Page 14 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Throughout your challenges . . .” he begins. My heart beats so loudly it pulses in my ears. “I’ll challenge you back, twofold. First, I challenge you—” his voice catches like the needle on a record player before beginning again, “to never lie to me.”

I nod, even though I know this gives him the power to ask me anything, and I’ll have to respond with truth. When we first met, I demanded that he always tell me the truth, and I’m the one who lied. I don’t have it in me to ever tell him another one.

“And I challenge you not to fall in love with me. Again.”

I inhale sharply. My stomach feels like it drops to the floor. I search his features and realize he’s serious. He’s really challenging me to do this.

I swallow but can’t get the words out. The energy between us hums. I meet his gaze with as much intensity as I can muster. The flood of memories of moments just like this consumes my mind, but I push them back. One day, I’ll release all the emotion. But today is not that day.

So, I rise to my full height. My dress catches on one of the picture frames on the wall behind me. It shifts back into place as I stare into the eyes that I could draw in my dreams. With my back (literally) against the wall, I know I’m fighting for more than peace during this wedding. I’m fighting for my chance to finally move forward.

“Game. On.”

My whisper sparks something in his eyes, and I catch a hint of his relief. Does he truly think he will win this one? It’s too bad he doesn’t realize he’s already partly lost. Because to fall in love with him again requires me to have fallen out of love with him—which I haven’t.

He holds out his hand to seal our deal. I know I can’t touch his skin, though. It would release a torrential flood of emotions I can’t handle yet. It’s clearer than ever that I have to get him out of town because I can’t go back to what we were.

Sensing the war within me, he drops his hand and clasps it around the lapel of his jacket. I focus on it to displace my discomfort and have to suppress the smile that wants to creep onto my lips. Graham’s default outfit always has been a perfectly tailored suit and tie. Once, he shared some of the challenges he faced as a boy growing up with a single mother. After college, when success started coming his way, he developed his style sense as a way to leave behind the days of wearing holey shoes and hand-me-downs. The image of a young Graham dreaming of a better future has never left me.

I don’t make eye contact again as I turn away from him, not trusting myself to avoid doing something stupid like adjusting his tie or his pocket square just to feel like I’ve played a part in his dashing, well-groomed look. Thankfully, Sparrow waves us over, a French fry wedged between her fingers. She’s staring at me as if to telepathically let me know she’s worried for me. I’m worried for myself.

Pushing from the wall, I step around him. I have nearly left Graham in the dust when I hear him clear his throat behind me. I freeze, glancing over my shoulder as he takes a step toward me, the inexplicable pull between us still alive and well.

“And, Lily,” he says softly, his fingers clenching the lapels of his jacket. “For the record, nothing about this is fair.”

Chapter Seven

Lily

Lils, do you actually get coffee here?”

I smile at Sparrow’s nickname for me but cringe a bit at her tone. She’s not wrong to be surprised that I would venture away from the gourmet espresso and French pastries at our shop. Sometimes, though, when I need a break from the boulangerie—simply because I live and breathe it—I sneak away to the trendy coffeehouse located at the far end of the downtown shops in Birch Borough for a cup of brewed coffee that at least enthusiastically tries to compete for a coffee snob’s attention, albeit with more frills and wild caffeine concoctions than I know what to do with. The coffeehouse is far enough away that no one can see me entering or leaving from Sparrow’s Beret but close enough that I can run back and join the fray whenever new drama strikes in town.

In the past, I’ve considered running for some leadership position in Birch Borough. I feel as if this corner of New England was specifically made for my personality to exert maximum impact. Then again, I also recognize my persuasive qualities might be best utilized outside the office.

I’m glad to have the chance for a little one-on-one time with Sparrow, away from the hustle and bustle of the bakery. I have no problem being on my own. Okay, maybe I have a little problem. But watching my best friend prepare to get married is making me feel all the things. I usually wear my independence with pride, a badge of honor. I do my own thing. I go my own way. But I also didn’t realize how much I depend on the security of always having my best friend around and how much Sparrow’s presence has given me the courage to be on my own.

Sparrow and Rafe’s love was a whirlwind romance that I don’t think either of them could’ve fought even if they wanted to. They’re so mad for each other now that it would cause anyone to consider the idea of fated mates. While their attraction was instantaneous and they slow-danced into love, Graham and I were a lightning storm—a wild explosion of light, charged particles, and moments that felt like magic. After only a few weeks together, I couldn’t tell where I ended and he began. It was exhilarating and mesmerizing all at once.

“Lils, is there something going on? Why are we here?” Sparrow asks.

She sits across from me, her brown hair tied back with a ribbon today, fringe casually falling across her forehead. Ever since she’s been with Rafe, she’s been embracing more and more of her French side, and it’s working for her. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to unload all my worries in one single outburst.

“There’s nothing going on,” I reply. “I come here to get away from it all and remind myself that I may be aging, but I’m still relevant.” I look around at all the Gen-Zers. I want to explain to them how I’m the definition of vintage. I wore butterfly clips and iridescent nail polish before we had cell phones.

A young woman walks by. She takes one look at my shoes with an expression I don’t appreciate before walking on.

“Hey, at least I know what it means to page somebody!” I yell.

Sparrow chokes back a laugh as I sink into my seat again. Sure, my parents had the pager, but a reference is a reference.

“How likely do you think it is that she had no clue what I meant and thought I was just saying something dirty?” I smirk.

Sparrow pretends to think about it. “I’d say one hundred percent.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The music blaring in this place is not comforting. It’s got me a little on edge with lyrics I can’t understand and music that is no doubt trending.

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