Macarons at Midnight

by Anna Martin

  Fuck.

  Henry didn’t say another word. He just turned and walked away into the crowded room, feeling like the biggest asshole on the planet. He had to get out and never, ever come back.

  Anise Biscotti

  Crunchy, with a mild licorice flavor. Delicious with milk or tea.

  * * *

  2 cups white sugar

  1 cup softened butter

  4 eggs

  4½ cups all-purpose flour

  4 teaspoons baking powder

  ¾ teaspoon salt

  ⅓ cup brandy

  1½ teaspoons anise extract

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  1 cup almonds

  2 tablespoons anise seed

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 350°F and line baking sheets with parchment paper.

  Beat sugar and butter. Add your eggs one at a time, beating well after each is added.

  You’ll want to combine remaining wet ingredients in a small bowl and dry ingredients in another.

  Carefully fold a spoonful of dry ingredients into the butter and sugar mixture, then a spoonful of the wet ingredients. Repeat until all are well combined. Mix thoroughly but carefully.

  Drop spoonfuls of the dough onto the baking sheets and then push together so it forms two long loaves. Smooth the dough with a damp finger. Bake for 20 to 30 minutes and allow to cool completely.

  Cut each long cookie on the diagonal into ¾-inch-thick slices (it helps to use a serrated knife). Reduce oven temperature to 300°F and place the cookies on fresh baking sheets, baking again for another 20 minutes until the cookies are dry and slightly brown.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Henry was gone. Gone. He wasn’t in the main floor of the office, he wasn’t in any of the restrooms, he wasn’t outside. He was gone. Tristan felt like an idiot. He was standing there with two flutes of champagne he didn’t even want, and no date. Not even an angry one. He should’ve known how it would turn out if he did this. Henry didn’t like dealing with his father’s business. Tristan should’ve known. He had known, if he was honest with himself. He’d known from the start.

  He’d felt queasy about this party for hours. Probably longer than that. Probably since the moment it had been brought up at the meeting and he was too big of a chicken to speak up and say no. Too worried what people he didn’t care about thought. He wished he’d been able to talk Henry out of going. It had been an awful idea. Tristan decided the moment he found Henry, they were out. He’d take him home and spend hours showing him he didn’t care at all what Henry could get him at work, that it had been an awful idea and he was more sorry than he’d ever been about anything.

  Tristan decided to go to the left first instead of the right, like Henry had gone. Maybe he’d just run into him, make him stop. Tell him everything. He wouldn’t have left left, would he? Henry had to be aroun—

  Ooof. Of course. Instead of bumping into Henry, he’d run full stop into Jordan, even sloshing his stupid sodding champagne all over both of them. How was he still standing there? Hadn’t he caused enough problems in Tristan’s life already? Go the fuck away. Now.

  “You looking for your friend?” Jordan asked.

  No. Of course not. Nothing like that. I’m just hanging about looking panicked for no reason.

  There was something about Jordan’s smarmy voice that got under Tristan’s skin, something about his smug face. He knew more about what had happened then he let on. He knew something or, no, he’d done something. Tristan had known better than to trust their new mini-truce completely, but he hadn’t thought Jordan was up to his old tricks again. He should’ve been smarter than to think otherwise.

  Tristan grated his teeth. “My boyfriend. Yes. Henry. Have you seen him?”

  “You mean since that big scene a few minutes ago? You really think he’s going to stick around after he found out you used him the whole time just to get to his father?”

  Tristan nearly answered before he realized what Jordan had just said. “Wait. What did you say?”

  “You used Henry to get to his father. That’s why you were dating him, isn’t it? Or was it more of a fucking with benefits thing?”

  Tristan had to physically hold himself against the wall to keep from pounding Jordan to the ground.

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t even know who Henry’s father was until a week or two ago. I’ve been seeing him for months.”

  “Oh, really?” Jordan asked. “Oops.”

  “Is that what you told him? You let him…. You know what? I’m leaving.”

