by Anna Martin
Tristan heard his name and looked up. It was Terry, Tristan’s direct boss, speaking as usual. He seemed to like the sound of his own voice.
“… the team did a great job. After our success with the Charity Parker fragrance, we’ve been branching into the teen market more. We want to tackle more fragrances, some of the teen clothing lines.”
Richard, who was Terry’s boss and someone Tristan rarely, if ever, saw, spoke up. “And then there’s project Indigo, as our team here affectionately dubbed it.” Richard chuckled. It looked about as forced as anything Tristan had ever seen. “I’m sure a few of you have heard that there’s been talk of Livingston’s department store looking for new representation for their expansion ad campaign. The company is going national. I’m sure you know they’re high-end, they’re exclusive, and they’re a very big fish that we have little hope of even getting near. But they’re also shopping around and looking for new blood. If we could land them, it would raise our profile astronomically, so any connection, no matter how tiny, could potentially help put us on their radar.”
Tristan’s heart started to race immediately. It wasn’t just the name, although he was so deep that any mention of Henry or his family tended to make Tristan’s body stand on edge, little feelers all over ready to grab any small detail. It was the fact that his boss—no, his boss’s boss—was standing up there wanting any tiny chance their company had to get near Henry’s family.
And he was right. An ad campaign as big as the one they could potentially do for Livingston’s would completely change the profile of Blanchard and Starr. And most likely the career of whomever brought it to them. It could be really exciting work. A game changer. But still, another, far larger part of him felt really weird hearing about Henry’s family from anyone but Henry himself. Like, Richard was talking about Henry’s father, the man whom he’d sat across from at dinner on Friday night. It was uncomfortable to think of him in a business way. Of course, he was quite aware of who they were and—
“Tristan knows the family,” nosy Cassie from Friday said.
Jesus bloody Christ on a bloody fucking stick. Tristan was brought out of his internal debate. He really hadn’t planned on saying anything. At least, he thought he hadn’t been. Right? It would be weird to ask Henry for a meeting with his father. Henry had nothing to do with that part of his family and he was so iffy about it to begin with, and things between him and Henry were so amazing. Tristan cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him again like they had on Friday when he’d been talking about going to dinner at their house. Except this time, it was four times as many people peering at him curiously.
He thought of what Shatara had said a few weeks before. Hold the cards. Share the cards. This could be his way in if he wanted to take it.
“You have an in with the Livingstons… Tristan, is it?” He knew he wasn’t imagining the look of incredulity on Richard’s face. Since when did nobodies from a village in the middle of nowhere, England, have connections to society-page royalty? Probably never, except this one time.
Tristan felt a weird combination of gratified, smug, and supremely uncomfortable. “I’m, um, seeing Bradford Livingston’s son, Henry. So, yes. I do know them.”
Another wave of whispers, much like the one from Friday, swept through the room. Tristan cringed.
“Fantastic,” corner-office Richard said. “Work with Terry to set something up. I’d like to meet with this Henry and see what we can do.”
“Henry doesn’t work for the company.” Tristan felt like it was the right thing to do. Also, a big part of him wanted to get out of the whole thing.
“That’s fine. He’s still by far the best connection we could hope to get.” Richard waved him off. “Just talk to Terry. We’ll make it nice and social.”
Tristan tried to ignore the pit in his stomach and focus on the happy and jealous looks everyone on the floor was giving him. Maybe if he played this right, he could make everyone at work happy and manage to not piss Henry off as well.
Maybe he was a flaming moron.
