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 un-collegiate.
“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. “Et tu, Brute?”
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. Dry.”
“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
dare!” I rasped, slipping and sliding in retreat.
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.”
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.”
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