Macarons at Midnight by M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin Page A
Authors: M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin
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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, Nutella, or even fruit jams.
Chapter 4
H ENRY 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. 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 Bleecker 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.
B Y 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
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, Nutella, or even fruit jams.
Chapter 4
H ENRY 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. 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 Bleecker 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.
B Y 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
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