Definitely, Maybe in Love (8 page)

Chapter 11

Julia and Dart awoke at the crack of dawn to put the turkey in the oven. After that, they headed out for a drive up the coast, leaving the other remaining, and still sleeping, members of the household to tackle the rest of the Thanksgiving dinner preparations.

One by one, each of us staggered into the kitchen. Lilah baked two pies the night before and was now attempting “homemade” cranberry sauce (out of a jar). I volunteered for rolls, vegetables and other non-meat menu items. Knightly sat in a kitchen chair eating a bowl of cereal. He didn’t look up once, focused on his iPad.

“Will you taste my filling?” Lilah asked him. Her mildly disguised double entendre was not lost on me. Clueless to the lewd request, Knightly gestured with his spoon that his mouth was full.

I smiled down at the bread dough I was kneading.

Undaunted, Lilah continued variations upon her request until she was summoned to her phone, leaving the kitchen. She hadn’t said one word to me.

With empty cereal bowl in hand, Knightly stood up from the table and walked to the sink. He rinsed his bowl and put it in the dishwasher. He wore long black shorts and a green T-shirt with some faded and unintelligible navy blue wording across the front. Italian, probably. I think he was about to go for a run.

“Well,” he said, wiping his hands on a bar towel, “it looks like you’ve got everything under control here. So”—he backed up toward the door—“I’ll let you—”

“Um, nooo.” I lifted my hands to show that I was up to my elbows in flour. “You’re not planning on leaving everything to the womenfolk, are you?”

He tossed his iPad on a chair by the door then came to my side. “What is that?”

“Bread dough. There’s nothing to it.”

“Do you want…help?”

“Are your hands clean?”

He looked down at his hands and nodded.

With one finger, I scooted the dough in front of him. “Show me your skills.”

His gaze held on me, assessing my challenge. After a moment, he took the dough and sat down, while I walked to the sink to scrub my hands. He was elbow-deep by the time I returned.

“You don’t bake, do you?” I guessed.

“Not unless I have to. This is a workout. Could you grab me something from the fridge?”

“A little early for a beer, don’t you think?” I said as I pulled the refrigerator open, about to reach behind the half-empty takeout cartons from last night, expecting to find rows and rows of dark bottles. I was surprised to find absolutely no alcoholic beverages whatsoever. How very
un
-collegiate.

“No beer,” Henry said. “My paternal grandfather died of cirrhosis of the liver when he was forty-five.” His chin was tucked, kneading away. “I’ve never had a drink in my life.”

I stared at him for a moment. What a thing to admit. And he seemed almost proud of it. Well, not that being a teetotaler was something shameful. In fact, I couldn’t help wishing my own father had followed that particular practice when he was in his twenties, instead of boozing it up and leaving my mother home with three kids. Five years sober or no five years sober, I still hadn’t forgiven him for choosing alcohol over his family all those years ago.

“You weren’t drinking at the party?” I asked, remembering perfectly that he’d been holding a red Solo cup.

“No,” he said. “I knew I had to keep my wits about me that night. I heard there were snakes.”

I snorted under my breath. “You’re killing me.”

“I’ll take a water, though,” he said, “if you can manage.”

“I can manage.” I slid a bottle from the door shelf.

“Yeah, thanks,” he said, preoccupied, as I set it in front of him. With no luck, he was trying to scratch his cheek with his shoulder. I was familiar with Murphy’s Law in the kitchen: the moment your hands are incapacitated, every inch of your face—and other various body parts—inevitability begins to itch.

“Could I get a little help here?” he requested, his voice pinched.

I sat down across the table from him and rocked my chair back on two legs.

He let loose a rough exhale of frustration then rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving behind a flour smudge.

“Sweetie, you got a little something”—I pointed at my own cheek—“right there.”

Henry stopped kneading to return my smile, only his was much more menacing than mine. I examined my nails. A moment later, something small and sticky hit my face.

I blinked, glanced up and dabbed at my cheek. “
Et tu, Brute
?”

His sinister smile grew as he flicked his fingers like a whip toward me, sending more chunks of dough in my direction. Most of them landed short.

