Definitely, Maybe in Love (6 page)

According to Julia, however, there is a
second
kind of kiss. This kiss comes with a whole list of prerequisite regulations. There is commitment, caring, giving, sacrifice, compromise, relationship, and especially love. Apparently, all of the above-listed rules make the second kind of kiss something more magical and earth-shaking than even the steamiest first kind of kiss.

As Alex’s hands moved up and down my spine like I was his bass fiddle, I couldn’t imagine a thing like that were possible. But Julia did have her harebrained theories.

First kind or not, Alex was a great kisser. Very creative. I probably could have kept it up for the full fifteen minutes—that was usually my limit before I grew bored—but when a valet attendant tried to push past us to get into the blue SUV Alex had me pressed against, we pulled apart.

“Well, you’re full of surprises,” I said, a bit breathless.

He touched my chin with one finger, then ran it down my neck. “Want to go back to my place?”

“What?”

Almost as if he were snapping out of a trance, his intense expression dissolved and his lazy smile was back. “Come on, gorgeous.” He took my hand, linking my arm through his, and we walked out of the parking lot. “You pick the restaurant.”

“I can’t believe you stole your moves like that,” I said, thinking what a pervy beast Woody Allen must be in real life.

Alex laughed and shot me a sideways glance. “If that’s what gets your engines blazing, I’ll be sure to talk about Henry more often.” He put his hand over mine and squeezed.

Knightly?
I almost tripped over my own feet.
Why on earth would Alex be thinking about him? Or assuming that
I
would be thinking about him while we were kissing?

Chapter 7

“I’m sorry. No more empty tables.”

I moaned and glanced over the hostess’s shoulder at the unusually, overly packed café.

“It’s the rain,” she explained with a shrug. “No one wants to be outside.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, perturbed that all of Stanford apparently chose to eat at
Oy Vey Café
that morning.

“You can get your order to go,” she suggested, then pointed behind me at the dozen or so people already standing in line. I guessed that was my only option.

“She can join me.”

Henry Knightly was sitting at a small, round table by a fogged-up window, gesturing at the empty chair across from him.

“Is that okay?” the hostess asked me.

“Um, well…” I looked over my shoulder to the queue at the To Go counter. Had it doubled in the past five seconds?

“If not,” the hostess continued, “I could really use this chair at another—”

“She’s joining me.” He pushed out the chair with his foot. “Have a seat, Spring.”

“Jeez, be a caveman, why don’t you?” I muttered under my breath as I walked toward the table, confused, but cold and famished.
Stupid rain.

I sat across from him, ordered my breakfast, and pulled a paperback from my bag, preparing to ignore our close proximity. Not that we were exactly strangers anymore. Classes had been in session for three weeks—I ran into him practically every day, though we usually didn’t speak. All those things Alex told me on our date were hard to forget. I didn’t trust this guy…I barely liked him.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

I peered at him from over the book I’d been using as a shield and lowered it an inch. “
Huis Clos, suivi de Les Mouches
,” I answered before flipping off the French-to-English switch in my head.

His eyebrows twitched. “Jean-Paul Sartre?”

I put in my bookmark and placed the paperback on the table next to my poppy seed muffin. “Are you taking French?”

“No, no.” He took a bite of the bagel in front of him. It had some kind of pink spread on it.

For some reason, I found that extremely odd. Was it strawberry? Henry Knightly ate strawberry cream cheese?

“I’m studying Latin,” he continued. “It helps with the law terminology. Plus, it’s a dead language.” He eyed me, kind of deadpan. “I’m trying to resurrect it.”

“Single-handedly?”

He exhaled what could have been a laugh, then took a sip from a tall, silver travel mug. “If that’s what it takes.”

While he checked something on his phone, I watched him from across the table, wondering why he was in such a talkative mood. We hadn’t exchanged this many words since the party. I also wondered where he was off to so early. I knew most post-graduate courses were taught in the afternoons to accommodate students who had jobs. Knightly did not have a job.

He wasn’t wearing a
complete
suit today, just dark gray pants, a white shirt with blue pinstripes, and a gray-and-black-striped tie. A dark gray jacket was draped over the back of his chair. Most professors didn’t dress up as much. To me, the formalness of his attire went hand-in-hand with the formal attitude that he wore like so many argyle sweaters.

