Page 34 of I Love a Good Challenge

“George, even I have to draw the line here,” I start to protest.

“I’m fine, Lily.” He pauses, his light eyes filled with intention. “I’ve never been a coward.”

One point: Graham.

My jaw tightens at the reference to our past, but I push it away. I have heard those exact words before, delivered once, just moments before he kissed me into oblivion. Graham seems to be playing a game where he says things intended to take us back to the moments I’ve tried to forget. It’s grating on me, and I wonder if my games are having the same effect on him.

“So, George . . .” I emphasize the nickname I’ve given him in a singsong voice. Amara walks away with the unused menus. “Here’s a challenge for you. Why are you here alone tonight?”

“Pass.” He answers so quickly I don’t think I even had time to blink.

“You don’t get a pass.” Lifting the water glass to my mouth, I take a sip. His eyes watch the movement. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat.

One point: Lily.

“Okay, fine. This isn’t a challenge,” I continue when he doesn’t speak.

“Isn’t it?” he replies, his voice rich and deep.

Just as I know I’ve challenged him in every interaction lately, I know this is another. I’ve made this man run the gauntlet since fate reunited us in this little town. Though, I must admit, I’m still waiting to be convinced this isn’t all an elaborate setup to throw me off my game just before Ashton appears. Whether I’m being punked by the universe or not, for some reason deep within, I keep making Graham meet my demands. I keep pushing him, perhaps only to prove to myself that he’s still here. I should play my hand carefully. I pushed him a little too hard a couple of years ago. And he didn’t follow me . . . until now.

“If you want to turn this into a challenge, here’s a question for you. Lily, why won’t you use my name?” he continues when I don’t reply. The words fall on my ears so casually, as if hearing them doesn’t shoot a sharp dart of pain through my ribs.

“I’ve used your name.”

“You haven’t said it since the day I moved here, by the moving truck. Why?”

I shift on the seat, debating whether or not to rush out the door. I’ll text Amara that I’ll pick up the food later.

When I don’t reply, Graham says a single word. It goes straight to my heart. “Please.”

I take another sip of water. The condensation slips around my fingers and causes me to question if I have a grip on the glass—or this conversation.

“I’ve called you George since we first met.” I’m going to try to avoid this question for my own peace of mind.

“And then you didn’t.”

“And now I do.”

I say the last words with a firm finality. What I don’t explain is that the difference is whether I can call him mine. When I could, he was Graham. And when I couldn’t, it was safer for my heart to go back to pretending I didn’t love the way he used to bury his face in my neck as he hugged me, the scratch of his beard across my skin the evidence of how close he tried to get. Now, there’s more than a table in the chasm between us.

“Since I called a pass to your question, it looks like I owe you a challenge. What’s it going to be?” Graham’s hands are occupied with the fabric napkin he’s pulled up from his lap. The top peeks over the table as he fiddles with the corner without looking at me.

I swallow back the emotion in my throat and attempt to put a smug look on my face. “You’re right. I did challenge you. So, since you’ve asked for it, I dare you to eat at least three bites of the molten lava you’re about to get put in front of you. I think you’ll find it a worthy challenge if you can make it through the first bite.”

“Hm, I’ll accept. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you still haven’t answered my challenge question to you,” he says as the food is delivered to our table.

The anticipation of comfort food prevents (or saves) me from replying. The bowls are steaming, and my eyes are already watering from the spice that hovers in the air between us. Even Graham clears his throat. Amara brings two more glasses of ice water and a small ceramic bowl of coconut milk ice cream.

“To help with the spice,” she tells him, an apologetic look on her face before she rushes away. Even she doesn’t want to witness the meltdown about to happen.

I wrap my noodles around a pair of chopsticks, bracing myself for the heat I know is coming. My first bite is everything I’ve hoped for—sweet, sour, tangy, spicy goodness. Graham tracks my movements before he clears his throat and picks up a pair of chopsticks too.

I glance up, prepared to see him suffer, and suddenly, we’re locked in another stare down. I let the noodles slide from my chopsticks as he picks up a bite from the bowl before him. He doesn’t break eye contact. Show-off. Because of course he can use them skillfully too.

I throw the handle end of my chopsticks on the table, pointing them in the air like I am about to conduct a symphony or throw them like darts. My eyes widen as I see him open his mouth. I’m already feeling for him. He can’t say I didn’t warn him.

Slowly, with almost methodical precision, he takes a big bite. Mesmerized, I watch him, waiting for any sign of him internally combusting from the amount of heat I know was in that bite.

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