“Aww, you missed,” I said as my chair legs dropped down on all fours. I leaned forward, elbows bracing my weight. Henry followed suit, his floury palms flat on the table, angling toward me. His gaze flicked to something to the side of him then back at me. His smile widened.

That’s when I noticed the open bag of flour on the table, closer to him than to me. Without needing to turn around, I knew that behind me on the counter sat sugar, salt, pepper, oatmeal, baking soda, bread crumbs, and other substances of the grating, powdery, confectionary persuasion.

Two seconds later, our respective chairs flew out from behind us. Five seconds later, like an explosion of snowy dynamite, flour was everywhere.

He stepped right, I stepped left. And so we danced…

After a particularly dastardly pitch of cornstarch on my part, Henry blinked and coughed, shaking his head, white dust falling from his dark hair, catching in the curls.

He went on the offense.

I staggered back, temporarily blinded, clutching the edge of the counter so my feet wouldn’t slide out from under me. It was hard to breathe with cocoa powder up my nose, and I sputtered a laugh, making myself choke. When I regained focus, Henry was at the sink, filling a tall glass under the faucet.

“Whah-ha-ha-ha,” he taunted over his shoulder.

“Dry ingredients only.
Dry
.”

“I don’t remember hearing rules.” He shut off the tap when the water reached the top rim.

I backed away, hanging onto the counter. Henry was blocking the only suitable exit out to the backyard. I was trapped. The hair on my arms stood on end when he took a single step forward, full glass in hand, aimed right at me.

“You wouldn’t
dare
!” I rasped, slipping and sliding in retreat.

He dipped his fingers in the glass and flicked. Large drops of water soaked into the front of my T-shirt.

I was desperate for a weapon, any weapon. That’s when I spied Lilah’s bowl of bright red cranberry sauce sitting on the corner of the table, just begging to be tagged into the ring. Henry’s eyes went wide as I slid it off the smooth surface and into the palm of my hand, my arm cocked like a baseball pitcher.

“Put that down,” he ordered.

I pointed my chin at him. “You first.”

“Not a chance.” His grin made my arms prickle again.

Additional verbal and nonverbal threats were issued. Promises of everlasting revenge were pledged, but neither of us lowered our weapons.

“One inch closer,” I cautioned, eyeing his shirt, “and it’s bye-bye to that Armani Exchange you’re wearing.”

“I have another.” He was about to flick more water at me, when suddenly, while stepping on an exceptionally puffy mound of flour mixture, he lost his footing. Thanks to this brief distraction, I made my move, lunging forward, sword unsheathed.

With me two seconds ahead, he whipped around, pitching the water in my direction. It only tagged my shoulder. I ducked and bobbed behind him with just enough time to dump the entire bowl of slimy cranberries over his head.

And then, with my arm still in the air, I froze. Surprised, maybe, at my easy triumph.

That was my mistake.

With a yelp, I whirled around, making a beeline toward the patio door. But I was a breath too late.

Henry yanked the back of my shirt, then caught my wrist. “Not so fast, Honeycutt.”

By one arm, I was pulled back and spun around, my feet sliding across the slippery floor. I could see the whites of his eyes and teeth beneath the red jelly oozing down his face. I wriggled and squirmed against his clutches while he smiled fiendishly, dragging me toward the sink.

Flour and water coupled with the white V-neck and blue-striped bra I was sporting was
not
the impression I wanted to leave on Thanksgiving morning.

“Stop!” I squeaked, struggling to break his grip.

“Nope.” He stopped dragging me long enough to seize my other wrist, holding me securely by both hands.

“Let’s call it a draw,” I offered. “We’re even, okay?”

“I’m about to
make
it even,” he said, his voice low. When I tried to squirm away, he let go of my wrists long enough to slide his hands up my arms and take hold of my shoulders. I couldn’t help thinking that in a parallel universe, it might look like we were about to embrace.

This thought slowed me down, though I did try once more to pull free, pretty halfheartedly. I felt strange, a little lightheaded, as I looked at his face through my flour-caked lashes. His hands were strong and warm around my skin. Capable.

