Read Online Macarons at Midnight by M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin - Free Book Online Page A

good friends who I went to culinary school with. I’m a little older than them. They all went right after high school, and I wasted four years at college first. I think you’d like them. Great people. They all love food.”
    Tristan chuckled. He liked the idea that Henry wanted to introduce him to his mates. “I’d love to meet them,” he said.
    They were quiet a little longer, letting the navigator perched on the dashboard lead them through block after block of tall, looming buildings, a mix of brick and stone and glass. Finally, the rather intimidating voice informed them their destination was on the right. Tristan gawked at the huge stone townhouse. They pulled around back to the alley entrance where Henry said Poppy had instructed him to go.
    “Seriously? This is where she lives?”
    Henry sighed. “Seriously.” He looked like he was psyching himself up to go inside. Tristan couldn’t blame him. “We’re dropping the macarons off, doing a little setup, grabbing a check, then leaving. Our mission, if you choose to accept it, is to get out of here as quickly as possible.”
    Tristan looked at the resignation on Henry’s expressive face. “Why do I have the feeling that’s not going to happen?”
    “Because it usually doesn’t. We’re going to make it happen, though.” In their short-lived time together, Tristan hadn’t seen Henry look so determined. He must really not like his sister’s friend.
    “Mission accepted,” he replied with a serious face. At least he made Henry smile.
    “I like you,” Henry said. “I’m glad you’re with me.”
    He reached out and brushed gentle fingers along the top of Tristan’s wrist. The touch seemed tentative, as if he weren’t certain how it would be received. Tristan wanted to tell him to touch more, touch as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted. It probably wasn’t the time for that. If Tristan had his way, they’d already be kissing. Probably not something Henry wanted to do right in front of one of his clients’ houses.
    “I am too,” he decided to say. Talking was better than doing what he wanted to do. At least at the moment. And he was telling the truth. His short time with Henry was the best Tristan’d had since he moved away from London. By far.
     
     
    T HERE REALLY were no adequate words to describe the inside of Poppy St. Clair’s townhouse. Tristan, who described things for a living, had nothing. It was the stuffiest, most elegant, most beautifully unwelcoming place he’d ever been, and one of his uni friends had been ridiculously well-off and had taken Tristan to meet his parents in their massive Belgravia mansion. Even that house had nothing on the museum-level decor in the St. Clair townhouse.
    They’d been ushered into the back hall with their boxes of macarons by this whirling dervish in a bright pink dress and matching sweater and heels. It was a lot of pink and perfume and hair. Lots of hair. Tall, puffy hair. The woman, probably Poppy, had grinned. Her smile had been more calculating than welcoming, toothy judgment hidden under a peeling veneer of restrained graciousness. Tristan didn’t like her. He understood why Henry wanted to get out as soon as possible.
    “Hello, sugar,” she’d said to Henry. Her smile had turned warm and gooey when she’d looked Henry up and down in his smart, body-hugging jeans and that blue shirt that did amazing things for his dark eyes and hair. Tristan wasn’t stupid. He knew why she smiled the way she did. Then she’d taken a long look at Tristan as well, her smile growing, if anything. “And who do we have here?” she asked. “I’m Poppy.”
    “Um, hullo. Tristan.” He stuck out his hand, unsure if he were even allowed to touch the likes of Miss Poppy. “I’ve lent Henry a hand for the evening.”
    She took his hand and shook it daintily. “Well, aren’t you too cute! We have a boy who sounds just like you on the derby circuit. His father raises some beautiful steeplechasers. I do