Cannoli
Shells
3 cups all-purpose flour
¼ cup white sugar
¼ teaspoon ground cinnamon
3 tablespoons shortening
1 egg
1 egg yolk
½ cup sweet marsala wine
1 tablespoon distilled white vinegar
2 tablespoons water
1 egg white
1 quart oil for frying, or as needed
Cannoli tubes
* * *
Filling
1 (32 ounce) container ricotta cheese
½ cup confectioners’ sugar
1 cup chopped candied citron
4 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped
* * *
In a medium bowl, mix together the flour, sugar, and cinnamon. Add in small bits of shortening and mix until it is in pieces no larger than peas. Make a well in the center and pour in the egg, egg yolk, marsala wine, vinegar, and water. Mix with a fork until the dough becomes stiff, then finish it by hand, kneading on a clean surface. Add a bit more water if needed to incorporate all of the dry ingredients. Knead for about ten minutes, then cover and refrigerate for 1 to 2 hours.
Divide the cannoli dough into thirds and flatten each one just enough to get through the pasta machine. Roll the dough through successively thinner settings until you have reached the thinnest setting. Dust lightly with flour if necessary.
Place the sheet of dough on a lightly floured surface. Using a cutter or large glass bowl, cut out 4- to 5-inch circles. Dust the circles with a light coating of flour. This will help you later when you go to remove the shells from the tubes. Roll dough around cannoli tubes, sealing the edge with a bit of egg white.
Heat the oil to 375 °F in a deep fryer or deep heavy skillet. Fry shells on the tubes a few at a time for 2 to 3 minutes until golden. Use tongs to turn as needed. Carefully remove using the tongs and place on a cooling rack set over paper towels. Cool just long enough that you can handle the tubes. Then carefully twist the tube to remove the shell. Using a tea towel may help you get a better grip. Wash or wipe off the tubes and use them for more shells. Cooled shells can be placed in an airtight container and kept for up to 2 months. You should only fill them immediately or up to 1 hour before serving.
To make the filling, stir together the ricotta cheese and confectioners’ sugar using a spoon. Fold in the chopped citron and chocolate. Use a pastry bag to pipe into shells, filling from the center to one end, then doing the same from the other side. Dust with additional confectioners’ sugar and grated chocolate for garnish when serving.
Chapter Seventeen
“Tristan, did you get everything all set up for tonight?” Terry asked. He looked a bit like a shark sometimes, Tristan thought, with his eyes on the sides of his head and that look like he was circling his prey scenting out blood. In this case, Tristan wasn’t sure if Henry was the prey, or if he was. He supposed it was too late to think much about it.
He adjusted his suspenders and nodded. He couldn’t believe he’d been talked into it. Easily, at that. They were luring Henry in, using him, and if all went well, Henry would set up a meeting with his father. And hopefully not kill Tristan in the process.
“It’s all set up. Henry’s agreed to come, and I’ll make sure you get the opportunity to talk to him about setting up a meeting.”
“You’re a team player, Green.”
Tristan hated when people called him by his last name. It was so sporty chap and not his style at all. He tried not to flinch when Terry clapped him on the shoulder.
“Thanks, sir.”
“Call me Terry.”
Oh, it’s Terry, now? I do one thing to try to ingratiate myself at this damn place, and all of a sudden, we’re on first-name basis. If I bring in another client, will I be invited to dinner with the wife and kids?
Tristan was starting to get a really bad feeling about the party. He didn’t have much time to
think about it. Instead, he was busy all day with a slew of perfume layouts Shatara slid his way. Everything had gotten so busy since they’d landed the account. The company had decided to roll out a whole package of different ads for different publications, and Shatara had Tristan on the layouts for all of them. That didn’t make Jordan a happy camper. Of course. Jordan was still being nice to him a lot of the time, almost creepily so, but Tristan could feel the animosity. Maybe if he spread the work out a little.
“Hey, Jordan,” Tristan called.
“What’s up, teacher’s pet?” It was an improvement on “Jolly.” That was for sure.
“I’m swamped. You want to take over the double-page spread for the Seventeen magazine ad? I know you’re not on the Charity Parker team, but Shatara just approved you for it.” She hadn’t, but Tristan was hoping Jordan pulled through enough that she loved it so much it didn’t matter in the end.
“You sure you want to give that up?”
“Yeah. It’s fine. The project’s yours.”