  Tristan’s throat felt tight, his eyes heavy and watery. Was that seriously what Henry believed? Tristan didn’t want to deal with anything other than finding Henry and explaining what had happened, he couldn’t deal with anything else.

  He grabbed his coat from the coat check at the front door and took off for the corner at a run. Tristan grabbed the first taxi he came across, which thankfully was quicker than usual. Before he knew it, he was standing in front of Henry’s building, key in hand. His fingers were shaking and he nearly dropped it. Only a short hour before, they’d left the flat together hand-in-hand, sleepy but smiling and laughing. Now he had to tell the guy he loved that he had used him for work, but it wasn’t as bad as Henry thought. Was there a good way to say that?

  Tristan used his key to open the front door of the building. He trudged up the stairs to the third-floor entry to the flat. He already felt better, in the place where he belonged, but it wouldn’t be completely better until he had Henry in his arms and he could explain that he hadn’t really meant any harm. It probably seemed like he’d pimped him out—well, more than, probably—but it was stupid, and Tristan would make it up to him. There wouldn’t be a meeting; he had been stupid to think that was a good idea. There would only be him and Henry.

  When he got to the door of their flat, he used his other key to open the deadbolt. He started to pull the door open, but it caught when the chain Henry never used stopped it from opening all the way.

  “Henry?” Tristan called. He heard slow footsteps coming down the stairs to the doorway. The door shut, and the chain rattled and it opened again. Henry was standing in the doorway, suit pants and posh shirt off, dressed only in a thin T-shirt and sweats that hung off his lean hips. Tristan reached for him, but Henry stopped him.

  “Here’s your stuff from the bathroom. I’ll get your clothes packed up and text you when we can make a trade for the keys.”

  Tristan’s whole body went into shock. He felt awful for setting up the party, he shouldn’t have done it and it’d been shallow and no. It’s not what you think! He tried to say it, but the words got stuck in his throat.

  “You can’t be ending, it, H. Not like this.” He angled his body into the doorway and refused to take the bag of supplies Henry was trying to give him.

  “What do you mean, not like this? Tristan, you need to go. There isn’t another way to end it.”

  “Not ending it at all would be the way I’d pick. Please, babe. I know what I did wasn’t very sensitive, but it’s not—”

  “Stop. I can’t do this.” He pushed the bag into Tristan’s arms and backed away. “Please don’t call. I’ll text you when I have all your clothes sorted out of mine. Then you can come by and leave the key.”

  Tristan honestly wanted to pass out. To sink down the wall and collapse onto the floor and just fucking pass the fuck out. “Can’t we talk?”

  “About what? You used me. The whole time you used me, and I fell for it like a gullible goddamn fool.” Henry ground his forehead into his palm. “It just felt so real,” he said quietly before he backed up and shut the door in Tristan’s face.

  Tristan heard the chain locking and Henry’s footsteps going back up the stairs. He yanked his phone out of his pocket and dialed Henry’s mobile. It rang inside a few short times before he was disconnected and everything went silent. He tried again, but it went straight to voicemail.

  Tristan was about a half second away fro
m pounding on the door until Henry let him in, but he didn’t want to make him even more angry. He did slide down to the floor, then, brought his big long, gangly legs up and wrapped his arms around his knees. He’d wait. Fall asleep in the hallway and wait for Henry to leave in the morning for the bakery. Tristan didn’t care if Henry’s neighbors thought he was insane. At least Henry couldn’t avoid him then.

  * * *

  He was still there hours later when Henry’s door creaked open. It had to be five in the morning, but Tristan’s eyes flew open at the smallest sound. He heard Henry sigh.

  “Why are you here?” Henry asked. “I told you to go.”

  “I just wanted to talk to you,” Tristan said. He hauled his stiff body to his feet and reached for Henry.

  “I don’t understand what you want to talk abou—oh.” Henry’s face dawned with understanding.

  “Yes. I—”

  “Stop,” Henry sneered. He actually sneered at Tristan. He’d have probably done it down his nose if Tristan weren’t half a foot taller. “Just stop. I’m going to work. Don’t follow me.”

