“I don’t think I could afford you. A night like that’s got to run at least ten grand, right?”
“Ooh, I get to start as a high-class hooker. No working my way up.”
Henry chuckled, and another minute of silence fell over them. Their breathing settled, regulated. Henry gripped Tristan’s hand, twined their fingers together. Then he twisted his head around to glance a kiss off Tristan’s lips. “So, we should probably hit the showers.”
“You don’tlikelaying here soaked in sweat and semen? My God, what am I going to do with you when pride rolls around? That’s my favorite part.”
“Well, I don’t know about pride, but maybe if we make it down to a White Party. Special occasion and all.” He shifted, then sat up, bringing Tristan with him. “But I think the shower is a good idea tonight.” He finally let Tristan go to get up and walked away, swaying his hips exaggeratedly, swinging his pert, tanned ass from side to side. “I’ll even let you watch.”
Tristan rose. The beast within was sated, for the moment, and it left room for a hot, bubbling joy to fill the empty space, unfettered by his worries. “You know I’m going to be walking funny tomorrow, right?”
“That means I did my job. And if anyone asks, you tell them you obviously had way better sex than they did last night.” Henry held out his arm, and Tristan walked up, let him drape it around his shoulders as they headed toward the bathroom. “And thanks. For letting me. I hope you weren’t feeling pressured.”
“Oh, I absolutely was. By my dick. It really, really,reallywanted you.” Tristan stopped Henry and kissed him right on his hard chest, next to his nipple. “You saying you wanted me was the excuse I needed.”
Henry laughed loud and hard, and it echoed in the bathroom. It was a sound of such pure joy that Tristan couldn’t help joining in.
Henry’s upper arm ached—half his body ached after last night’s romp—but his choux pastry wasalmostsmooth. Choux was cooked once on the stovetop before being baked, and letting it sit in the pan would cook the damn thing too far and ruin the batch. So he stood there, beating at it with a wooden spoon and willing it to finish.Why is it that everything I make for a living is a pain in the ass?And he had to do three preparations: éclairs, gougères, and a full, proper croquembouche. A two-foot-tall croquembouche, minimum.
Nothing about the making of the components in these recipes was exceptionally challenging, which was a godsend in some ways. Buteverythingwas finicky in some way or another, and when every component was finicky, that stacked. The pâte à choux had to have their tips moistened and molded back into shape before baking, each individually. And that was a lot when you had to make eighty-plus cream puffs, two dozen éclairs, and three dozen gougères. The caramel had to be kept at the right temperature to work with for the croquembouche, and that meant dipping shit by hand into nearly 350-degree molten sugar, while keeping it fromactuallycrossing the 350-degree mark.
Finicky shit everywhere. Henry sighed and set his dough down. It was finally together, and he let his arm rest. On a normal day, he could do choux pastry without issue. But he’d already made four batches that morning, and had many more on the horizon.
With only four people left cooking, itshouldhave been pretty quiet. But making pâte à choux was not a quiet process, no matter how gentle your intentions. It involved beating thecrapout of your dough. At least it did if you wanted it to be light and airy and crisp like it should be.
Tristan finally backed off from his own bowl and turned around. “I hope I never see another cream puff again in my life. I haven’t even made them yet, but IguaranteeI’m going to hate them after my fourth croquembouche of the week.”
“You ever made one before?”
“I work weddings. So yeah.” He rolled his eyes, then slipped off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “There was a while there where every other bride wanted a croquembouche instead of a wedding cake, since it wassooriginal and she hadn’t seen one before. Meanwhile I’d just made a dozen.”
“Ouch. I’m surprised you still have fingerprints left.”
“I’m not sure I do. Haven’t been arrested yet.” He put his glasses back on and blew out a long breath, puffing his cheeks in the process. “And we have to work with everything fresh this time, so that’s even worse. With catering, I can make some of this stuff ahead of time.”
“Yeah, making stuff in advance must be nice. I once decided it was agreatidea to celebrate National Cream Puff Day. Cream puffs for fifty cents apiece as a loss leader. I had to make a thousand. Athousand.It was a nightmare, and I had to do it all on the day.”
“Why would you ever do that to yourself?”
“Business decision.” Henry groaned thinking about that particular circle of hell he’d conceived for himself. “It was a great sale. Made my quarter. Sure, I had to surgically remove the piping bag from my hand, but Iguessit was worth it.” It had also been a hell of a distraction after Lance had dumped him, though he didn’t bring that part up. No use dredging up the past with his... with Tristan.
Tristan laughed, shaking his head. “And whenexactlyis National Cream Puff Day?”
“January second. A day that will live in infamy.” Ithadbeen an excellent way to get him in the black, he had to admit, but not good enough that he was going to consider it again. At least not with a thousand... maybe five hundred. Five hundred would be doable...Don’t go down that road. Circle of hell.“But you’ll recover. I did. Still love cream puffs and profiteroles and all that stuff.” He stared at his choux pastry and sighed. “I actually really love a good croquembouche, when I don’t have to assemble the fucking thing in five hours. Especially when I don’t have to make it at all.”
“Those aredefinitelythe best croquembouches.” Tristan stretched his arms up high and groaned. “God, I’m fucking sore today.”
“Is that a surprise?”
“A little.” Tristan turned back around too quickly. Henry’d said the wrong thing again, apparently—had pushed too far into suggestion in front of the wrong people.I still can’t navigate the minefield.All he wanted was to be open. He wanted to talk to Tristan like a normal human being, but even after they’d had sex, he kept stumbling and getting shut down out of nowhere.
Henry sighed, then picked up his dough again. The arm-burning part was over. Now it was time for finger shredding. He loaded his dough into the pastry bag—not a clean process, but much, much better than royal icing or buttercream—then started to pipe his dough into tiny... well, blobs. He had circular templates on the silicone sheet for macarons, but with these he didn’t need to be quite as precise. No matter how lovely and round the dough he piped, they wouldn’t stay that way once they baked and rose. As long as they were the samesizeand not in any particularly weird shapes, he’d be golden. They were all going to be dunked in hardened sugar and stacked up, anyway.
Tristan was loading up a pastry bag himself. His dough was slightly darker and yellower, but the same consistency. Probably had more eggs and some other amazing, unthinkable flavor to go with his crème pat.
Henry’s eyes fixated on his ass. It was agreatass. Or those were particularly great, tight khakis. Or he was wearing them higher so they hugged the curves better than usual.Or I’m seriously infatuated. That seems most likely.
He had reason to be. Tristan was nice and understanding and devoted. Sure, he was hot too. Yeah. Lots of guys were hot. In fact, most of the guys Henry slept with were hot. But hot didn’t mean near as much as how Tristan called his sister every day, or let her stay at his apartment to get away from some asshole husband. Hot didn’t count for anything next to his utter devotion to his craft. Hot wasn’t a damn thing compared to how far Tristan stepped out of his own comfort zone for Henry. Time and again. He gave up his solitude. He went to the store and bought the condoms. He showed off his scars even though they’d sent guys running in the past. He... he really did a lot.
