Macarons at Midnight by M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin Page B

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. What was I going to do? Walk?
    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 he had, 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.
     
     
    B Y 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, really, 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