The next thing I knew, my feet were sliding again. This time, however, Henry wasn’t pulling me to the sink, he was pulling me to him.

He wasn’t smiling anymore. Neither was I. His intense gaze slid to my mouth, and just as my eyes were drifting down his face in a similar manner, I noticed a tiny drop of cranberry sauce trickling down his nose. Like a thick, crimson tear, it dripped off the end.

I tipped my chin and laughed. “Armistice?” I asked, panting to catch my breath.

When I leveled my chin, Henry was examining me skeptically. “Only if you declare defeat.” Because of his stern expression under all that red goo, another laugh bubbled up my throat. His fingers pressed into my skin, his eyes flashing to the sink.

“You win, you win! No water!” I begged. “Now, unhand me, sir.”

Instead of letting go, he gripped my shoulders, leading me a few steps until my back hit the wall. “Not until you say it,” he whispered. He was close again, closer than before, making me hyperaware of his strong hands, the warmth of his skin, his long fingers curling around my arms.

“Say what?” I asked after a hard swallow.

“Repeat after me: Henry Edward Knightly, the third, is the king of the kitchen.”

“The
third
?” I couldn’t help cackling.

“Say it,” he demanded, his fingers gripping my shoulders, pressing me against the wall. “I don’t know why you’re fighting so hard against it, Spring.” His voice turned eerily calm. “You know what’s coming if you don’t completely obey me. I
will
dunk you, and believe me”—he glanced down at the front of my shirt—“I’ll enjoy every second of it.”

“Okay, okay!” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “Henry Knightly is the king—”

“No,” he cut me off, moving his hands to either side of my neck. “Henry
Edward
Knightly,
the third
.”

I opened my eyes just so I could roll them and mutter something mocking. But his face was nearer than I expected, his hands gentle on my neck, holding me in place. He stared into my eyes, not blinking. We were so close, almost chest to chest, and for a moment, I forgot I was supposed to breathe.

Without another word, he bent his flour-covered face to mine, and I stopped breathing altogether.

When he kissed me, there was an explosion of stars behind my eyes. His body shifted, pressing me hard against the wall, leaving me no choice but to grab on to the curves of his elbows. His hands still held my neck, fingers moving over my skin, his thumbs brushing across my cheeks. I could taste the sugar on his lips, the flour and the sweet tang of cranberries, a delicious combination that made my mouth water. Without realizing it, I parted my lips, needing a deeper taste.

Before I got the chance, it was over.

But I couldn’t move away, didn’t want to open my eyes, needing to remain in the moment when I’d caught a glimpse of what Henry might be. Not the arrogant tutor or the mute Greek statue, but the man who made me laugh, pushed my buttons, had a food fight in his spotless kitchen, and managed to blow my mind in ten seconds flat.

His strong hands were still holding me; I could smell his skin, hear him breathing, still near enough to kiss. My throat ached at the thought, and I felt his heart racing, going faster than mine.

“
Now
we’re even,” he said in a low voice. Then I was released. He stepped back and wiped the back of his wrist across his sauce-covered nose.

“This…this isn’t over,” I managed to say, choosing to totally ignore what had just happened—if he could do it, so could I. I ran my fingers down my braids, attempting to strip away the pasty goop. Somehow, the bright red cranberry sauce covering the top half of his body had transferred to my hair and all down the front of my shirt. My mind went wonky, imagining how that had happened.

“I will have my revenge,” I forced myself to add.

“I’m counting on it.”

When he pulled back a slow grin, the pit of my stomach flooded with heat and I caught myself staring at his cranberry-stained mouth. I needed to get out of there, now, before I did something I would regret.

Henry picked up a hand towel off the counter, wound it, and snapped the end in my direction. “Now step out back,” he said, “so I can hose you off.”

Chapter 12

“What is your answer,
dear
? Everyone’s waiting.”

I shook my head, not at Lilah’s impatience, but at myself. This whole dreadful game had been
my
idea.

