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

minutes until fluffy. Add in mint extract and powdered sugar and color, then beat an additional 3 to 5 minutes. Pipe frosting onto cupcakes from a plastic bag with a corner cut off, or a pastry bag with the wide tip of your choice. Garnish with drizzle of chocolate syrup and a chocolate mint!

Chapter 5

     
    H ENRY DIDN ’ T know why he was nervous. He’d been raised for the exact purpose of entertaining, being a good host, knowing what to do in the precise situation he found himself in. Sort of. Except the exact situation he found himself in was that he was very, very attracted to one sweet but sarcastic beanpole of a British guy who had soulful baby blue eyes and the ability to make Henry turn into a pile of adolescent giggles. Henry had not been trained for that. No manners could really mask blatant and quite ridiculous infatuation. And that’s what he was in the thrall of, no doubt about that. Two long nights together—one in his bakery, one dealing with venomously vapid socialites and flirty teenaged girls—had taught him he wanted to know a lot more about Tristan. Tristan, who was on his way over.
    He wanted to know about his childhood in England, what he did every day in the city, how he smiled when he was happy or embarrassed, what he smelled like in the morning, how he kissed when he really, really meant it. Henry wanted to know it all. Already. Infatuation. It was a serious bitch.
    Henry jogged through his apartment, tossing things away into his laundry bin or various drawers, straightening piles of magazines, making sure his bed was made because, hey, you never knew what could happen even if that wasn’t the plan, it might happen, and he wouldn’t say no if Tristan wanted it to happen, and— knock it off. You’re freaking out.
    Yeah, he was freaking out. Tristan was adorable and he made Henry awkward, and he’d be there in less than an hour. Ostensibly, it was for a thank-you dinner, one Henry had been quick to offer in exchange for Tristan’s services, aka self-sacrifice at the altar of drooling teenaged girls and Pernicious Poppy the evening before. But it wasn’t just that. It was a date, and they both knew it. There was pretty much zero chance Tristan had missed the less-than-subtle vibes Henry had been throwing his way. Zero.
    It had taken them until nearly the end of the night to get to the question, the one where Henry figured out for sure Tristan was a lot like him in the lack of interest in the female sex, and maybe, just maybe, feeling exactly the same way Henry did, which was overwhelming, ridiculous, take-your-clothes-off-now attraction. That same moment where he knew if he invited Tristan over for dinner, it wasn’t just to eat. Henry smiled. Then he worried at his lip.
    Chill. Out.
    He showered quickly when his place was clean enough to be presentable. Then he threw on some faded jeans that were better than the ones he baked in, but far less than anything he’d wear to see his parents, and an old soft Henley that was dark green, showed off his collar bones, and which Trixie had once said made him look sexy. He hoped she hadn’t been lying.
    The heat had broken a bit, and the crisp hint of fall was in the air. Pasta. That would be perfect. He figured he’d make something simple, something Tristan could identify with. It would be too obvious and make him look a bit sad if he whipped out one of his fancy culinary school meals. Maybe spaghetti and some bread and salad, nothing fancy. No showing off.
    He started the dinner and put on some music. Then turned it off. Too much of a seduction scene, right? No, put it back on. His apartment was too quiet without it. Good Lord. Chill. For real. He kept the music on because he figured he’d spin out of control without it. Henry got to work and was just spooning his pasta into the simmering sauce when he got a text from Tristan saying he was downstairs.
    It was time.
     
     
    H ENRY BUZZED Tristan in with a whole herd of giant atlas moths flopping