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

mouth, dissolving into sweet nothingness. Maybe Henry would have a few extras.
    “Not bad,” Henry said, shooting a grin over his shoulder. “Hey, could you grab some of my business cards for me? They’re in the glove compartment in the van.”
    “Sure.”
    Pleased to have another task so he didn’t have to stand around like a halfwit, Tristan quickly made his way back to the van and dug through the mess until he found a small box with a stack of business cards inside. They were nice, Tristan thought. Simple but effective, the color of honey, with Henry’s logo on them and the bakery name in a good, clean font. Tristan told himself to stop doing his day job and do what he came here for.
    He grabbed a few of the cards, not sure how many Henry wanted, and was just straightening up again when a soft female voice said, “Hi.”
    “Bollocks,” Tristan muttered, banging his knee from straightening up too quickly. Oh. Um. Hi.
    A girl stood in front of him, next to the bumper on the van. She had very long, very dark hair, tasteful makeup, and a pretty dress that covered her from her collarbones to her midthighs. The birthday girl? Tristan wasn’t sure. If she was Poppy’s daughter, she didn’t look much like her. Both hands were clasped behind the girl’s back, and she was thrusting her chest forward. Tristan thought she might be trying to make up for the dress, which was high cut enough that it looked like her mother picked it out. He really wasn’t interested in what she had to show him. For so many reasons.
    “Did you make the cookies? For my party?”
    Her voice was light and slightly flirtatious, but mostly polite. So this was the birthday girl, then. She seemed harmless enough compared to her tightly restrained viper of a mother.
    Tristan locked the van and shook his head. “Not really. Well, I helped.”
    “Oh. Thank you, then.” She smiled hesitantly.
    “You’re welcome,” Tristan said, feeling extremely awkward. He wasn’t great with women at the best of times, let alone small ones with whom he had nothing in common. “I, uh, need to take these inside,” he finished lamely, holding up the business cards.
    The girl nodded, and he felt heat rise in his cheeks. For fuck’s sake . Tristan stomped off in the direction of the house without a backward glance. The day he got flustered by a kid just because she lived in a nice house was probably the day he needed to quit life.
    “You okay?” Henry asked when Tristan almost barreled into him.
    “Yeah. Fine. Couldn’t find them at first,” Tristan said tersely.
    Henry gave him a funny look and took the cards, then gestured to the grand display of macarons. “What do you think?”
    “It looks amazing,” Tristan said honestly, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.
    Henry had set up the stands so there were alternating rows of colors on each level, the pinks, blues, greens, and purples clashing delightfully with each other, riotous and cheerful against the white, white, white of the living room. It was the burst of color Henry had promised back in the bakery—what had he called it? Like the eighties had exploded. Well, something surely had. Anything would be an improvement over the severity of the room before.
    Seemingly happy with the praise, Henry gave Tristan’s arm a quick squeeze before leading them through the house.
    “Do you know where you’re going?” Tristan asked, keeping his voice low again.
    “Not really,” Henry replied in another soft whisper. “But all these houses are set up pretty much the same. Kitchens are at the back, out of the way, where the staff live.”
    Tristan wasn’t sure if Henry was joking or not, and gave a weak smile in response. He couldn’t imagine having staff, although he knew people who’d grown up with them. It seemed preposterous to have servants waiting on him hand and foot. It probably seemed preposterous not to have them to these people. He tried not to be disgusted by that fact.
    Sure enough, there