I stirred at the contents of my turquoise over-sized porcelain mug, staring down at the brown liquid swirling around like a whirlpool.

“Some weather,” he observed.

“Yeah,” I answered.

“What class do you have this morning?”

I hated small talk. Why hadn’t I grabbed my food to go? Why was there still a friggin’ monsoon outside and why’d I leave home sans umbrella?

“Statistics,” I said, nibbling around the edges of my muffin.

“Nothing after that?”

“Why are you asking about my classes?”

“Because you’re sitting right in front of me and it’s polite.”

“Oh, you’re polite now?” I couldn’t help blurting. “Run over any pedestrians lately?”

Something in his expression seemed pleased by my outburst.

I took a breath and looked down at my plate. “I guess I don’t
thrive
on chitchat like some people.”

“You might be out of practice.”

I lifted my chin. “And what? You’re the grand master of communication?”

“How would you know if I am or not? We don’t know each other very well.” His eyes were wide with amusement at whatever he was thinking about saying next. “Don’t you think it’s time we remedy that? I know
I’d
be willing to do something about it.”

My teeth stopped moving mid-chew. His eye contact didn’t waver, causing the temperature under my collar to heat up a degree or two. In a parallel universe, I might have thought he was flirting with me. But that seemed as probable as discovering spotted owls living in Trump Tower.

I swallowed and quickly picked up my novel, letting the bookmark slide onto the table. I held the book in front of my face, staring blankly at the pages for a few moments, not liking the way my heart was beating so unsteadily. When my focus on the page finally sharpened, I realized that the words were upside down. I casually turned the book right-side-up, hoping my dining companion wouldn’t notice.

No such luck.

A weird noise was coming from the other side of the table. I lowered my shield. “What’s so funny?” I asked, surprised to see Knightly chuckling into a fist.

“Your buttons,” he said.

I looked down at the top I was wearing. It was a black pullover sweater, no buttons.

“No,” he said with another chuckle. “Your
buttons
, Spring.” He pointed at me, his fingers like a gun. “They’re very easy to push, aren’t they?”

“Depends on who’s pushing them, and where.” I nearly choked on the unintentional innuendo that had spewed out of my mouth. Wow. Now I was flirting back? I reached for my glass of ice water and held it up to my suddenly dry lips. When I snuck a glance at him, his mouth was frozen in a boyish grin, pleased as punch.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m embarrassing you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I don’t blush,” I stated, setting down my glass with a
thud
, rattling the silverware. “And is this the type of polite conversation you had in mind?”

“I’ll take what I can get.” He shook his head. “Buttons.”

“You know what?” I said, after dabbing my mouth with a napkin. “I think I liked it better when we were ignoring each other.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Ignoring?” A moment passed before he leaned back in his chair. “Okay, fine, you’re not blushing.” He tapped his chin, then his mouth slowly curved into a smile.

It was a nice smile. In fact… Huh, Henry Knightly really should smile like that more often. I was momentarily dazzled by the way his brown eyes went squinty, giving the rest of his face an almost innocent countenance. He was mesmerizing.

“So, Spring Honeycutt, are you going to tell me what classes you have today, or should I look up your schedule online?” He reached for his phone.

“Statistics,” I repeated. “Your roommate’s got a class right across from me.”

“How do you know that?”

I stared at him for a beat. “Because he’s dating
my
roommate.”

“Oh.” A shadow seemed to eclipse his expression for a moment as he took a drink. “That’s right. And what do you have after statistics?”

“I’ve got a four-hour block for research.” I rested my elbows on the table. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

He opened his mouth, but then paused as though rethinking a question. “If you’re a junior, is the research for your independent study thesis?”

“How did you know?”

He lifted his travel mug and took another drink. “Lucky guess. Have you picked a subject?”

The question made my stomach roll and my heart stop at the same time.

“What?” Knightly asked, probably noticing all the color drain from my face.

“Nothing,” I replied, toying with my teaspoon. “Yes, I have a subject. I started working on it over the summer, actually, but a few weeks ago, my advisor…”

“Oh,” he said. “He’s making you change it.”

