Definitely, Maybe in Love(16)

"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.