by M. J. O'Shea
He didn’t have a heart-shaped cutter small enough on hand so used a star instead, setting a hundred and fifty round discs of dough on sheets to make seventy-five of his newest creation. If they were as popular as he hoped, he’d try it again. If not, well, he had a lot on hand to send home with Millie for her kids and their classmates. It was fun to create new things, no matter the reason, and the ingredients were cheap enough that it wasn’t a big loss either way.
By the time Millie arrived at seven, the cooling racks were full of the first batches of their usual fare: croissants, muffins, and cookies frosted and ready to go into the display cabinets. He had a tray of his jammie dodgers—snicker—ready to go too, all round and golden, with pretty raspberry jam-colored stars.
“My, my, someone’s been busy this morning,” she said as she turned the coffee maker on and started to fix two mugs. Henry wasn’t very good with the coffee maker. He tended to make do with instant crap if he needed it while working, or he locked up and ran to the Starbucks on the next corner once they opened. Once Millie was there, though, he was juiced up for the morning.
“Yeah. I’ve got a good amount done,” Henry said. “The displays are looking good this morning.”
He wiped his hands and leaned back against a counter, stretching his back. It ached from being hunched over piping for the past half hour, and it felt good to straighten up. His fingers were numb too, and his wrists hurt, but he wouldn’t complain. He was doing exactly what he’d always dreamed of doing.
“You’re mighty perky for this time of the morning too,” Millie teased. “It couldn’t have something to do with a charming young British chap, could it?”
“Your accent is terrible.” Henry rolled his eyes. “Please stop before you hurt yourself.”
“Oh, and all of a sudden, you’re the expert? Have we been spending even more time with him than I thought?”
Henry decided to say nothing, and accepted his mug of coffee with tons of sugar and a good inch of cream with a silent nod of thanks that Millie knew him so well. She started to poke through the trays, taking a look at the different shapes and colors he’d picked when baking through the early hours.
“What are these?” Millie said, pausing at the trays of sandwiched cookies. “They’re cute.”
“Um, jammie dodgers,” Henry said, feeling his face heat. To distract himself, he pulled the elastic band from around his wrist and scraped his hair back into a tight nub. He’d pulled it out for a few minutes when his scalp had started to ache, but he needed to finish the rest of his morning trays. He secured it with the band and appreciated the cool waft of air across the back of his sweaty neck.
“Jammie what?” Millie snorted.
“Dodgers. Jammie dodgers.”
“What does that even mean?”
“I don’t know,” Henry admitted with a shrug, and sipped his coffee. “I found the recipe online and thought I’d give it a go.”
“You know,” Millie said slyly, “Jammie dodgers sound suspiciously British to me.”
She said “British” like it was some sort of tricky sex position, and gave him a tongue-in-cheek grin.
“They might be,” he said. He tried to sound casual. It almost worked.
Millie snorted. “You’re so obvious. Don’t try to pretend you’re not into Tristan. He’s been in here nearly every day this week, and I see your face. The NASA astronauts probably see your face from wherever they’re hovering.”
“Shut it. I like him,” Henry said. “I don’t care what anyone thinks, really. He’s sweet and nice and fun.”
“Is that it? I’m sure his dreamy accent and big blue eyes and gorgeously toned shoulders don’t have anything to do with it. Zero.”
“We’re just hanging out,” Henry said and dumped his near-empty coffee mug in the sink to cover the fact that just the thought of Tristan and the hours of kisses made Henry blush. “Can you get to loading that last rack into the display case, please? We’re opening in fifteen minutes.”
It was a clear dismissal, and Millie took it with good grace, grinning at him before wheeling the tall cooling rack into the main part of the bakery with a bit of a sassy trot. Henry figured he’d be hearing from her again before the morning was over. Especially if he got a visitor later. Which he hoped he would.
TRISTAN WAS on his lunch break when his phone buzzed with a message. He dumped the messy club sandwich back in its paper wrapper and went to wipe his hands on his trousers, then thought better of it, taking a napkin instead and unlocking the phone.
