Page 1 of I Love a Good Challenge

Chapter One

Lily

My mouth tastes like chocolate. Dark chocolate—bitter and in need of some sweetness to make it a bit more palatable—much like my current scenario. It’s fitting because when you work with chocolate and other baked goods all day, every day, you learn to draw parallels between them and your life. Making beautiful things with your hands from flour, sugar, and pure magic is a comfort because they tangibly remind you that what starts as a mess can become a sort of miracle. When you’re as romantically challenged as I am, that’s a relief.

I’ve saved up for a year to be in LA for the next six weeks. I don’t think I fit into the city, but it is a nice distraction. The great love of my life is chocolate, so when a spot on a chocolatier-intensive course I’ve had my eye on for years opened, I couldn’t pass it up. Becoming more excellent at my craft is an added win.

I rarely take a vacation from Sparrow’s Beret, the bakery and café I co-own with my best friend in Birch Borough. After all, if I’m not there, who will keep our town on its toes and constantly evaluating whether or not it should apply to be on a reality TV show? I didn’t take into account how lonely it would be across the country from the place I call home, though. I’ve spent seven nights in a short-term apartment rental, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe the few crummy people in my life who have led me to believe that I’m “too much” are right.

Despite the lingering smear of chocolate on my pants from today’s session, I’ve made my way to a movie for some comfort and a distraction from my intrusive thoughts. It’s Valentine’s Day, for crying out loud. Nothing good comes from Valentine’s Day. I learned a long time ago that love can be . . . fragile. It breaks easily, even when you aggressively attempt to keep it whole. Much like the tiny shavings of chocolate I sprinkle over our pots de crème, which melt as soon as you take a bite, affection seems to melt at the first sign of heat.

If I were home, I’d be bundled up with hot cocoa and multiple layers to keep myself from turning into ice in the still-frigid New England winter air. But here I am, in a t-shirt and high tops. What a life.

The smell of old movie theater mixed with the different stages of buttered popcorn—from stale to freshly popped—hovers in the air. I’m holding the biggest soda I can manage and a tub of popcorn. Yes, a whole tub. A sense in my bones tells me I will need it today. The theater is featuring a special showing of Pride & Prejudice (the 2005 version with the iconic hand flex). I knew I had to do everything I could to see it again on the big screen, so here I am.

Just as the lights begin to dim, movement to my right distracts me. A figure walks down the row in the direction of my seat. It’s a man—an alarmingly attractive man. Even in a room full of shadows, I can tell. I’m not sure how science explains our ability to sense that someone is attractive before we even fully see them, but maybe I should study the phenomenon.

“Excuse me.” His voice breaks through the ambiance of movie theater sounds.

It’s only us in the section, plus a few teenagers to the left. They’re giggling, and it’s clear they weren’t even born when this movie came out (which is depressing). A few senior citizens sit toward the lower rows and are, without doubt, here to see the men in great coats at a weekday matinee show. They’re my heroes.

I turn toward the newcomer, my eyes catching on suit pants paired with a button-up dress shirt, which is tucked in and peeking out behind a lightweight trench coat. I lift my eyes enough to see half of his face illuminated by the larger-than-life screen. His eyes are light, his hair perfectly styled, and he is wearing one of those leather-banded watches that make a man infinitely more intriguing.

“Are you British?” I mutter, the butter from the popcorn still sticking to my lips. There’s no way this man can be American when he looks like someone my Regency-loving heart would find casually crossing the English countryside and not sitting in a movie theater.

“I’m sorry?”

He’s definitely not British. He shrugs out of the trench coat. I’m rarely embarrassed, but I feel myself sinking a little lower in my seat. My jeans shift awkwardly on the leathery seat cushion as he sits in the seat beside me.

“No, not British,” he continues with a laugh, discarding his coat on a nearby empty seat.

I don’t know what show I’ve landed on, but I just know I’m being punked. If I had to guess a culprit, Gladys—the simultaneously endearing and frustrating busybody from my small New England hometown—has hired someone to mess with me even though I’m three thousand miles away. I don’t know how she knows I’m here, but it feels like the most reasonable explanation that someone who looks like this man has chosen to sit next to me in a nearly empty theater. His level of blatant desirability alone makes me feel like I’ve landed on a movie set. I don’t think they cast men like him to appear out in public where I’m from.

“Ashton?” I whisper expectantly into the air, waiting for a camera crew or a certain celebrity host from the early 2000s to pop out from behind the big red curtains up front.

“What was that?” the man says. He is not affected in the least by my obvious malfunction.

“What are you doing here?” I demand because he couldn’t possibly be here to watch a movie.

“Seeing a movie,” he says with a grin that flashes even in the dim light.

Instantly, I am riled up by the fact that his voice is exactly like I imagine melted chocolate would sound. I growl a bit. His eyes light up with amusement.

“Did you just growl?” he asks in a delighted tone.

I scrunch my nose. “It’s just . . .” I am waving my hand in the air as if I’m about to land a plane (or half a plane since the other is still wrist-deep in the popcorn tub) when his shoulder brushes against my hand. I feel chills run down the back of my spine. His eyes—which I now realize are blue—take on a darker hue as if they’re in the process of turning from daylight into a starry night.

“It’s just, what?” His voice is suddenly a bit strained.

I’m delighted that he is as affected by me as I am by him. I probably smeared butter on his dress shirt, but I’m slightly satisfied that, even within this brief interaction, I’ve left my mark on him.

“May I sit here?” His tone shifts back to earnest. He sounds sincere. I’m good at calling people on their crap, and so far, this man isn’t reeking of any of it.

“Are you a creeper?”

Immediately, he arches back in his seat. Adjusting his shirt collar, he shakes his head. “What? No.”

“Well, then why does a man who looks like you come to a matinee showing of a movie that causes women to forget the world for a couple of hours and makes them dream of men wearing high-waisted pants?”

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