Tristan hoped that bought him a little more good grace with Jordan. He thought for a moment what animal Jordan would be. If Terry was a shark, restlessly circling in hopes of stray bits of prey, Jordan would be a cheetah, lazily sunning himself until the opportunity came to strike. Tristan still wanted to be on Jordan’s good side. Everyone wanted to be on Jordan’s good side.
Tristan spent the rest of his day finishing work and hoping everything went well. He knew Henry didn’t always get along with his father. Hell, Tristan had met Bradford, and he got it. The guy was terrifying. But he figured it wouldn’t be a big deal. All they wanted was a chance to talk, right?
Tristan already knew he was wrong. He shouldn’t have set up the party. He shouldn’t have said he knew Henry. Even if everything went well, he was still mixing Henry and everything they had together with a place he didn’t like and didn’t have good feelings for. It was a mistake. But hopefully a mostly harmless one. Tristan couldn’t wait to get the night over with.
He’d packed a garment bag with clothes to wear that night. He wanted to get ready at Henry’s flat. Most of his bathroom things had migrated over there, anyway.
Henry wasn’t home yet when Tristan walked in with the key he’d gotten a couple short weeks before. The place was quiet, but not really empty. It never felt empty. Tristan could look around and see the places they’d kissed, where Henry had slid gentle fingers around his hips when he was awkwardly whisking his first batch of whipped cream, the bed where they’d spent so many hours, sometimes just talking until one of them finally passed out. Tristan smiled. He tossed his garment bag over the back of Henry’s sofa and ambled over to drop onto his bed. It was the same squashy, perfect cloud of blankets and feathery duvet it had been since the first night. Tristan closed his eyes for a short nap.
His stomach felt queasy when he woke up. Henry had obviously come home and slid into the bed behind him. Henry’s wiry arms, strong from hours and weeks and years of working with dough and heavy pots and pans, were wound around Tristan’s midsection, and he felt the gentle puff of Henry’s breath against his neck. It was only six. They still had two more hours until the party started. Tristan covered Henry’s hand with his own and tried to relax.
“Hey,” Henry muttered. “You awake?”
“It’s okay, babe. You don’t have to get up yet. We still have a while.”
“Good. I was going to try to stay up. Get some accounting done. Your nap was contagious.”
Tristan chuckled around the weird pit in his belly. “I’m sorry I pulled you away from your work. Hey, if you have too much to do, we can stay home tonight. I can always say you felt poorly on Monday.”
Henry squeezed Tristan’s belly. “No, it’s okay. I know this party is important for you. I’m going.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” Tristan said. He was about a half a second away from insisting they stayed home. The lump in his belly wouldn’t let him relax.
“I would. Can we sleep a little longer, though? I’m beat.”
“Yeah. We can get another hour. Close your eyes. I’ll set an alarm.”
Tristan felt Henry slowly relax around him. He closed his eyes too and didn’t bother to set an alarm. If they managed to sleep through the entire party? Oh, well. That was quite alright with him.
* * *
Henry jerked awake when he realized it was dark. “Shit! What time is it?”
“Mmph?” Tristan asked.
“I thought you were setting an alarm. The party starts in ten minutes.”
“We can skip it. It’s just work.”
“No way.” Henry shoved at Tristan’s shoulder. “We’re not skipping the party. Get your adorable ass in the shower.”
* * *
Henry didn’t understand Blanchard and Starr. No, that wasn’t true. He understood the world just fine. What he didn’t understand was why Tristan was in it. The room was filled with designer clothes and expensive accessories, probably bought on consignment just to show who was best. Everyone measured each other with glances and calculating stares. Who had the best clothes, the best position in the room, who was the closest to the most desirable guests. Henry knew exactly what was going on. He’d lived it for more years than he wanted to count. Blanchard and Starr was its own little Upper East Side, and the name of the game was power and opportunity. The oddest part was that the opportunity seemed to be him.