“And she can’t skip her turn,” Lilah continued. “That’s not fair to the rest of us.” She sat on the floor across the living room from me, her head propped against the side of the recliner Henry was in. She glared at me blatantly. The miserable cow was out for blood. She would probably never forgive me for ruining her cranberries.

Cranberries
…

My eyes automatically drifted to Henry. He was laughing and saying something to Dart.

“She can skip one turn if she wants,” Julia said, re-explaining the rules of the game. Dart’s arm was draped across her shoulders as they sat in the middle of the couch, their feet entangled around each other’s on the coffee table. “We each get one pass if we choose to use it,” she further clarified. “Are you passing, Springer?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll answer. Give me a second.”

Lilah sighed loudly enough so that everyone looked at her, then rolled her eyes and pulled out her cell. Why didn’t she leave if she was so bored?

Two hours ago, this “game” of ours started out as a combo Truth or Dare, Twenty Questions, and True Colors. In our turn, each of the five of us asked a question—a probing question, a question meant to confront ethical dilemmas, expose insights of the answerer, or challenge particular values. Some were more superficial than others, but they were all meant to be answered analytically.

That was the
idea
anyway. Why hadn’t I suggested Monopoly instead? Or maybe a nice game of Russian Roulette?

Julia’s and Dart’s answers usually had something to do with each other, while Lilah’s were mostly about money or foreign travel. I didn’t mind any of this, because I was interested in only one participant’s answers. Although when a straight-faced Henry claimed that cocoa-covered cranberries were his favorite food, I had the unique experience of choking on my Diet Coke and having to answer, again, Lilah’s question of why her special side dish had disappeared.

“Come on,” Lilah growled, rolling onto her stomach. “It’s not brain surgery.”

“Okay,
60 Minutes
,” I finally offered after way too much thought for such a benign question.

Julia cleared her throat and eyed me.

I exhaled, wishing she didn’t know me so well. “Fine.
True Blood
,” I muttered into my soda can. “I like vampires and
True Blood
is my favorite TV show, okay? I loved it till I hated it.”

“That’s it?” Lilah sneered. “That’s what took you so long?”

“Interesting dichotomies,” Henry said to me. “I loved it till I hated it,” he quoted. “Elaborate.”

I liked the way he was leaning forward, almost on the edge of his seat. He certainly had a way of making it feel like he and I were the only ones in the room, just like that night at the party when we’d talked for the first time. I hadn’t forgotten how that made me feel…caught off guard, but in a pleasant, curious way. He was making me feel a lot of new things lately.

But we weren’t the only ones in the room now.

“I wasn’t dichotomizing,” I said. “Merely speaking facts.”

“What’s your answer, Henry?” Julia asked.

“
Seinfeld
,” he said, propping his feet on the coffee table. The gray, taupe, and blue diamonds on his argyle socks matched the navy blue V-neck sweater he was wearing. We all looked at him, surprised by his answer. “It’s the thinking man’s sitcom. Timeless. Even in syndication heaven.”

Huh. Who knew?

I also learned that Dart used to row crew at Duke until he tore his shoulder. In addition, his likes were: walks on the beach, tennis whites, and John Mayer. Coincidentally, so were Julia’s. Or maybe that was no coincidence. Maybe they were one of those gaggy perfect couples. The only thing they seemed to not have in common was PDA. While Dart was willing to show his affection at any time, Julia was the sweet and bashful type. Though if I had to bet, I was sure she let loose when they were alone.

“Favorite song to sing in the shower?” was the next question on the table.

“I don’t sing,” I stated.

“Neither do I.”

This answer from Henry brought loud hoots from Dart. “You lie, man!”

Henry’s stern expression held fast as he glowered at his housemate.

“I’ve actually been getting a little more sleep these past few mornings,” Dart went on, “without you making your normal morning racket.”

Henry actually flushed. “I said I
don’t—
”

“You do! Personally, I enjoy your rendition of ‘Put A Ring On It
.
’”

“Dude,” Henry muttered, dropping his chin, massaging the back of his neck.

“But I believe you’re most impressive when you hit the high notes of ‘Livin’ on a Prayer.’”

