Definitely, Maybe in Love

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.

S’mores…

He kissed me once then drew away a few inches, still holding my face. I took in a sharp breath, extremely disappointed that he’d stopped. But my longing lasted for only a moment, because he leaned in.

Just like in his kitchen on Thanksgiving morning, I beheld an eruption of lights and sparks behind my eyes, my insides reacting to a natural instinct I couldn’t name, had never felt before. As the kiss deepened, those sparks exploded, pounding and glowing in my chest.

I leaned into him, running my hands over his scruffy chin and cheeks, his neck, any skin I could find, up into his hair. My fingers gripped and tangled around the soft curls, my head filling with more stars.

Again, he pulled his face back an inch. Not ready for another break in our kiss, I followed him forward. He moved back a little more. Was he teasing me?

Confused, I forced my eyes to focus on his.

Henry’s fervent, sexy gaze was right on me, parching my throat dry in an instant. The side of his mouth pulled into a grin. He was unbearably beautiful.

“Hold on,” he whispered. “Close your eyes.”

I untangled my fingers from his hair, moved my hands to the tops of his shoulders and obeyed his request.