Definitely, Maybe in Love(34)

He laughed softly, sounding more like himself again. "I understood you the first time."

I echoed his laugh, only mine sounded nervous.

Henry pulled the car to a stop, keeping the heater on. "Diet Coke?" he asked as he opened his door.

"I probably shouldn't if I plan on getting any kind of sleep tonight. But … "

"I'll be right back," he said, zipping up his jacket then raking his fingers though his hair.

I watched as he entered the store, surveyed the fountain drinks and  chatted with the clerk, finally placing two bottles of water on the  counter and one sixty-ounce Diet Coke.





Chapter 23

Our return drive to Beacon Rock was a quiet one. The glowing green  numbers on the dashboard read one o'clock. When we arrived at our spot,  Tyler was off somewhere brushing his teeth and Mel was heading into the  tent.

"I'm crashing," she said after a big yawn. "You guys coming in?" She shivered and wrapped a blanket around her body.

I wandered to the fire, staring into its dying orange flames. "I'm still  wound up. I don't think I could sleep if I tried." I scowled at the  tent behind Mel like it was an awaiting prison, then slumped onto one of  the stumps in front of the fire, plunging my hands in my pockets.

Mel looked at Henry. "What about you?" He shook his head. She yawned  again and waved us good night, disappearing behind the tent flap.

Henry poked at the fire with a long stick then threw a log on top. Red sparks shot out and swirled into the black sky.

"I'm fine out here alone," I said.

He lifted his chin. Yellow and orange reflected off the corners of his glasses.

"You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"I do want to." He dusted off his hands on his jeans and lowered himself to the ground across the fire from me.

Tyler showed up a few minutes later. He wore a bright yellow sweatshirt  with the hood up, and a hand towel was draped over his shoulder, a  toothbrush poking out of his mouth. "All we need now is your ukulele,  Trip. Sing us a few lines of ‘Pearly Shells.'" He cackled much louder  than necessary. I could guess why he was in such a good mood. "Where'd  you two go?"

"Down the road," Henry said.

"Use up all my gas?"

"Probably." Henry pointed an elbow at me. "The heater was on full blast."

"I was cold," I apologized.

"Better find something to keep you warm," Tyler said, and pointed a foot  at the blanket spread on the ground in front of me. He snickered then  disappeared into the tent. I heard Mel giggle.

The fire sparked and crackled, and the woods were making strange sounds.  As the wind blew through the trees, I turned up the collar of my coat;  it was unbuttoned so I could wrap it around me and my flannel pajamas  like a double-breasted suit, extra protection.

"Cold again?"

"First I can't sleep," I complained, "and now I can't stay warm. I don't know what's wrong with me."

Henry was on his feet, striding toward me like a man on a mission. I  couldn't begin to guess his intentions. At an arm's length away, he  stopped and bent to one knee. He pulled off the blue scarf that hung  loose on his neck, hooked it around the back of my neck, then tied the  two ends under my chin.

I stared at his face, but not once did he look me in the eyes. And just  like that, before I could speak, he retreated to where he'd been sitting  on the other side of the fire.

"Thank you," I said, my heart beating hard from surprise. His scarf was  wool and cashmere, softer than the silkiest blanket. I nuzzled my chin  into its fabric. It was still warm, and smelled spicy and clean.

"You're welcome," he said, dropping a pinecone into the fire. It  crackled, shooting red sparks into the blackness. "Can I ask you  something?"

"Sure."

"What do you like most about The Scarlet Pimpernel?"

I took one last inhale of the warm scarf before answering. "The  friendship between Sir Percy and his men, for one," I said over the  songs of crickets and owls. "It's a profound study in male bonding, and  when you consider their ethics in history-" I cut myself off, knowing I  was being way too analytical. I decided to go for embarrassing honesty.  "Actually, the love story kills me every single time. And I adore  Marguerite. She's an enviable heroine. Vulnerable but a free spirit at  the same time. I admire her loyalty and her passion."                       
       
