Page 39 of I Love a Good Challenge

This moment feels like a picture of our relationship. I invite him in from the cold, and he does the same for me, only for our disappointing history to give him pause, questioning himself and us and whether he has the right to love me completely.

I step closer to him, my body shaking like a new leaf flipping in a storm. “Don’t apologize.” That’s all I can get out.

He nods. I realize I need to clean up the puddle of water we’re creating near the front door. A sudden uptick in the intensity of the howling wind causes both of us to look toward the windows. The rain pelts the windowpanes, echoing off the tin grooves on the awning of my building. I usually find the sound of rain comforting, but tonight, every single drop resounds like a drumbeat throughout my apartment.

My apartment!

I freeze, realizing this is the first time Graham has ever seen my space. Rapidly, I look around, taking in what he must be seeing with fresh eyes. There are Bohemian touches here and there—a mismatch of things I’ve found over the years at thrift stores and crafts I’ve handmade. Featured on a side table is a glass candy jar filled with chocolates. A treasure chest sits in the corner near my well-loved couch, blankets cascading out of it. Technically, I live in a studio, but it has a weird layout that separates the living spaces and makes them seem like rooms. There’s even a tiny hallway in the unit.

In short, it’s charming. In long, my home could be an acquired taste.

Slowly, I turn to Graham, squinting a bit in case I catch a disapproving look from him. Instead, I find him taking everything in with a soft smile on his face. Only when his eyebrow quirks up at the sight of the fireplace do I realize we’re still standing here, freezing. We need to dry off and warm up before we catch a cold.

“Whatever you see, no judgment, please,” I say quickly, tiptoeing to the hall closet. I don’t know why I think moving gingerly will ensure I don’t get more water than necessary on my floors, but I do it anyway. It’s like running faster in the rain . . . don’t we still get soaked because we catch more raindrops?

Grabbing the biggest towels I can find (the ones without any embarrassing makeup stains or cartoon characters), I am returning to the spot I left Graham when I stop in my tracks. My doorway is empty. He’s gone. I start to inhale sharply just as I catch movement to my left. Graham is kneeling in front of the fireplace and is starting a fire.

He looks up hesitantly, and I nod at him in approval. I watch as he adds a few more pieces of old newspaper I collect for this purpose. He peeks at the headlines along the way.

“I like the news,” Graham states simply, as if I didn’t remember. He rises and stops in front of me. A few drops of water from his hair are trailing down the side of his neck. I’m shocked by my sudden urge to wipe them away and ensure he’s wrapped in a blanket with a steaming cup of tea immediately.

Instead, I extend a folded towel. “You should go get warm—change—I don’t have any clothes that would fit you, of course.”

He nods. I’m delighted to see a piece of his hair starting to curl at the end. My mind conjures up Mr. Darcy (the Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice, please) when he walks up from swimming in the lake at Pemberley. That scene marked me for life. Oh, what it could mean to see a man’s clothes soaked through by the elements.

I have to say, Graham looks even better than Colin when he and Elizabeth run into each other unexpectedly on the lawn. A few buttons of his dress shirt are open, a hint of his chest hair nestled within the makeshift V-neck. Those blue eyes are soft and tentative. Graham’s expression is taking me back to the night he told me he loved me. There are so many moments to remember that I had tucked away for a rainy day. Today feels like that day.

As I rapidly descend into fight-or-flight mode, I remember I do have something my guest might be able to wear.

“Wait!” I rush toward my washing machine and pull out a few random items from the laundry cupboard. It’s makeshift at best, but it might work.

I hold out the items as if they’re the answer to all the problems between us.

“A sweatshirt Rafe left here at Thanksgiving. I’ve never given it back, but don’t worry, Rory said I could keep it. Boston Celtics sweatpants that will be way too short in the legs and too wide in the waist, but they’re my dad's. And a t-shirt that is mine but way oversized.”

And then I hold up the prize. “And socks. They’re somewhat . . . fuzzy.”

I’m still shaking a little, the fire reminding my body how much of a chill we still need to work through.

“Are these supposed to be croissants?” Graham says incredulously.

“Oui,” I affirm, trying to hold back a laugh.

His eyes are intense. They darken before moving to my lips and just as quickly flash up again.

“You change first,” he says. The sound of the rain just outside of the walls punctuates his words. “I should probably get home, anyway.”

“You can’t!” The words fall out before I think them through.

His eyes squint like he’s gotten a new clue in a case and is ready to follow it until the end. The weather seems ready to support my protest as the lights flicker ominously. I live in an old apartment, and while we’re usually pretty safe from the fury of severe thunderstorms and snowstorms, every once in a while, the wind will be strong enough to knock out the power for a few hours.

“I don’t like storms,” I say.

“Then I’ll stay,” he replies softly.

Nodding, I rush to the bathroom. I close the door behind me and lock it, not because I’m afraid of Graham, but because my mind isn’t ready to admit how his words eased an ache in my chest.

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