  What did Henry think he wanted? What could make everything go from bad to ten million times worse, judging by the look on Henry’s face. Tristan wanted nothing more than to go into Henry’s flat and wait it out, lay siege until he got to explain himself and make amends. But before Henry left, he turned and held his hand out.

  “Keys,” he said shortly. “I’ll get you your things when I have time to deal with it.”

  Tristan figured he didn’t have the right to fight for keys to a place he owned no part of. He fished them out of his pocket and silently handed them over. Then he watched while Henry walked away and quite possibly out of his life. He debated following for a few moments. Nothing he did could make it worse, right? Tristan didn’t know anymore. He thought maybe it would be better if he let Henry cool down a little. He couldn’t imagine how angry he was. If Tristan was innocent of everything, if he’d done nothing at all wrong, he’d have run after Henry no problem. But he wasn’t. So he’d give him a day or so to cool off, and then he’d try again.

  * * *

  Henry managed to make it down the stairs before he lost his composure. He crumpled, let his face sag, and fought back tears that made him so angry. Why the hell did Tristan get tears? All he’d been to Tristan was a job, a rung on a ladder; he hadn’t minded stepping on Henry’s head and his heart to get higher up. No fucking crying. He refused.

  Still, he almost felt like limping as he walked to the bakery in the chilly predawn. It hurt that bad. Henry was no stranger to being used for his family. Nobody in his position would be a stranger to it. Trixie had had her share of boyfriends drawn by the family name. But to plot that carefully? To engineer a meeting, dates, romance, all for access to his father? It made Henry physically ill to think about it. He’d let Tristan in his apartment, his body, his heart. He’d waltzed right in there and made himself at home all for—

  Stop it. Henry knew torturing himself wasn’t going to make it any better. It wasn’t going to make anything any better. All he could do was try to move on, forget that Tristan Green ever existed, and pretend this one time didn’t hurt a million times more than every other person who’d tried to get close to him because of what he was, not whom.

  Henry unlocked his bakery. He’d known he had a late night, so luckily he’d done a lot of dough mixing the previous afternoon. Instead of the night he’d expected, a party, Tristan dressed up and looking gorgeous, maybe some fun in bed before they passed out, Henry had spent the entire night staring at the wall, trying to figure out when the hell he should’ve known Tristan wasn’t who he seemed. Even knowing it, even after he knew exactly what Tristan had been about the entire time, Henry still had a hard time seeing it. He only saw sweet puppy-dog eyes and an adorable grin and ugh. He had to stop.

  He tried taking his aggression out on the dough, rolling hard and slamming his cutter down with a satisfying clunk. It helped. A little. It helped even more to picture Tristan’s thunk, head, thunk, on the cutting board, thunk, thunk, thunk, every time he ripped into the dough with the star-shaped cookie cutter. He must’ve gotten more into it than he thought, because the next thing Henry knew, the bell overhead was clanging and Rose and Millie were trailing into the store. He wasn’t ready to see anyone. If Henry had his way, he wouldn’t see anyone ever again. Ever. At least for a few days….

  “Hey, sweetie!” Millie called. She sounded chipper and ready for their typical morning chat.

  Henry realized that not only was he going to have to talk to humans, which he didn’t want to do, he was going to have to talk to humans about why he wanted to stab poor, unsuspecting pastry dough. Violently. Repeatedly. Great. It was bad enough when Henry had to live with it himself; now he had to tell Millie and Rose. And that wasn’t a question. It was a statement. Millie wouldn’t let him last ten seconds before she realized something was wrong, and she’d never let him get away with a manly “I don’t want to talk about it.” She never did. She and Rose were going to want to dissect it with him, figure out when they should’ve known, plan in great detail how they were going to rip Tristan’s head off. Okay, the last part he could probably stand. The rest of it hurt way too bad.

  “Hey, Mills.” Henry tried to keep the hoarse, halfway-to-tears sound out of his voice. He wasn’t quite successful.