More than once, while he was wandering around with Tristan, and even more noticeably since Tristan went to get them more drinks, he noticed people sidling up to him, trying to get closer. He’d gotten a few awkward conversation starters, smiles more brilliant than necessary for a junior ad guy’s nobody date. Henry was starting to get suspicious.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
There was another one. Expensive suit, barely but just a touch ill fitting, shiny shoes that almost went perfectly, gelled-back hair, smarmy smile. This guy would be eaten alive by Trixie’s friends. Here, he most likely slipped by on slick smiles and slimy charm.
“I am. The office is lovely.”
“Lovely.” He smiled. “Let me guess, you’ve been hanging out with Tristan?”
Henry nodded. “I have. I’m here with him.”
“And that would make you Henry Livingston.”
That would also explain an awful lot about the brilliant smiles and the attempts to draw him in. They knew who he was. All of them. And his status as the Upper East Side prince in a Soho office made him the biggest social catch in the room. Henry wanted to grab Tristan and get the hell out. He’d spent enough years as Ophelia Livingston’s prime catch of a son before he came out. He didn’t want to be that ever again. It wouldn’t pay to be rude, though.
“Yes, I’m Henry. Nice to meet you….”
“Jordan.”
Jordan. The name sounded somewhat familiar. He knew Tristan wasn’t overly fond of a lot of the people in his office. But he vaguely remembered hearing about him going to eat with someone named Jordan. Maybe this guy wasn’t as sleazy as he seemed.
“Are you having a nice night?” Henry asked. He had to be polite.
“Of course, it’s great. Thank you so much for coming. This is a huge coup for Blanchard and Starr.”
“Excuse me?” Henry was confused. Mostly he just wanted to get Tristan and get out of there. Enough party, already.
“Oh, like I said, getting a meeting with Livingston’s is a huge deal for a firm our size. We were all really impressed when Tristan told us he’d been working on setting up a contact in your company for a month or so. Took a lot of initiative for the kid. He’s so new.”
Working on… contact… Livingston’s? But Tristan had seemed so sincere. He’d acted like he had no idea who Henry was. How was it even possible? “That’s not possible.”
“What do you mean?” Jordan looked perplexed. Confused. “He came to your bakery to talk to you about the account, didn’t he?”
“N-no. Yes.” Henry didn’t even know how to answer. Tr
istan. He wanted to find a wall and collapse against it.
He saw a tall, sandy-haired body coming their way. The mound of hors d’oeuvres in his stomach coagulated in an instant. Tristan had been using him. Fucking hell. He’d thought Tristan was different, he’d thought they were different. How could he have been so wrong? Tristan smiled from a distance and waved a little, even with his full glass of champagne. Reflexively, Henry nearly smiled back. But then he remembered. Tristan’s smile faltered slowly as he drew nearer.
“Are you okay?” he asked when he got to where Henry was standing. Henry noticed Jordan shrug and walk away. He wouldn’t want to be involved in whatever was about to happen either.
“Did you plan this? Did you plan this whole thing to get to my father?” Henry gestured at the room around them. He felt sicker than sick but he couldn’t put it off.
Tristan’s pale English cheeks bloomed red. He looked at the ground. He all of a sudden seemed so… guilty? Henry couldn’t believe it. No. Impossible. But then he remembered how Tristan had wanted them to stay back earlier. Had he been feeling guilty about it for a moment?
Tristan nodded and Henry felt like he was going to die. “Yes. I did it. I’m so—”
“Seriously? All of it?”
Henry wanted the moment to be over, the party to be over. He wanted to pull Tristan close to him and have Tristan tell him it was all nothing like it looked. Please. Please tell me you’re not that guy. He’d trusted him. He’d told him he loved him. Sort of, at least, if a “me too” counted. How could he have been so wrong?
“Did you do this to get me here for a job?”
“Yes,” Tristan forced out. His voice was a hoarse whisper. Henry had given him two chances to deny it. He hadn’t.
