“All right, Maxwell,” Sunny practically snarls at me, “what on earth did you do to that girl?”
“Me?” I object automatically as I set up my onyx chess pieces on the pearl inlaid board that the maid produces between us. “I didn’t do anything to her. What a ridiculous question.”
“You did something! I can feel it!”
The opening moves are automatic and abrupt. It’s only after the first ten moves that we settle in and begin to strategize.
“Confess!”
I force my tongue to speak. There’s no point in trying to resist her.
“We had the picnic, she took pictures, we drank the wine…”
“And?” she breathes expectantly as she zigzags her knight to the middle of the board.
“And… nothing. She kissed me.”
“I knew it! Check!”
Scowling, I nudge my queen to forestall defeat.
“What happened next?” she continues doggedly.
“Well… I don’t know.”
Sunny’s hand hovers over the board.
“Maxwell?”
It’s hard to put together. What did I do? I pulled away. And it’s ridiculous, because I had just been thinking about kissing her. The sunlight was bathing her hair in a halo-like glow. Her bare feet curled under her wide hips seemed ridiculously charming. Everything about her was perfect. Being together on the hill with the warm summer winds swirling gently over us seemed completely perfect.
And her lips were delicious. The kiss was everything a first kiss should be: sudden, warm, and sparkling with potential.
But I pulled away. I did.
“Maxwell!”
I move my rook, figuring it is a safe bet, only realizing that I have fallen into one of her traps. Sunny rolls her eyes disgustedly and slides her bishop across the board.
“Checkmate.”
“You always beat me,” I shrug.
“Yes, but tonight you are particularly terrible,” she observes.
“I suppose you’re right,” I admit. “Thank you for the lesson, Auntie. Good night.”
She squeezes my hand as I stand and lean over her to kiss her forehead politely before returning to my room.
My thoughts swirl. Clarissa kissed me, just as I had wanted to kiss her. Is that the key? Was I just being… stubborn? Was I annoyed at myself for not making a move sooner? Or did I simply feel a reflexive urge to run away from pressure?
I can’t stand that in myself. That stubbornness. If I am honest, that has to be a large part of the reason Zella and I were even engaged. We dated for years without talk of marriage, even as her mother hovered over our relationship like a bird of prey. I was resistant. And then one day it seemed like perhaps I was being too stubborn. I was keeping us in a perpetually pointless relationship by refusing to move forward.
I guess I thought asking her to marry me would be triumphing over my stubbornness. Was it? Was that also a form of stubbornness?
Looking around, I suddenly realize that I have been pacing around the Windsor Castle bed. Literally, I have been going in circles. Could anything be more obvious?
She’s just across the hall, I remind myself. Go and talk to her.