           



       

"She reminds me of my sister," he said. "She's as French as a hayseed  raised in the country can get." He unwrapped a Hershey's bar from the  cooler and took a bite. "When she was younger, I mean. She had to grow  up quickly." He threw his wrapper into the yellow flames.

I wanted to ask more about his sister but didn't get the chance.

"Naturally," Henry said, leaning back, "I see myself as the hero in the  story, Sir Percy, that rugged idol among men, untouchable,  incorruptible, saving his fellow noblemen without so much as a spot on  his white pantaloons." He dipped his chin and smiled at something  private, poking a stick at the fire. "But honestly, I related more with  the cop in the story."

"You related to Chauvelin?" I asked, taken aback. "The wicked villain  who chases our hero across England and France, destroying everything in  his wake?"

"No, Spring. I felt for the guy who was misunderstood." Our eyes locked.  "Don't take things so literally. You misread me, remember?" He lowered  his gaze to the fire. "But don't worry, I saw through it." Still staring  into the flames, he took a beat. "I saw through you."

My hands were sweaty-cold again as my fists clenched in my pockets. "I think you are like Sir Percy," I said.

He looked up. "In what way?"

"How about by wearing a mask half the time?" I suggested. "Playing a  deliberate and studied part?" I could hear my voice becoming accusatory,  remembering the past … how he'd disappeared from my life without a word,  and exactly how much that hurt me. "Never, ever showing your true  character until the final chapter."

"I'm not playing any part," he stated, a bit indignantly. "When will you see that?"

"When you show me, Henry." My words came out too loud, and we both  turned toward the dark tent. "Sometimes," I continued in a whisper, when  no one stirred inside, "I feel like I don't know you at all, and other  times … I feel … " I trailed off and pressed my fingers to my forehead. "I  don't know what to believe anymore."

I'd meant this to put an end to our circular non-discussion, because  really? What did it matter what I thought of him? Or how he made me  feel? Did it matter that I'd bought new lip gloss in December? Or how my  heart sped up when I knew I was about to see him?

"What are you feeling right now?"

My head snapped up at his words, and I stared across the fire at him, wondering if he was some kind of mind reader.

"About me, Spring," he said. "What are you feeling right now about me?"

That was easy. He was Knightly. I was supposed to hate him. Right?

Only … it wasn't hate that was making my skin break out in prickles, and  the back of my mouth flood with the taste of cranberries, and my heart  pound every time our eyes met.

"Whatever you're feeling about me right this second," he continued, "believe that. Please."

The wind shifted, smoke concealing Henry's face, and for a frantic  moment he completely disappeared from view. When the wind shifted again  and I could see his face, my panic instantly dissolved, but a different  frantic sensation was right on its heels. All at once, I was dying of  thirst, and there was only one oasis. He was my quenching, delicious  water, and I was prepared to crawl through a burning desert for just one  taste.

Henry was on his feet, his glasses off. "I'm coming over to you," I heard him say. But had his lips even moved?

I don't know if he'd strolled over to me like a mere mortal, or hurled  his body fearlessly through the flames like a Homer-esque mythical  beast. He was suddenly on the stump to my right, but he wasn't facing  the fire like I was, he was facing me. I felt myself being swiveled  around and scooted to the edge of the stump, my knees sliding between  his. I clenched my fists inside my coat pockets, feeling tiny pin pricks  at the tips of my fingers, my heart hammering with nervous  anticipation.

He reached out and took my face between his hands, holding me like I was  a piece of precious china. His thumbs moved across my cheeks, his  fingers on the back of my neck. And then … my screaming thirst was doused.

His nose felt icy cold, but his cheeks were warm from the flames. His  skin smelled of campfire and aftershave, and I wasn't tasting the  tangy-sweetness of cranberries this time, but delectable, irresistible  cinnamon and chocolate.