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

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.
     
     
    T RISTAN 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
     
     
    T HEY HAD been texting most days since their first date at Henry’s place,