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
“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. “
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.
“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
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.”
