Page 24 of I Love a Good Challenge

He lifts his head, a polite smile creeping over his lips.

“Oh gosh, are you allergic? I didn’t even ask!” she continues, and I’m just waiting to see what he’ll admit to in this conversation.

“No, and no,” he replies. His eyes lift slowly from the slice of cake, trailing over the counter and up, up, up, until they laser into my own. “I love it.”

Heat crawls up my neck from the admission and, no doubt, from the reference to our shared memory. I don’t know whether to give myself an award for knowing him this well or to cry at the smoldering gaze he is serving me. Even though I know it’s against his will, it is mixed with enough tension and heat that I could’ve baked this cake without an oven.

The bell over the front door rings. Sparrow rushes through the swinging doors to greet whoever just stepped in, leaving Graham and me to each other.

“Do you remember?” he asks as soon as it’s just us.

I nod.

“And you made it anyway?”

“Sparrow asked me to.”

He clears his throat lightly and looks toward the counters full of chocolate-covered pots and utensils.

“It was a challenge to bring myself to do it,” I admit because I can’t seem to ever fully shut him out.

“I love a good challenge,” he says with a hint of authority in his voice that grips my attention. He leans over the counter toward me for the last part of the sentence, close enough that the edges of his beard brush against my cheek before he straightens back to his side. Graham has several inches on me, even when I wear high wedges, so I know his move is on purpose. And I remember, on one of our last nights together in LA, when I confessed feeling like a challenge to most people, leaning in close and murmuring sweet things in my ear as his beard brushed my cheek had been his response. I open my mouth to say something—anything—but can’t find my voice.

With an intensity only he can pull off as effortless, he scoops up a huge bite of cake and slowly puts it into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with me. My stomach swoops low, and my lungs constrict when I spot it—the same dab of chocolate that once graced the edge of his perfect mouth is there again. Chocolate from the same cake that got me a declaration of love the first time he tasted it. And he’s not moving to wipe it off.

“What is it?” Graham says with a deep, gravelly tone in his voice that I shouldn’t like so much. “Something on my face?” Instead of using a napkin, he has the audacity to stare at me while he brushes the back of his hand across the side of his mouth. It does nothing but smear the chocolate, though he even pulls his lips with his teeth to ensure he got it all. I can’t speak. The man who knows how to use every single piece of silverware on a fancy table and has a whole drawer full of pocket squares (he told me once) just used his hand instead of a napkin, and darn it, if it’s not one of the most attractive things I’ve seen him do. One point: Graham.

“Hallmark Hot G!”

I glance away from Graham quickly, torn by wanting to continue watching him eat but also grateful for the interruption. Rafe rushes in, calling out the ridiculous nickname he has given Graham, a huge smile on his face and his fingers entwined with Sparrow’s. Someone once thought Graham could be in a Hallmark movie as the lead (he totally could), and Rafe won’t let him hear the end of it. Frankly, I find the nickname downright delightful. And even though my heartbeat still feels like it’s ricocheting throughout my body, it’s for reasons like this that the Frenchman has worked his way into my heart as a dear friend. He’s just kooky enough to keep up with me.

Sparrow follows behind her fiancé, free hand over her lips, telling me that they must’ve snuck a kiss before they made their appearance.

“Yes! I can’t wait to try this!” Rafe yells, a forkful of cake appearing in his hand. The man has a sweet tooth that is at my level. His taste is more to just eat all the things instead of ninety-nine percent chocolate, which is my ratio.

“Ouais, ouais, ouais,” Rafe says, and I can’t help but laugh. The word sounds like “way” but is the French equivalent of “yeah” in English. And darn it again, if Rafe doesn’t keep doing things to make me like him while also making me grateful for the hint of levity he adds to the moment.

“C’mon, darling.” Sparrow nestles under his shoulder. His arm wraps around her effortlessly while he continues to shovel cake into his mouth.

“So. Good,” Rafe murmurs.

“Yes, I know.” Sparrow laughs and gives me a wink. “This is the cake!”

I smile and try to be happy. I get to make a wedding cake for my best friends, and it should have me over the moon. Instead, all I can focus on is the feeling of Graham looking at me, a faint smear of chocolate still near his top lip, and the way I hear him say, “It certainly is.”

Chapter Ten

Graham

Honestly, I think I know how to get a suit tailored.” My tone is a bit salty, and immediately, I wince. We just finished an early dinner at Train Car Diner, and Rafe asked to tag along to see my suit for the wedding. “To make sure I fit the look for Hallmark’s casting department.” He threatened to send them a headshot (which I don’t have) if I went alone.

I’m about to suggest he take acting lessons since he isn’t fooling me at all.

“Affected by a certain blonde woman much?” Rafe replies with an easy grin.

While I genuinely care for him, I feel the need to smack it off his face. I think being around Lily again is infiltrating my thoughts with more aggression than usual. I don’t know what to think about it because everything in me seems to be reverting to an unfamiliar primal response. I release a grunt and keep walking down the street, the warmth of the early evening sun shining on my face reminding me of a certain hike Lily and I took in the foothills of LA long ago. I swear my shoulders have been hunching lately, like the earth is dragging me downward, though that’s not the look I would ever go for. I’ve worked hard for my good posture.

My mother’s best friends knew how to ballroom dance. I have vivid memories of Donna and John telling me to hold my shoulders back, soften my hands, and move to the music as I pretended to lead a girl when I was only twelve.

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