Made you something special today.
From Henry. He felt bad that he hadn’t stopped by on his way to work that morning, but he had fallen back into bed when he got home, overslept, and was running very, very late. And he’d even texted to say why he couldn’t make it, so there was that. Tristan grinned to himself and wondered if it was too early in their relationship to text back with something dirty. Probably. They’d still mostly stuck to snogging and a little bit of grabby hands. Not exactly dirty text territory yet.
Oh?
It seemed innocent enough. Tristan resumed eating his sandwich and waited for the next message. It came only moments later.
You’ll have to stop by the shop to see for yourself. Too bad you weren’t here this morning.
Tristan grinned.
I already said sorry that I missed my alarm. I’ll stop by later. I’m leaving work early anyway. xx
THEY HAD been texting most days since their first date at Henry’s place, and they’d managed to see each other during the day if Tristan stopped by the bakery, and at night a couple of times too. Because of Henry’s odd schedule, working from early in the morning to midafternoon, napping, then getting up again in the evenings for a few hours before he went back to bed, it was sometimes difficult to arrange a good time for them both to be together, but they’d managed.
Tristan had started passing out at Henry’s flat, then dragging himself to his own place for a few hours before getting up early so he could take the long route to the subway station. If that meant he just happened to pass Honeyfly on the way, well, that was a nice coincidence, wasn’t it? He knew Henry wasn’t sleeping nearly as much as he used to so he could hang out with Tristan at night. So both of them were missing a little sleep. Not exactly a problem. As far as he was concerned, it was so very worth it.
Work was still tense and pressured and stressful, but that was advertising, and Tristan’s experience from working at the London office meant he was used to dealing with the day-to-day highs and lows, as long as everyone behaved themselves and tried not to act like flaming arseholes—especially Jordan. The perfume ad had been launched with a few test audiences, and the feedback from Charity Parker’s marketing team had been good; they had already agreed to let Blanchard and Starr lead their next campaign. It had meant a small but not insignificant bonus for Tristan, who had squirreled the money away in his savings. New York was expensive. Never knew when he’d need it.
THAT EVENING, as he was walking home, Tristan got out at the subway station and took a deep breath of the marginally less stuffy air. The early fall in New York turned the air into something thick and cloying after a few days of reprieve, like the atmosphere was something solid he had to fight through. It was nothing like the light, windy Septembers he knew from back home. Even on the warmest days in Yorkshire, there was still a bit of a chill in the air. The warm, heavy humidity was killing him.
Maybe he needed a trip out to the coast, stay for a day or two on the beach and sleep in a bed-and-breakfast. He wondered if there was any way Henry could take time off from the bakery. The thought of Henry in a fluffy bed in a cabin on the beach, sleeping in…. Tristan decided he’d better not continue his train of thought in public. Still, it was a thought. A thought he had a lot. Maybe after he and Henry knew each other a little better. Sadly, even sexy Henry couldn’t completely distract him from his discomfort.
Ugh. Hot.
As he walked up the block to the bakery, Tristan he
ld his shirt away from his back and hoped he didn’t have sweat patches. Nothing like sweaty pits to turn a guy on. Sometimes he wondered why Henry gave him the time of day.
At this time in the evening, the crowd in the Village was different to the early morning crowd; still busy, still expensive, but a little more chill. People had crowded the restaurant patios for after-work drinks; it was far too early for fashionable dinner. They chatted under umbrellas, trees, and designer sunglasses, looking like they’d been born to sit on those corners and talk about things Tristan wasn’t quite cool enough to understand. He wondered if he’d ever feel like he fit in.
When Tristan pushed open the door to Honeyfly, there was only one other couple ahead of him in line, a pair of lovely young university-aged girls who snuggled close together as they waited for their order to be filled.