“I think…” Henry said. “I think we should move on.”

Dart stretched his arm toward Henry, hand in a fist. Henry only regarded it impassively. “Dude…” Dart coaxed. Henry leered at the extended olive branch, laughed under his breath, then bumped fists with his best friend.

“Favorite piece of classical music?” This was my question. I found it interesting when asked in the right company and when answered honestly. Actually, I’d run out of questions. Henry was up to answer first, but he didn’t right away, so I answered for him. “
Clair de Lune
. Right?”

“How can you possibly guess something like that?”

“Elementary.” I took a swig of Diet Coke. “Put ten men in a room and play ten different pieces of classical music, six will say
Clair de Lune
is their favorite. There was an actual study.” I gave Henry a look. “At
Duke
, maybe.”

He folded his arms. “Rudimentary research,” he accused, but I could tell he was trying not to smile.

“I don’t disagree.” I pulled up my feet to sit cross-legged. “It’s the same theory if you were to ask those same ten men what their favorite flower is. Seven will say iris, but only if you show them a picture.”

Dart seemed confused at first, but nodded in agreement after thinking it through, probably picturing an iris. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s right about that one, too” He pulled Julia close. “I
love
irises, sweetie.” He kissed her temple. “How do you know that, Spring? Another research project?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Men can’t help it, they’re naturally attracted to the iris flower because it looks exactly like the inside of a woman’s—”

“Spring,”
Julia cut me off. A moment later, however, she pressed her lips together and laughed under her breath. Dart was watching her, looking confused but amused. The subtle subconscious connection evidently hadn’t occurred to him yet. Henry, though, was chuckling heartily into both hands.

“Three guilty pleasures?” Julia asked, then she and Dart gave their answers and cuddled. Lilah sneered out something about Amsterdam.

While pondering on the subject, I ran my index finger along the top of my can.
Three guilty pleasures?
If I was going to be honest, this would take some thought.

“Sports/Talk radio,” I began, counting off the answers on my fingers. “Strawberry frosted Pop Tarts, and novels.”

“French novels?” Henry asked.

“Gross—no.” I cringed at the insinuation.

“Not
those
kinds. I meant like the one you were reading when we ate breakfast together at the café.”

This caught Lilah’s attention. She dropped her cell, sat up and glared at me. Her acrylic fingernails were like claws as they dug into the knees of her designer jeans.

“British,” I explained. “Nineteenth century.”

“What’s your favorite?” Henry asked.

“Why?”

“I’d like to know.”

“More of your polite conversation?” I asked, tilting my head. “Nothing else to do because it’s raining?”

Henry laughed and leaned forward. “You remember me saying that?”

“Kind of hard to forget.”

Lilah had risen onto her knees, glancing from Henry to me then back at Henry like she was watching a tennis match.

“So?” Henry prompted. “What’s your favorite book?”

“
The Scarlet Pimpernel
,” I answered, trying to ignore Lilah’s icy glares, which was difficult, as I could actually feel them. “What’s yours?”

“
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Why
The Scarlet Pimpernel
?”

We needed to move on before Lilah really did stab me, but I didn’t think Henry would let us until I gave an answer. “Well, for one reason, I like how it mocks the evil of the bourgeoisie.”

“You have a problem with the wealthy social class?” he asked. “Maybe it was the French revolutionists who needed to be mocked.”

“Ha! Talk about oversimplification.” I folded my arms. “It was the aristocrats who caused the war. Those people were excessively concerned with respectability and success and money.” I looked directly at Henry. “Sound familiar?”

He shrugged. “That’s no crime. It was how ten generations were taught to live.”

“And that’s an excuse? Wait, let me guess, that was how
you
were taught to live.”

He took a beat. “I learned a lot from my father.”

Even from across the room, I could see he was trying not to smile. Deliberately pushing my buttons, and enjoying it. “Ya know what, never mind.” I threw my hands in the air.

“Are you declaring defeat?” Henry asked. “Again?”

I felt a flush creep across my cheeks. “There are other people in the room,” I said after clearing my throat. “I’m sure they’re not interested in this dysfunctional conversation.”