“He says I need a new angle.” I paused, not knowing how to explain further to a layman, and not really having the stomach to get into the whole thing. “It’s complicated.”

“I’m sure it is.” He pulled back a tiny smirk. “Knowing you.”

“Funny,” I said, not laughing.

Knightly pushed his plate to the side. “It might help to talk about it.”

“Just making polite conversation?”

Another of those steady smiles appeared on his face. My pupils might have actually dilated. Man, I was going to have to keep on my toes to stay immune to this guy.

“You don’t really want to hear about my project,” I said.

“What else do I have to do?” He glanced toward the window. “It’s raining.”

He was right. I had no place to go, either, and who knows, maybe talking through it out loud with someone who had no clue about the subject matter would rattle something loose. I sighed and rested the side of my head against my palm. “Okay, well, basically my main focus is on biological systems remaining diverse and productive over time. Sorry, that was too technical. What I mean is—”

“Sustainability.”

I frowned. “You know what that is?”

“I do.” When I didn’t go on, he gestured for me to continue.

“Anyway, since you know what sustainability is, you’re probably also aware that land development is destroying the environment. Yeah, I know, this isn’t news, but I’m trying to prove that the continued usage of developed land could be even worse; it should be revitalized back into nature. No new patches of forests or mountainsides or wetlands are suddenly going to appear in the middle of an urban system. We’ve got all we’re ever going to have right now, today. And it’s not enough.”

“Isn’t that an overly simplistic way of looking at it?” he asked.

I stared across the table at him. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Look, do you want to hear the rest of this or do you want to argue?”

His eyebrows pulled together like he was about to say something else, but then he shut his mouth and sat back.

“Like I was saying.” I gave him a look. “At this rate, we’re going to be living in a dystopian world in three generations.”

“A what?”

“Dystopia. The yang of utopia. Think: opposite of the Garden of Eden. Like
The Hunger Games
. Have you read that?”

He shook his head, bewildered.

“It’s a novel, similar to
1984
in the—”

“You’re getting your research from novels?”

“Of course not. I was making a comparison.” I kneaded a fist into my temple, annoyed with all the derailing. “Anyway, what I mean is, we have to take back industrial land, that’s the only way to save it. I’ve got the environmental research, but Masen, my professor, wants me to learn more about the business end, the economics of it, the legal side.”

Frustrated at the thought, I cupped my hands over my face, feeling—not for the first time in three weeks—at a complete loss. If I thought too much about it, I would worry myself sick. Then…I would drown.

“I’ve got a hard deadline coming up,” I mumbled through my fingers, mostly to myself. “I’ve read some articles and books and sat in on a few urban econ lectures, and I’ve even talked to a couple econ majors. How can no one at Stanford understand what I’m talking about?”

“Email me your outline.”

Knowing I must have misheard, I peeled away my fingers and looked up. “What?”

“Your facts are wrong.”

I dropped my hands. “No, they aren’t.”

“They are. I can help.”

“No, you can’t.” I pushed back my chair, wondering if he was purposefully insulting me or if this was his personality. “Why would you want to help me, anyway?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he answered. “Maybe I’ve been wanting to make up for that.”

“Do you
have
another foot?” I asked skeptically.

He stared back. “What?”

My bad joke was lost on him. “Nothing,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not letting you read my outline. I don’t even know you.”

He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the table. “Spring, do you know what I’m studying to be?”

“A lawyer,” I said. “You’re in law school.”

“That’s correct.” He rubbed his chin, reminding me a bit of Professor Masen. “My undergrad was in finance, but I’m studying corporate law with an emphasis in property development.”

I stared at him, my brain grinding into gear at what his words implied. A second later, I felt cold fingers slide up my spine, and my heart started pounding under Henry Knightly’s heavy gaze, but it was for a different reason this time.

“Does that mean…”

“That means,” he said, “if you’re an environmentalist, then I’m your worst nightmare.” We stared across the table at each other, an invisible wall bricking between us. “But it also means that if you want to learn about the economics of land development”—he steepled the tips of his fingers under his chin—“then I’m the man of your dreams.”