Seasons, am I?”
“You went to culinary school to be one of the fancy chefs like what they have at the big hotels?” Tristan couldn’t picture Henry somewhere like that, all miles of stainless steel and towers of unrecognizable fish body parts and weird vegetables.
“Yeah, I did,” Henry said. “But this makes me happier.”
Tristan scooted closer to where Henry was filling the sandwiches with glossy frosting. He didn’t want to get in his workspace, but he wanted to be as near to him as he could.
“Here,” Henry said. “Try this.” He handed Tristan one of the violently pink-and-purple ones. “It’s cassis and blackberry. It’s much better than it looks.”
Tristan took a bite, and his mouth was filled with intense, dark, fruity flavor. It was unique, a little floral, sweet but unexpected. Sophisticated, his advertising copywriter’s vocabulary decided. “Teenagers like these things?”
When he’d turned thirteen, he’d served a bowl of crisps, some fizzy drinks, and a few pizzas at his birthday party.
“These aren’t normal teenagers. They’re probably having something like coq au vin or sole meunière for dinner.”
“What’s that?”
Henry laughed. “Don’t worry about it.” He cocked his head and gave Tristan a searching look. “What on earth do you eat?”
“I found a curry shop nearby. Pizza. Burritos. I really like burritos. Sometimes I grab a Chinese.” That and the odd hamburger were his favorite things so far about living in the US.
Tristan stayed through the rest of the macarons, helped Henry box them and place them in the refrigerator to wait for the next afternoon. He felt accomplished, and he hadn’t done anything other than sit and watch for most of the time. He’d smiled more in the past few hours than he had in months, though, and flirted and laughed and even snuck in a few surreptitious touches. But it had to be close to dawn, and Tristan was getting sleepy. He was a little worried about trying to find his flat, but he needed to go to bed soon, or else he’d end up doing a face-plant on the concrete somewhere. Tristan needed his rest. Especially if he was going to help Henry later.
“You look like you’re getting tired,” Henry said.
“Yeah. I’m shattered.”
“Shattered,” Henry mimicked. He smiled to himself.
“What?”
Henry shrugged. “I just like the way you talk. It’s cute.”
“Piss off,” he retorted with a smile.
It was different than when the guys at work copied him, though. A lot different. Tristan couldn’t help feeling the warmth spread in his belly.
“Is this the part where I ask for your phone number?” Henry looked hopeful. As if Tristan had any intention of not giving it to him.
“So I can help you later?” he tested.
“Well, yes. But even if you change your mind, I’d like it anyway.”
“I think we can do that.” His phone had long since died, but he pulled a receipt out of his wallet and jotted his number down with a pencil he found on the counter. He handed it to Henry. “Call around four?”
Henry nodded. “I can’t believe you’re actually going to help me.” He ripped the receipt in half and wrote his name and number on the blank piece. “I so owe you dinner.”
“I think we can do that too.”
Traditional French Macarons
These delicate beautiful treats are sure to impress! They can be filled with nearly anything you can think of.
* * *
3 egg whites
¼ cup white sugar
1⅔ cups confectioners’ sugar
1 cup finely ground and sifted almonds or store-bought almond flour
* * *
Macarons are tough customers, but a few quick tips will help you on your way to chewy, tend
er perfection. Honeyfly Bakery recommends starting with uncolored macarons, then using powder or gel food colors (not liquid) once you get the basics down.
* * *
First, line a baking sheet with a silicone baking mat or parchment paper and thoroughly wipe out your mixing bowl. Any fat or oil will ruin your batter.
Beat egg whites with a whisk attachment until whites are foamy; beat in white sugar and continue beating until egg whites are glossy, fluffy, and hold soft peaks. When you lift your mixer out of the egg whites, they should make little peaks that flop over. If no peaks form, keep beating, but make sure to stop before the peaks are too hard to flop over!
Sift confectioners’ sugar and ground almonds in a separate bowl, and quickly fold the almond mixture into the egg whites, about thirty strokes by hand. This step is called “macaronage.”
* * *
You’ll want to check the batter here. It should be just liquid enough to make a ribbon that falls off your spoon and melts back into the batter in the bowl after about 10 seconds. If it doesn’t, stir a few more strokes at a time until it does exactly that. Stop at that stage. Further mixing will make the batter too liquid.
* * *
When batter is mixed enough, spoon into a pastry bag fitted with a plain round tip or a plastic bag with a corner cut off. Pipe the batter onto the baking sheet in rounds, leaving space between the disks. Let the piped cookies stand out at room temperature until they form a hard skin on top, about one hour.
* * *
Preheat oven to 285 °F.
* * *
Bake cookies until set but not browned, about 10 minutes; let cookies cool completely before filling with flavored buttercream frosting, chocolate hazelnut spread, or even fruit jams.
Chapter Four
Henry 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, being the right kind of person. 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 Bleeker 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.
* * *
By 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.
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, 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.
* * *
By 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, r
eally, 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.
