Page 23 of I Love a Good Challenge

It’s a good thing she is distracted by love. I’m praying neither Rafe nor Sparrow notice how trapped I feel from the choice I made. I’d give anything to be back in Graham’s LA kitchen just to experience those days again. Sparrow disappears through the swinging door and is back within seconds, no doubt with Graham in tow.

I hear him before I see him. The timbre of his voice carries through the air and hits me right in the heart, like my ribs are a dartboard, and my heart is the bullseye.

“Thanks, Sparrow. I haven’t been back here yet.”

Refusing to turn around, I keep busy washing dishes, doing my best to ignore the scent of his cologne creeping into my space. It mixes with the aromas of chocolate and melted butter and is enough to make anyone swoon on the spot. I grit my teeth and keep scrubbing.

“Lily.”

I hear Graham’s voice behind me. I know he nodded in my direction like the gentleman he is. But I can’t look at him yet. Not when I know what’s coming. “George,” I reply sharply.

Sparrow launches into small talk, and they discuss Liam’s newest video of his cat, which has already gotten over 1.5 million views on social media. They chatter about how Rafe is feeling since he is heading to Nashville next week to co-write with a well-known French singer who is trying to break into the music industry in the US.

In my peripheral vision, I follow Graham as he walks toward me and sets a to-go beverage cup on the counter. I turn my head a little to see what it says, and my heart flips over in my chest. The side of the cup reads: “Vanilla Chai—Almond Milk—Lily.”

He remembered.

It takes a superhuman effort to will myself to keep my emotions in check. Did the man I secretly still love not only bring me something but my-favorite-warm-drink kind of something? I barely manage to get out a squeaky, “Thank you.”

Graham nods in acknowledgment, never breaking the flow of his conversation with Sparrow. Seeing him with my friend in our kitchen makes me want to curl up like a cat by a warm fire and purr with contentment before the reality of how far Graham and I are from where we started sets in. Knowing I must move to keep the emotion at bay, I walk to the other side of the work area.

I sense Graham tracking my movements as I pull out the cake from the blast chiller and gingerly bring it toward them. Despite how many times I’ve rehearsed this scene in my mind all morning (hence, the many apologies I made to the croissant dough), my hands are trembling. I set it on the counter in front of them, focusing on every detail of the frosting, the cake board, the tick of the clock in the corner, and wait for the moment he recognizes what I’ve made.

“Absolutely. I know this will be good for him . . .” He pauses and stares at the cake. “Is that what I think it is?” The force of his question proves that any previous attempts I’ve made to put a chink in his armor have boomeranged back to me.

“It’s chocolate cake.” My voice is small and distant.

“Your chocolate cake?” he asks, a hint of something in his voice I haven’t heard since those moments in his LA kitchen.

“Yes, I made it.”

Sparrow clears her throat to stop me from staring, and I remember I must stir the ganache or pour it before it cools too much. I manage to hold the saucepan steady, willing my hands to stop shaking as the melted goodness coats the cake and drips down the sides in the most satisfying way.

Nobody says a word. I know Graham and I are silently somewhere else right now. We’re caught up in countless unspoken memories. When I sneak a glance in his direction, he gives me a resolute nod. I may try to put up a good front, and I may be an expert at holding my ground, but from the beginning, Graham has always been able to see me to my core.

Sparrow has every right to ask for this cake, yet briefly, I almost apologize for taking us back to the moment I first made it for him. It was a good one. He ate a generous slice of cake, and then we shared a kiss so intense it would melt glaciers. He tasted of chocolate and a hint of the latte he sipped while enjoying it. He tasted of mocha and . . . Graham. To be honest, that is the most potent and visceral memory of them all. It was then he told me he loved me for the first time. And I knew that he meant it.

I clear my throat and watch the ganache set as it meets the coolness of the air and the cake.

“Rory, would you do the honors?” I turn to Sparrow. I don’t trust myself to hold out a serving knife without my nerves revealing themselves, so I nod toward the utensil, grabbing some of our pastry bags to use as makeshift cake plates.

She cuts into the layers, making a sound of delight as the cake proves to be soft inside, the buttercream and freshly poured ganache stretching a bit and swirling with the cake crumbs. I absolutely hate the M word when it comes to describing cakes, so I can’t even think of it, but if any cake matches the word, this one is it. It’s so soft and fudgy inside that it shines.

Graham takes a fork from the pile on the counter and stretches his neck side to side like he’s about to go to war and not dig into a baked good.

Sparrow is already two bites in, her eyes wide with appreciation, and I can’t help but laugh. The joy of her delight overtakes some of the pain that pulses through my fingers from clenching them so tightly.

“You really want this as your wedding cake?” I ask her. I still can’t believe, out of every single French patisserie item and baked good we could make, this is what she wants.

“One thousand percent. No question. This is it.” Her mouth is still full of cake as she nods enthusiastically. She’s almost done with her piece, while Graham has yet to take a bite.

“And do you want cupcakes, small cakes, or a big one to cut into?” I’m speaking way too quickly, and Sparrow catches it, her eyebrows rising as she looks between Graham and me. I don’t slow down, continuing without pause. “I’m going to make you a small one too, and I’ll frost it with vanilla meringue icing so it looks like a wedding cake. You can keep it for your first anniversary and cut into it . . .” Finally, I trail off.

“Yes, all the things. Yes.”

I flash a genuine grin before allowing myself to look at Graham. He is still staring at the cake like it personally offends him. I think, in a way, it does.

“Oh, Graham—I’m so sorry. Do you not like chocolate?” Sparrow asks.

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