Definitely, Maybe in Love

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