  “What’s wrong?” Millie asked. She rushed back just in time to watch Henry frosting his star cookies rather violently. At least Rose stayed in the front of the store. Henry really liked her, but he’d only known her a few weeks. A huge part of him really needed Millie, though. She crowded close to him. She must’ve sensed closeness was in order.

  “It’s a long story. Not a good one.”

  “Spit it out, H. Where’s Tristan? He’s usually here by now on a Saturday.”

  “I’d rather not discuss Tristan, if it’s quite alright with you,” Henry muttered.

  “Quite alright.” Millie snorted. “You have been spending a lot of time with him. Did you two get into a spat?”

  “No.”

  “Henry, I’ve known you long enough to know you’ll feel better when you spit it out. Just tell me, then you can call Tristan and wake him up, and you guys can go back to being sickeningly in love.”

  Love. The word made Henry’s skin crawl.

  “Not likely, seeing as though this whole relationship was engineered by him and his company to try to get closer to my father.”

  Millie’s face dropped. “What? That’s impossible. Tristan would never do something like that. I… just… I can’t believe it.”

  “He admitted it right to my face, Mills. Then he waited by my door all night to ask if I’d still get him the meeting with my father.”

  “He actually asked that?”

  Not really. Not in those exact words. “Yes.” Okay, the rest of it was true. Why else could he have possibly wasted an entire night if it weren’t to make sure what he wanted ended up happening? Like hell. Henry would rather die than get Tristan his meeting. He never wanted to see him again.

  “I’m so sorry,” Millie whispered. “I honestly would’ve never seen this coming. He seemed like he loved you so much.”

  “Please quit saying that word.”

  Millie didn’t speak again. She simply held her arms out and let Henry crumple into them. He did that quietly and bit his lip to keep from crying. He hated crying, and certainly hated crying over people who disappointed him. His parents hadn’t gotten to him like that in years, and he thought he’d developed a thicker skin when it came to men. Apparently, Tristan had gotten under it. Henry needed to get him back out. He let himself lay his head down just a little bit longer on Millie’s familiar shoulder, and then he pulled himself up.

  “Okay, I gotta get the rest of these snickerdoodles in the oven. I have one more batch to get baked before the shop opens.”

  “Why don’t you go home after they’re done, sweetie?” Millie rubbed his shoulder. “You look like you
haven’t slept at all.”

  “I haven’t, but I doubt I’d sleep if I went home. It’s probably better for me to stay here. Please don’t let Tristan come back here if he comes to the shop. I can’t deal with him right now. Maybe not ever, but for sure not today.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Henry nodded and turned back to the bowl of chilled sugar cookie dough and his container of cinnamon and sugar.

  “These’ll be out in about thirty. The rest is ready for opening.”

  * * *

  Monday. One week later. It had only been one single week since that office meeting where he’d made the biggest mistake he could’ve made. Not even that. Where he’d let other people make the damn mistake for him. He should’ve said no, said it was inappropriate, that it wasn’t worth risking his personal relationships for an account, no matter how lucrative and high profile. Even still, Tristan couldn’t imagine having done that in front of the whole office, everyone he knew and didn’t know. Maybe this was what being a stupid pushover got him. He’d never learned how to be one of those people who didn’t care what everyone thought of him. He could snark all he wanted in his head, but when it came down to it, he’d wanted to be liked, and if not that, at least respected. But it hadn’t been worth it. Not even a little bit.

  Tristan slouched in his desk.

  “Hey, great party on Friday. I didn’t get to talk to Henry myself, but Jordan said he ran him through the ideas we've had for Livingston’s.”

  Fucking Jordan. Of course. Tristan couldn’t wait to hear exactly how Jordan had “run Henry through their ideas.” Probably had a little something to do with why Henry had stormed out of the party and refused to talk to him since. Tristan wasn’t a baby—he planned to take most of the blame himself—but he also knew Henry wasn’t that unreasonable. They just had to bloody talk. If Henry would ever let him.