Definitely, Maybe in Love
: Part 3 – 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 replace 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 replace, 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. My breath hitched as I felt a rush of cold air when Henry peeled apart the front of my coat and slid his arms around me. I was pulled forward. Warmth again. With my face at his neck, I breathed in, feeling giddy.

We adjusted into each other, so we fit just right. His nose was on my cheek, moving in a circle, sending fresh tingles through my body. My spine felt flimsy and flittery, like an uncoiling spool of ribbon. While on its exploratory mission, his hand froze in place when it touched a two inch space on the small of my back between where my T-shirt ended and my pajama bottoms began. The touch of skin on skin made us inhale in unison.

“You are cold,” he whispered. “Let’s do something about that.” Quicker than I thought possible, he pulled me forward onto his lap and slid his hands up the back of my shirt. Heat and silky warmth pushed through my bloodstream.

Millions of moments ticked by, but I was conscious only of his hands, his lips, the buzz in my head.

I returned to consciousness again when Henry suddenly drew in a sharp inhale. I opened one eye, then quickly released my grip on his neck, noticing the four red marks from my fingers.

He kept his eyes on mine, his lips curving into a slow, sexy smirk. “Atta tiger,” he breathed over my mouth.

“I…clawed you,” I whispered. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“I wasn’t complaining.” He lifted a smile that melted everything in me that wasn’t already goo. “I was complimenting.”

After another kiss that was far too short, he slid me off his lap and stood up. The front of my body was suddenly freezing, missing his warmth, his arms, his breath in my mouth. The weight of his hands was heavy as he placed them on the tops of my shoulders and looked down at me. His hair was thoroughly mussed up from my fingers, rendering him even sexier than I’d labeled him just moments ago.

“I’m going to stoke the fire now,” he said.

A bit out of practice at interpreting suggestive innuendos, I didn’t quite understand his meaning, but I was pretty sure I got the gist. So, I smiled, slid my hands around his waist and went to stand. But Henry held me in place.

“No, Spring,” he said after a soft laugh. “I mean, stoke the fire, the actual fire.” He nodded toward the fading embers behind him. “What did you think I meant?”

“Nothing,” I said, exhaling a giggle. “The fire. Right.”

He bent down and kissed the tip of my nose. “Don’t move.”

As I watched him walk away, I pressed my lips together. They were already swollen, probably from the stubble on his neck that I couldn’t stay away from. I knew I would have telltale markings on my face tomorrow morning—more obvious evidence of making out than even a hickey. There’d be no way to hide it then, to hide what we’d been doing for the past hour.

But the question was, would I want to hide it?

Henry was down on one knee before the diminishing cinders, rebuilding our neglected fire. When he finished, he opened the cooler and took out a bottle of water. He held up another one, pointing it at me, but I shook my head. He unscrewed the lid and took a drink.

“You completely dehydrated me,” he said in a low voice. Then he winked.

Holy frack.

I took in a gulp of cold night air, but that only made me more lightheaded, feeling simultaneously dizzy and extremely alert from breathing in the smell of his neck for so long. These were uncharted waters for me, but I wouldn’t think about that. Now was not the time to dissect everything or analyze to death in my Spring way.

When he was finished with his water, he didn’t return to his spot next to me, but instead sat on the blanket at my feet, facing the roaring fire. He leaned back against my legs, his body warm and solid.

“Do you remember that time in my kitchen?” he asked in the tiniest of whispers.

My heart sped up as I remembered that morning. “Yes,” I answered, looking down at the back of his head, his dark hair blowing gently.

“Then there was that night up in my hallway and the morning before vacation…in your bedroom.”

“Mm hm.” My chest was getting hot again.

“It happened once, then it didn’t happen again, twice.” His right hand wrapped around my right ankle. Even after the past hour, his touch was still a shock to my system, a very welcomed shock. “I promised myself I would never allow another opportunity to pass.” His other hand was around my other ankle now. “I know you know what I mean.”

I did, indeed.

His hands slid inside my pajama legs, moving up and down on the lower part of my calves. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly as blood zinged through my veins. “I hate to disappoint you, Knightly, but I wouldn’t have kissed you either of those other times.” My protest sounded humorously unconvincing, because even as I spoke, I shifted forward, laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Honeycutt.” He sighed impatiently. “Yes you would have.” He squeezed one of my legs. “And I wasn’t talking about just kissing you.”

My heart pounded hard and fast, almost painfully, and I glanced to the side, noticing how close the tent was to where we were sitting; too close for anything more to happen between us tonight. Although every time Henry touched me, I knew what I wanted.

Calm yourself, Springer. You’re together, and you’ve got plenty of time.

This was further confirmed when Henry reached back and took my hand, gently tugging me forward until I was seated on the ground beside him. “Hi,” he said, wrapping an arm around me and scooting me until there wasn’t an inch between us.

