Page 86 of I Love a Good Challenge

As we watched Rafe and Sparrow step on the dance floor for their first dance as a married couple, Graham’s arm wrapped around my waist. We stared at the crowd, the warmth of it all overtaking my senses and quieting my fears. Grey danced with her best friend, Boston, whom she definitely wants to be more. Ivy ended up bringing her older brother, Freddie (short for Frederick). That night reminded me of what a gift it is to be a part of this wild group of people. I love their quirks, our history, the way they make me question my life choices, and the love that’s evident every day.

Over the past week, Graham hasn’t let me out of his sight, and I love it. He seems to need to touch me at all times. I even tried to make chocolate truffles with one hand the other day while my other one held his. It was my idea. Call it a bit obsessive (on my part), but he’s become like the best type of name-brand cling wrap.

While he still wears suits each day, I did get him to cave once and go shopping. He now owns a few new V-neck t-shirts and a pair of jeans that he said he may wear for half a day on Saturdays. I don’t ever want him to change, but I do want to know that he’s comfortable enough not to feel the need to use his clothing as a shield. He even decided—of his own volition, I might add—to wear a baseball hat on occasion. Now, I absolutely see the appeal and why Sparrow wouldn’t stop talking about Rafe in one.

Yesterday, at the café, after writing his emails and making his calls for Rafe, and after a rousing card game of Go Fish with Ollie, I handed Graham a newspaper and watched him settle in as if he was always meant to take up the corner near the counter. I plan to put a barstool on the edge, so he’s technically in my space while still being on the side of a customer. I’m not complaining about the distraction it’s been to have him linger so closely.

On the Sunday following the wedding, as I walk to Sparrow’s Beret, I halt at the sight of a stack of newspapers on our front door. We never get the paper. Bending to pick it up, my eyes catch at the headline of the Birch Borough Bulletin: “A Girl Named Lily.”

My heart picks up its pace as I plop down on the stoop outside the bakery, not even worrying that my delay could mean we won’t have enough croissants for opening. Those flaky buggers are going to have to wait.

I open our newspaper, which consists of no more than a few pages of ads and town shenanigans on a typical day. I freeze at the sight of an article about me written by Graham. The featured photo is one of us at Sparrow and Rafe’s wedding. We’re staring at each other as if the whole world can be found in each other’s eyes. If I didn’t feel so happy, I would find it obnoxious. There’s a photo of us from two years ago in LA printed right beside it.

“She helped me find the words . . .” I mutter, skimming over it and willing myself to keep reading despite the ginormous tears now streaking down my face. My man has written an entire article—an argument, really—on all the reasons we belong to each other.

I’m laughing as he goes on, with detail upon detail, about all the ways we’re perfect together. There are pieces of evidence, statements from townspeople, and even a quote from his mother, stating that as soon as he first mentioned me, she knew his life would be forever changed. He annihilates every argument one could possibly contrive against us, and while it’s not Austen, it’s better because it’s from him. The article is one of the most romantic things I’ve ever read in my life. Graham systematically disarms every argument I could ever conceive, channeling his skills from the courtroom once more in favor of us loving each other for the rest of our lives.

I pull out my phone and try to call him, but there is no answer. Instead, I run toward his place and bang on the door. Still no answer. The pressure to get back to the café is strong, but I’m determined to see or talk to him before I do anything else. How could I not?

“Hi, honey.”

Graham’s gravelly voice causes me to turn around. I’ve been looking over the bridge to the river below, the warmth of spring creeping into my heart. Today’s breeze is the type that reminds me that I’m alive and that the cold has truly relinquished its hold for a while in the presence of a new season.

Graham is wearing his new jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket (synthetic leather, of course). It’s one he was eyeing at a shop last week. He must’ve gone back to get it.

“Hi, hot stuff,” I reply.

He grins, holding out the to-go cup in his hands. “I made you tea.”

“What kind?”

His raised eyebrow sends a spark down my spine. “You have to ask?”

I laugh lightly, the sound a bit foreign to me. My laughter was hidden during the years without him, but it’s breaking free now that there’s this ease between us.

“Chamomile,” I whisper. I catch his nod as he looks at the river, his jawline etched by the lingering sunrise, still spreading its light across the morning sky. “With honey.”

It’s things like this that have made me so irreversibly in love with him. What I feel for him has nothing to do with his appearance or words (both heart-melting in their own right) and everything to do with his character.

“With honey,” he replies with a bit more confidence than required, but his tone is also on brand with where we’re at in life right now—delighted to pick up where we left off while also starting new.

The thing that is not new and has only improved with age is how his presence makes my heart race. While I hid my attraction to him under the guise of anger and resentment for quite some time, the truth was that, without him, my heart ached to be his again.

I lift the paper between us, those pesky tears threatening to spill once more. “I tried calling you.”

“Ahh,” he says with a sheepish grin. “I thought you could use a physical reminder of my love. You know? In case you ever doubt again.”

While the cup of tea warms my hands, he pulls me closer. His strong hands frame my jaw, and his blue eyes, once icy but now thawed with love, rove over my face. Dropping one hand to my shoulder, the other reaches up to wrap itself in my ponytail. Once, twice, three times, his fingers twine in my hair so gently it’s almost a whisper, even though I know they are now entirely hidden in my strands. He settles his hand against the base of my neck and kisses me softly on the cheek. The scruff from his beard and the scent of his beard oil blend perfectly with the taste of honey from my last sip of tea. I turn my head into his shoulder, breathing in his fragrance.

“I won’t doubt you again,” I whisper into the soft skin below his ear, his pulse point greeting my lips. “I won’t doubt myself either.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “That’s good.”

I lean back to look at his face, warm with affection and sweeter than the milk chocolate I love so dearly. The soft wind blows strands of my hair across my face, and my ponytail now feels disheveled and a bit off balance on my head. He releases it, and I pull down my hair, my fingers rapidly working on the band in a frantic effort to release it without pulling more hair from my head than necessary.

“Wait,” Graham says. His arm gently pauses my movements. “Please leave it?”

The hesitancy in his voice tells me this moment means something to him. So, I go still, waiting for him to continue.

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