While he waited, Tristan looked around. There wasn’t nearly the amount of pastries as the bakery typically had earlier in the day, piled in bright-colored pyramids and shoved merrily onto the trays. The display was quite a bit sparser, and what was left looked a little more… sophisticated? Instead of row upon row of brightly colored sugar cookies, cinnamon rolls, and cupcakes, the display case was filled with macarons, chocolate-covered bars, delicate pastries, and evening desserts rather than breakfast and lunchtime treats. Tristan wasn’t a businessman, probably never would be, but he noticed things, and decided Henry was really very clever. He obviously changed things up during the day, and kept people coming in his doors from early morning to late in the afternoon.
“Hi,” a woman said with a sunny grin, beckoning him forward. Millie, he thought. He’d met her the day of the birthday party and once or twice after, but he’d been so nervous about being near Henry that he’d barely remembered his own name, let alone another face or name. The bell over the door chimed as the girls left with their bag of treats, fingers twined together and giggling. “Welcome to Honeyfly. What can I get you?”
“Uh,” Tristan stuttered. “Henry?”
The woman laughed. “I’m not sure he’s on our menu, sweetie.”
“Sorry,” Tristan said, flushing hard. “I’m Tristan. Henry said to stop by.”
“I know. Hi, Tristan,” the woman drawled. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Henry just likes to hide you away when you come in. I’m Millie, but I’ll go get him.”
She ducked into the kitchen, and Tristan kicked one of his feet against the other, muttering “stupid, stupid, stupid” under his breath.
“Tristan?”
He looked up and saw Henry watching him.
Stupid.
“Hi,” he said with an awkward wave. Then dropped his hand, feeling even stupider.
“Did you see?”
“See what?”
Henry came around the side of the counter and directed Tristan in front of the case, pointing out the tray underneath a gold sign that read “Special.”
“Are those….”
“Jammie dodgers? Yeah. I found the recipe online.”
Henry looked so adorably pleased with himself Tristan couldn’t help but laugh. On impulse, he turned and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Henry’s cheek.
“That’s amazing,” he said softly. “I haven’t seen these since I left the UK.”
“You wanna try some? I’ve never made them before, so I have no idea how close to the original I got, but they’ve been flying off the shelves. This is my third batch today.” Henry leaned over and whispered. “I think people just like to say the name.”
Tristan giggled. “Wow. And yes, please. I’d love to.”
As Henry ducked back behind the counter, Tristan dug in his pocket for some change, but Henry waved it away when he tried to pay.
“It’s a thank-you,” he said as he handed over the cookies in a paper bag. “For the inspiration.”
HENRY WATCHED in rapt interest as Tristan pulled the cookie out of the bag and took a hearty bite. He chewed thoughtfully for a minute.
“It’s really good,” he said after swallowing. “The ones we get at home are a bit chewier, but these are nicer. They’re like posh jammie dodgers.”
Henry laughed. “I can live with that high praise.” He rolled his shoulders and smiled—Tristan was examining the cookie like it was about to bite him back. “Have you had dinner yet?”
“No. I was just going to get a takeaway on the way home.”
“I’ve already eaten, but I can direct you to some good places if you like?”
“Yeah.” Tristan smiled. “That sounds good.”
“Okay. Let me lock up.”
The kitchen was already clean and Henry had gotten a head start prepping for the next day, so he didn’t feel too bad about closing up a bit earlier than usual. Millie gave him a very knowing look as he crossed through the kitchen and started to bolt the door, checking that all the fridges were on and the ovens off.
“He’s sweet,” she told him with a grin, hoisting her huge purse up into her elbow. “I like him.”
“Yeah. I’m going to close up now.” Henry felt his cheeks heat. He really wanted to avoid the boyfriend talk with Millie. Or anyone.
“Henry.” Millie stopped him with a hand on his arm, and he startled, then looked at her. Really looked at her. “I don’t want to complain, because God knows I’m grateful to have a job right now. But I’ve worked eleven hours today on my feet, and I’m exhausted. Can you please, please get me some help?”