“Hi.” I tucked my chin to rest against his chest. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking the same thing I always think when I’m around you.” He kissed the top of my head. “I’ve been talking way too much.”

“Acknowledging that you’re loquacious doesn’t answer my question. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

In my entire life, I’d never asked a guy that question. I didn’t know what possessed me to inquire now. What kind of answer could he possible give me? I bit my lip and waited.

After a moment, he shifted, his arm around me loosening. “Okay,” he said. “This is genuine sentiment, Spring. Are you ready?”

I took in a deep breath. I didn’t want the mood to be spoiled by Henry being, well, Henry. “Ready,” I said.

Before he spoke, he took my chin in his hand and tilted my face to look me in the eyes. “I feel like tonight is Christmas and my birthday,” he whispered. “And I just got everything on my list. That is how I’m feeling.”

I let this sentiment sink into my soul. A moment later, I pulled back, slid my chin from his hand, and rolled onto my knees. Henry blinked up at me, uncharacteristically vulnerable. His eyes were soft and brown as we gazed at each other. I put both hands on his cheeks then ran them down the sides of his neck, stopping when I got to his shoulders.

“Well then,” I said, pushing his body back, my body following him down, “happy birthday, Henry,” I whispered. “Again.”

The chirps of night crickets turned to croaking frogs, and before we knew it, the orange sun was a dim line on the eastern horizon. It was still plenty dark and I was not ready for morning.

“Are you sleeping?” I whispered. Henry lay on his back, and I was on my side, both my arms linking through one of his, my forehead against his shoulder.

My question seemed like a logical one; it had been about five minutes since either of us had spoken or moved, and that was the longest we’d gone without kissing all night.

“Thinking, not sleeping,” he whispered, pressing his lips to my hairline.

“About?” I asked, resting my chin on top of his shoulder so I could look him in the eyes. Henry in the dim white light of pre-dawn. Swoon City.

He took a deep breath, twisting his back in a little stretch. “Timing,” he answered. “And irony.”

“Timing and irony occupies your mind at five in the morning? Is that the effect I have on you?”

“The effect you have on me…” he repeated. He was looking past me, up at the murky sky. “Actually, I was thinking about being back at Stanford, in the house across the street, and being here now. Timing.”

I gave his arm a squeeze. “And irony?”

“The irony is, back in December, I felt like I was spending all my energy trying to not be overtly obvious about my feelings.” He turned to me. “And you never knew?”

I lifted my eyebrows.

“Should I have said something then? I tried to, you know.”

“Timing,” I whispered, rubbing my cheek against his shoulder. The soft wool blend of his sweater felt itchy compared to his skin. Even though we’d been together all night, I couldn’t get over the feel of him, his taste, that potent, delicious smell of his neck. I was higher than a fan at a Bob Marley concert.

“But still, I’m torn on this subject,” Henry continued. “I realize that arrogance is supposed to be a turn off.” There was a smile in his voice. “I guess my being sucked in by your wily ways was all part of your plan.”

“Oh, yes,” I said after a laugh. “My plan. You fell right into that. It only took seven months.”

He laughed softly and stared at the sky again. “Really, what would your reaction have been the night before vacation if I’d kissed you?”

“You mean tried to kiss me?” I corrected, letting go of his arm to run my finger over his chin.

He scoffed—that charming arrogance. “There would’ve been no trying, Spring,” he said. “What would you have done?”

“Most likely I would’ve punched you in the stomach,” I answered, running my finger back and forth across his bottom lip.

Henry was quiet for a moment. “And then what would you have done?” he asked. “After I kissed you a third time, I mean.” The man was nothing if not persistent.

“Probably kicked you in the ribs.” I propped up onto my hands, my face hovering over his, only to lower myself down, settling halfway on his chest, my nose at his neck.

Henry slid his hands inside the back of my shirt. It seemed to be his favorite place to linger, like his neck was to me. We both needed to feel skin. It was a little surprising how I never once felt nervous or uncomfortable, scared about what might happen next. More importantly—unlike with every other guy—I was never once bored.

“And after a fourth time?” he asked, sounding relaxed.

“Haven’t you had enough rejection?” I whispered, planting kisses down his neck and taking deep inhales.

He didn’t reply. His hands slid out from inside my shirt and ran down my back from my head to my waist, long strokes, like he was painting me. I tilted my chin so I could see him, but his gaze was turned away, as if purposefully ignoring me. His eyes seemed to be intently focused on something else now, something he was holding in his hand on the other side of me, but I couldn’t see what it was.

His free hand cupped the back of my head, his fingers kneading tenderly. He turned his other hand toward the light, and I could finally see what it was that he was fingering so gently. It was one of my braids.

Almost reverently, he moved it to his mouth and kissed it.