“I am,” Dart said.

“Me, too,” echoed Julia. “You guys are more entertaining than
The Real Housewives.
”

I sighed. “Have you even read the book?” I asked Henry, more calmly.

“He doesn’t read novels anymore,” said Dart. “French or otherwise.”

“Anymore?” I asked, picking up on that word. “But you said
To Kill a Mockingbird
. Why is that your favorite? Or was?”

Henry didn’t answer right away. His elbows were on the arms of his chair, his fingers under his chin. After a few long moments, I thought that maybe he didn’t want to share his answer. Maybe it was something personal. But how could that be? It was just a story.

“I think enough top secret information has been divulged tonight,” I said, breaking the silence. “I’m done playing.”

“About time,” Lilah muttered. “Henry, want to watch a movie?”

“My mother read it when she was a teenager,” Henry said, picking a piece of lint off his lap. “
To Kill a Mockingbird
. The day she accepted my father’s proposal, she gave him a copy and told him that Atticus Finch is the kind of father she wants her husband to be.”

Oh. Well…frack.

My insides went all weak and spongy as Henry Edward Knightly, III, and I gazed at each other. I felt weird, the same flutter in my chest that I’d experienced the first night I met him, coupled with what felt like a hot air balloon inflating inside my chest, pushing against my heart.

“Atticus Finch,” I said, “is arguably the most memorable father in western literature.”

Henry tilted his chin, appreciation in his eyes. I swear I could taste cranberries on the back of my tongue.

“But you do realize,” I added quickly, “that he was such a remarkable father because he was a widower.”

Henry blinked, his gaze moving to the empty space next to me, then dropping to the floor. For a frantic moment, I wondered if he was angry, or worse, hurt. I had no knowledge of his parents. Maybe his mother had died and he really was being raised by a widower. And there I went making an insensitive crack. I wanted to staple my mouth shut.

“Touché.” When I glanced at Henry, he was grinning. “Please remind me to call home later and tell my parents what you said.” He closed his eyes and laughed as if replaying my words in his head. “That might be the funniest piece of literary insight I have ever heard. A
widower
.” He rocked with laughter. “Classic.”

“Are we done with this?” Lilah groaned.

“I’m not nearly done,” Henry said, tilting his head just enough so I could see him looking down at her. Then he tilted his chin to me and winked.

I’d been winked at plenty of times before, but never had the attention felt like actual intention. That flutter was back in my chest, my palms were tingling, and I couldn’t look away from the man in argyle.

“We’re almost finished, Li,” Dart assured his sister. “We still have to get Henry’s answers first. Three guilty pleasures.”

“Oh, yeah, umm.” Henry pulled himself forward, fingering his chin. “Let’s see. Harley-Davidsons, comic books, and…” He raised a lightning-quick smile at no one in particular. “And a certain woman who’s not afraid to tell it like it is.
Definitely
my guilty pleasure number one at the moment.” He slowly moved his eyes toward me and winked again. “Oh, and cranberries.”

The chair beneath me, the floor, the whole world seemed to melt away and I was hovering, floating, suspended in mid-air, secured in the atmosphere by Henry’s eyes.

The room went silent, and I became very aware of how hard my heart was beating. I could hear it behind my ears. Could everyone see it through my shirt? I dragged my gaze to the front window, studying the leaves moving under the porch light, willing my neck and cheeks to not turn red, willing myself not to spring from my chair and—

“I would have thought clearcutting is one of your guilty pleasures, Henry.” Lilah had addressed him but was staring at me.

“Clearcutting?” I repeated.

“I
thought
that might piss you off, Spring,” Lilah said, looking and sounding terribly pleased with herself.

“Don’t tell me you’re
for
that,” I said to Henry. “Even after all we know?”

He folded his arms. “There’s no evidence that—”

“Yes, there is. And you know that. It’s in my research. We’ve talked about it. A lot.”

“That study from the University of Oregon is riddled with holes and fictions. And didn’t you once compare the situation to
The Hunger Games
?”