Page 2 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Looks like me . . .” he mumbles to himself. I expect him to ask what I mean. Instead, he faces me with a furrowed brow, and I know he’s about to throw a curveball. “Why do you love this movie?”

“Are you kidding me?” My popcorn-filled hand, now shooting kernels like tiny cannonballs in front of us, moves toward the screen as if I’m summoning the sun. “The hand flex moment. The dancing. The boiled potatoes line. The rain scene!”

“Interesting. Have you read Pride & Prejudice?”

“Of course I have.”

“How many times?”

I blink. This man doesn’t know how many times I’ve hidden away with a book in my hand and a dream in my heart just to feel like I belong in a story that’s not mine. In books, there can always be a happy ending. In life, not so much. I try to keep my feelings on love as far under the surface as possible, which is surprising, given my tendency to freely express my emotions and opinions. But my love for books and movies set in other times stems from the fragments in my soul murmuring that the timing of my existence is all off. If I had been born in another period, perhaps I would feel as if I fit within my own life. And maybe somewhere else, instead of always wanting to fight with others, I’d feel like I’m the one worth fighting for.

I rally my thoughts to reply. “Dozens. How about you, Mr. Regency? How many times have you read the book?”

He has the audacity to smirk while adjusting his well-fitting designer shirt collar. It is only fair that this aggravating man pays exquisite attention to his attire. I try to focus on his words.

“Sixteen times. I read it every year. When I was fourteen, my mother sat me down and handed me the novel. She told me to read it once a year for the rest of my life. She said it would make me a better man.”

My mouth hangs open while he casually sips the soft drink I didn’t even notice until now. Because of course he can sip elegantly from a concession cup while I wonder how long my hand is going to smell like butter. It’s a good thing there aren’t many people in the theater, or we’d be kicked out for talking. It’s not like that hasn’t happened to me before.

“You’re lying,” I say with conviction.

“I never lie. And I’m a lawyer.” He winks, but his tone and body language tell me it’s true. There’s something so open and honest about him. Something that I want to explore.

“Fine. You can sit next to me. Especially since you’re doing it already.”

“Thank you.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“I’m about to watch Mr. Darcy be broody and awkward and still win the woman of his dreams.”

He turns his face toward the screen. His profile is something an artist would swoon over. I now notice his neatly kept beard—more than stubble but less than completely full—that carries a scent of delicious-smelling beard oil. I take a deeper breath and shiver. It’s definite. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a man, and I’m so aware of it.

“Infuriating,” I grumble.

“Endearing,” he counters. “So, um . . .” He gestures in a (dare I say) adorable way to encourage me to tell him who I am.

I lift my chin a little higher and shove a fistful of popcorn into my mouth but regret it immediately when I nearly choke.

“Are you okay?” He pats my back. The spot where his hand gently tries to keep this movie from being my last is now on fire. Forget the iconic hand. I think my spine is flexing.

“Stop it!” I cough. “I’m fine, George.”

“It’s Graham, actually.”

I’m still clearing my throat. “Okay.” Cough. “George.”

He furrows his brow. “As in Wickham . . .?”

I shake my head and nod toward the screen as the promotion for the movie theater company begins. It’s the reminder to silence your mobile phones, and it’s weirdly comforting that I feel unhinged by the sight of it. Still, I want to get right to the movie to avoid thinking about the unusual rhythm my heart has begun to follow. My once dark-chocolate mood is turning sweeter by the moment as I silently beg us to get lost in the familiar film.

“It’s possible you’ll never know,” I retort. By how much I’m already feeling a gravitational pull toward him, I decide it’s best to leave a bit of mystery hovering between us.

“Ah, a challenge,” Graham muses, his voice rich, beckoning me to angle myself closer to him.

As if on cue, the theater darkens until it’s just the runner lights on the carpeted stairs fencing us in as the movie screen lights the way. I don’t know what ride I’m on, but I have an intense feeling I’m not leaving this movie theater the same way I walked in.

“Trust me,” I hear him continue as the distinctive piano intro begins to play. “I’m definitely not the Wickham of this story.”

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