Read Online Macarons at Midnight by M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M.J. O'Shea & Anna Martin
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love an English accent.”
Tristan wanted to run away already. She’d been nothing but polite, more than, but he was unnerved by her perfect, gigantic hair and flawless dress and clickity-click heels. He got the sense that if he turned away from her long enough, she might take the opportunity to bite his head off like some sort of praying mantis. He saw Henry watching both of them closely.
“Well, come, darlings, I have a place ready to set up the macarons.” She opened one of the boxes and giggled, pressing her fingers to her collarbone. “Well, those are bright.”
“Just like you asked for,” Henry said. He had a tiny bit of steel in his voice underneath the politeness. Probably reminding her he’d done exactly what she wanted, and bitching would not be appreciated.
“That I did. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. Follow me.”
They followed, as commanded, in silence, through to an elaborately decorated living room at the front of the huge house. The overwhelming color was white. White everything, in varying shades and textures: pale pinkish white on the walls, champagne-colored carpets all over the floors, opulent, ornate, satiny white furniture. An explosion of sophisticated blankness that didn’t exactly suggest this magazine-ready house was as homely place for a teenager.
For the party, the white had been overlaid with kitschy bunting in different fabrics, garish colors that matched the biscuits they’d been up all night making―well, Henry had, at least. The centerpiece of the room was a huge round table where piles of gifts, all elegantly wrapped, bordered the space Tristan guessed would be for the macarons.
“Can you set up here?” Poppy asked, gesturing to the table.
Henry nodded. “No problem.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave you to do what you do, if that’s okay. Plenty still to organize!”
She shot them a sunny if slightly terrifying grin before clipping away through the house.
“I’m scared to breathe,” Tristan said in a low voice, leaning into Henry. “I might get something dirty.”
Henry snorted and took Tristan’s arm, leading him back outside to the van.
“Wait till the kids arrive. Then it’ll be even worse.”
“How can it be worse than all that white ?”
“Girls. Screeching girls.” Henry made a face.
Tristan shuddered. “I’d like to avoid the screaming teenage females if at all possible.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” Henry winked.
It was a throwaway comment, but Tristan grinned to himself, stupidly happy to be there, even if it did mean interacting with a level of society he never thought he’d be exposed to, never even wanted to be exposed to. Really, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really thought about how these sorts of people existed. Yorkshire and the common, normal folk he knew seemed a really, really long way away.
They carried the pastry boxes from the van into the house stacked up in their arms, and Tristan started piling his on the floor while Henry got to arranging. It didn’t take too long to unload the van, and once they were finished, Tristan wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He went out to the alley, locked the van up using the keys Henry had given him, then ambled slowly back through the big house, trying not to look too much like a country bumpkin who had wandered in off the street and didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. That much was certain.
“How’s it going?” Tristan asked when he returned to the room of mind-numbing whiteness.
Henry was piling macarons onto stands in the middle of the table, all two hundred of them. The Honeyfly Bakery boxes were rapidly emptying—it seemed Henry worked quickly. If anything, the super-bright macarons helped the room, made it look more like somewhere actual humans would be welcome. Tristan was tempted to filch a few of them for the ride home. The black licorice. And passion fruit. He’d really liked that one as well. He could almost taste them, plump and crunchy in his
Tristan wanted to run away already. She’d been nothing but polite, more than, but he was unnerved by her perfect, gigantic hair and flawless dress and clickity-click heels. He got the sense that if he turned away from her long enough, she might take the opportunity to bite his head off like some sort of praying mantis. He saw Henry watching both of them closely.
“Well, come, darlings, I have a place ready to set up the macarons.” She opened one of the boxes and giggled, pressing her fingers to her collarbone. “Well, those are bright.”
“Just like you asked for,” Henry said. He had a tiny bit of steel in his voice underneath the politeness. Probably reminding her he’d done exactly what she wanted, and bitching would not be appreciated.
“That I did. I’m sure they’ll be wonderful. Follow me.”
They followed, as commanded, in silence, through to an elaborately decorated living room at the front of the huge house. The overwhelming color was white. White everything, in varying shades and textures: pale pinkish white on the walls, champagne-colored carpets all over the floors, opulent, ornate, satiny white furniture. An explosion of sophisticated blankness that didn’t exactly suggest this magazine-ready house was as homely place for a teenager.
For the party, the white had been overlaid with kitschy bunting in different fabrics, garish colors that matched the biscuits they’d been up all night making―well, Henry had, at least. The centerpiece of the room was a huge round table where piles of gifts, all elegantly wrapped, bordered the space Tristan guessed would be for the macarons.
“Can you set up here?” Poppy asked, gesturing to the table.
Henry nodded. “No problem.”
“Excellent. I’ll leave you to do what you do, if that’s okay. Plenty still to organize!”
She shot them a sunny if slightly terrifying grin before clipping away through the house.
“I’m scared to breathe,” Tristan said in a low voice, leaning into Henry. “I might get something dirty.”
Henry snorted and took Tristan’s arm, leading him back outside to the van.
“Wait till the kids arrive. Then it’ll be even worse.”
“How can it be worse than all that white ?”
“Girls. Screeching girls.” Henry made a face.
Tristan shuddered. “I’d like to avoid the screaming teenage females if at all possible.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.” Henry winked.
It was a throwaway comment, but Tristan grinned to himself, stupidly happy to be there, even if it did mean interacting with a level of society he never thought he’d be exposed to, never even wanted to be exposed to. Really, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really thought about how these sorts of people existed. Yorkshire and the common, normal folk he knew seemed a really, really long way away.
They carried the pastry boxes from the van into the house stacked up in their arms, and Tristan started piling his on the floor while Henry got to arranging. It didn’t take too long to unload the van, and once they were finished, Tristan wasn’t really sure what to do with himself. He went out to the alley, locked the van up using the keys Henry had given him, then ambled slowly back through the big house, trying not to look too much like a country bumpkin who had wandered in off the street and didn’t belong. He didn’t belong. That much was certain.
“How’s it going?” Tristan asked when he returned to the room of mind-numbing whiteness.
Henry was piling macarons onto stands in the middle of the table, all two hundred of them. The Honeyfly Bakery boxes were rapidly emptying—it seemed Henry worked quickly. If anything, the super-bright macarons helped the room, made it look more like somewhere actual humans would be welcome. Tristan was tempted to filch a few of them for the ride home. The black licorice. And passion fruit. He’d really liked that one as well. He could almost taste them, plump and crunchy in his
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