Oh. That. To be honest, he’d take the boyfriend talk back. Guilt gnawed at Henry’s stomach and he felt like a complete and utter asshole. He really, really had meant to deal with it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course. I’m so sorry. I’ll get something worked out tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Millie said, and gave him a grateful smile. She left, ducking into the dark street, and he contemplated the shadowy circles under his friend’s eyes, the tired hunch of her shoulders, and felt awful.
“Is she your friend?” Tristan asked as Henry turned the sign on the door to “closed” and they paused on the street outside to allow Henry time to lock up.
Henry hummed in agreement and steered Tristan down the street by his elbow. After a few paces, he dropped the hold, unsure of how comfortable Tristan was with public displays of affection.
“Millie has been working with me pretty much since I opened,” he said as they walked up Bleecker. “She’s amazing at all of the stuff I’m terrible at—promotions and interacting with customers and getting people to keep coming back. Oh, and upselling. She’s great at talking extra pastries into peoples’ bags.” He took a big breath and let it out messily. “We need more help. I’m working the poor girl to the bone.”
“Well, I suppose it’s good that you’re busy.”
“Oh yeah,” Henry agreed. “It’s amazing. I love being busy. But it’s getting really hectic, and she’s my only front-of-house person at the moment.” Henry felt a hand on his arm.
“Hey. Where are you taking me?” Tristan asked with a laugh as they turned once again.
“You said you like Chinese food,” Henry said. “So I’m taking you to the best place outside China to get some. At least, according to me.”
“Is that so?”
Henry thought he could live off the small smile on Tristan’s face—it gave him energy. And he was pretty sure Tristan wouldn’t know this takeout place. It was one of New York’s gems; hidden away on the second floor, you needed to know which doorway to duck into and trudge up an incredibly steep flight of stairs, carefully avoiding where the carpet tiles peeled up from the floor. The treacherous journey was worth it. It was the most beautifully prepared Chinese food Henry had ever tasted, hidden behind cheesy plastic plants, peeling paint, and old linoleum.
“I feel like I’m heading for a drug deal,” Tristan hissed. “Not getting my tea.”
“Your tea?” Henry asked teasingly.
“Dinner.” Tristan rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
Grinning, Henry pressed his palm flat against Tristan
’s lower back and guided him through to the small, pale pink waiting room. There were three huge boards on the wall, white with red writing that clashed with the pink décor.
“So, what’s good?” Tristan asked as they waited in line behind a group of college kids and a bedraggled-looking man in a pinstripe suit.
“Everything,” Henry said emphatically. But he talked Tristan through the menu, pointing out his own favorite dishes.
The woman who took their order, translating it onto a scrap of paper in spidery hanzi, wore her blue-black hair scraped back from her face in a severe bun, with an oversized Carrie Underwood T-shirt and a pair of hot pink Crocs. They waited next to an unnaturally green plastic potted plant, and Henry smiled to himself at the familiar way Tristan groped his ass absentmindedly. It didn’t take long for their order to be called, and Tristan seemed surprised at the size of the huge white bag that was handed over.
They walked slowly back through the Village to Tristan’s place. He felt like a total sap, but Henry wished Tristan lived further away so they could drag out the walk home together.
“Are you sure you won’t come in? I’ve got enough for us both. Maybe Millie too.” He made a show of hefting the huge bag.
“Maybe another time,” Henry said. He looked up at Tristan’s building and smiled. Dinner had been way too short, but he was about to pass out. “I need to get some sleep tonight, and I’ve got a feeling if I come up, sleeping won’t be on the agenda.”
He loved watching Tristan’s creamy-pale cheeks flush with color, and leaned in to press his lips to one.
“Another time, then,” Tristan said. Henry nodded. “When will I see you again?” he asked in a rush.
“Whenever you like.” Henry wanted to see Tristan all the time. If he weren’t dead on his feet, he’d have jumped at the offer of dinner.
“I’m free on Sunday.”
On Sundays, Henry often got summoned to brunch or cocktails with his parents. He declined more often than he accepted—it really wasn’t his scene—but there was always the possibility they would just send a car and expect him to show up.