Page 40 of I Love a Good Challenge

Less than an hour later, Graham and I are sitting on the couch with steaming cups of tea warming our hands. The sound of the dryer heating Graham’s freshly washed clothes is now mixing with the beat of the rain, which hasn’t lessened. As expected, the sweatpants that were still in my cupboard from the last time my father happened to be at my apartment are way too short and rest several inches above Graham’s ankles. I’m distracted by the space between the hem of the pants and the top of his foot, but I can’t seem to figure out why.

It’s weird seeing him in my shirt. Thankfully, I found one that represented my deep love for putting my frame into a t-shirt it can absolutely swim in. Oversized clothes are paying off. His light hair is almost see-through in the light of the fire. If I had a choice, I don’t know if I would reach out to touch his hair or the cozy, fuzzy socks he is wearing first. The scene is all so domestic I almost don’t recognize myself or the fact that I’m enjoying it.

I’m wrapped up in fleece-lined leggings (you don’t get through New England winters without them) and an oversized sweatshirt that says BU for Boston University. Graham’s eyes widened when I walked back into the room wearing his alma mater. I didn’t attend BU, but after I met Graham and found out he had gone there, I didn’t question my sanity for adding it to my online cart and wearing it as much as possible. My excuse is that it’s cozy. It has nothing to do with the fact that it reminds me of him. It’s unfortunate that tonight, of all nights, my other sweatshirts just happen to be in the wash. (At least, that’s what I tell him. To make it true, I threw the rest of them in the hamper so I could wear my favorite one).

My phone battery is getting low, but I pull up Liam’s social media account. Earlier, he messaged me to check out a new guest on his latest reel. Despite staring at the screen, I can’t process what I’m seeing. Graham is in an apron, his dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his hair and beard meticulously styled. He is glazing carrots in a skillet while simultaneously flipping parmesan-crusted potatoes on a sheet pan. The cat, A-cat-pella, sits on a stool next to him with a tiny chef’s hat, eyes tracking his every movement. He lets out a meow of approval, and Graham smiles in the video. He smiles.

I’m feeling warmer than I did during the heat wave last summer. I clear my throat. Graham looks over my shoulder, nerves radiating off him.

I need to do something to clear the attraction growing by the second, and I find I don’t want to.

“Well, there you have it, A-cat-pella. Dinner and a movie,” on-screen Graham says. Liam appears beside him as he tentatively sets a plate of food in front of him. The video has been edited, and Graham’s apron is now stained.

“Wait. What is on your apron?” I’m so close to laughing, but I know I can’t.

At the town meeting, I challenged Graham to insert himself into a video with Liam’s social-media-star pet. How he managed to win over A-cat-pella, Liam’s beloved cat (his name is a nod to Liam’s love for music), is beyond me. That cat has more opinions than people who choose between Jess or Dean (I’m Team Jess, always).

“Well, there was roast chicken on the menu, so I hope it’s jus.”

At this, I do laugh. Because of course Graham would use the fanciest word for a type of sauce.

“You’re hanging out with Rafe too much,” I mutter.

I am rewarded with Graham’s chuckle. The sound is so low it’s almost smoky—like dancing embers, so close to flirting with the fire. If he would let himself laugh fully, I remember it to be a beautiful thing.

Except, as the video loops again, I’m mesmerized at Graham’s chuckle when A-cat-pella first hops up beside him. And, apparently, so are the other over one hundred thousand viewers who’ve seen it, no doubt mostly women—who must be swooning at the sight of Graham in the kitchen. Liam already gets so many DMs he has had to put a disclaimer that he doesn’t read them on his profile. I’m certain he’s gotten an influx of people who want to know who Graham is. Graham has never wanted to be famous, but based on the comments, there are plenty of women who would be happy to make him their world. My stomach clenches before a spark lights. Because they don’t know him. But I do—did. Actually, no. I still do.

I like the reel and let my thumbs have at it to leave a comment, reading it aloud as I type. “Looks like A-cat-pella just got a new sous chef.”

I don’t say it out loud when I add, If you think he’s good in your kitchen, you should see him in his own.

Let’s hope Liam doesn’t check the handle too closely. I close with, “Hashtag hot men cooking.”

“You think I’m hot?”

I sputter, realizing my blunder, and silently wish that he won’t check out my full comment later. “No—I mean, maybe you were before, but . . . you’ve aged. So, you know, hot man in past tense. But that wouldn’t make a good hashtag. Besides, this comment is specifically for Gladys to track since she follows all those accounts. Not that she hasn’t seen your guest appearance already. The other day, she sent me a post featuring a shirtless man, and the message said, ‘Long-haired men are my theme for the day.’”

Graham does laugh at this. The sound feels like the pure joy of taking a sip of hot chocolate when the whipped cream hasn’t melted yet.

“You should laugh more often,” I tease.

“You were the one I laughed the most with.” His voice is quiet, but the effect is loud.

“Stop it,” I manage, taking the last sip of my now-lukewarm tea. It has steeped too long. Though the sweet honey offsets the bitterness in my mouth, it’s still an additional reminder of what I’ve ruined.

“Stop what?”

“Stop acting like I’m the sun and the moon in your world.”

He pauses, his hand gripping his mug of tea a little more tightly. “But what if you are?”

“What?” My eyes flick up to his. I see determination written into his jaw and the set of his shoulders.

“What if you are?” he repeats slowly, his voice low and deep, enunciating each word without a hint of condescension. It’s a question posed with possibility, as if perhaps a new theory of the world exists that I’ve been missing entirely. “What if you are those things to me?”

Tears burn the back of my throat. I don’t know how he can see me in this way, even after all this time. The hope that springs up almost hurts.

“I don’t know how to act in ways that are untrue to who I am,” he says matter-of-factly, as if a truly authentic human is not one of the rarest sorts of humans to exist. “So, if that’s who you are to me, that’s how I must behave. I won’t embarrass you. I won’t push you. But don’t ask me to look at you or speak to you in ways that conflict with my character.”

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