Page 47 of I Love a Good Challenge

At this, he does turn. The sun casts such a striking shadow on the curve of his cheek that I want to draw it. I’m not an artist, but if I had to guess, that shadow is the perfect angle to touch him. The palm of my hand would fit just right. There’s something poetic about the sun doing it for me. Instead of reaching for him, I hand him a small container.

He clears his throat, taking it from my hands and cracking open the corner to smell what’s inside—not look, smell. Always searching for the answers and taking nothing at face value. “Peanut butter. And marshmallow.”

I smile, adjusting my face quickly. I peek over at the river as I fight to keep my expression from being anything but neutral. “Fluffernutter cookies.”

“You made me fluffernutter cookies?”

“No, I made them for the competition, as you know. But there were some left to share.”

“And you’re giving them to me.” His tone says it is more of a statement than a question. “Why?”

I dare to step a bit closer to him. Our shoulders brush, a hint of the scent of peanut butter still swirling around us.

“Why would you do this?” he asks again. There is an urgency in his voice that makes me turn toward him. The urge I usually feel to push his buttons dissolves when his icy blue eyes catch the sunlight.

I shrug, as if the truth isn’t gutting me first of all, but also because of the effect it is having on him. Graham is the one who used to wish I’d say what I’m about to. “Because,” I say softly, “they’re important to you.”

He hums and holds the container a bit closer.

I push myself to make sure he hears me now, hoping he is ready for me to say what has been weighing on me lately. “Thank you for staying with me the other night. I hate storms.”

“I know.”

“Of course, oh wise one,” I reply with a grin. “The man who remembers everything and can’t seem to forget a thing about me.” I wring my hands together behind my back. At the moment, I feel more in tune with him than I expected. I’m waiting to push off the edge of whatever we are by his response.

“I wouldn’t want to. I never wanted to change you.”

I swallow. “I know.”

“Good.”

“Still . . .” I begin.

“Still what?” His voice is unmistakably gritty when he rotates to face me again, as if the next words I say must be held extra close between us.

My eyes trail upward from the center of his chest over each of the buttons on his dress shirt, catching on his trimmed beard and full mouth before they lift to meet his gaze. The subtle widening of his eyes tells me he’s surprised I’m intentionally looking at him. I know I have something to give him.

“You make me want to soften,” I murmur.

It’s the closest we’re going to get to a confession of my feelings. At first, I’m not sure what his response will be. But Graham’s eyes reflect instant relief. He clears his throat and opens the container I’ve given him. A cookie emerges, looking small in his large hand. He takes a big bite, and a grin lifts the side of his face with the enjoyment of something I made. And I know that, in this moment, my words are enough.

Chapter Seventeen

Lily

Ifeel ridiculous. As I walk across the green toward Town Hall and the center of town, I question all my life choices. I’ve anticipated this night for months, but I’m beginning to have my doubts that it will turn out to be what I’ve envisioned in my head. When I ordered my dress for the first annual Regency Ball in Birch Borough, I was elated. I fought with the powers that be for months in the hope that I could persuade them to let us create more culture around here. I want to buy dresses I can wear at a ball and see men in great coats. Long before Sparrow and Rafe announced their wedding, this was the event of the season.

If I couldn’t magically transport myself back to bygone days of men throwing their gloves down to challenge one another to a duel and women having fainting spells, then Lord knows I was going to find a way to recreate it. Halloween is a bust when it comes to dressing up as if we still ride in carriages, because no one takes it seriously. It remains to be seen how seriously they take it tonight.

Unlike Halloween and every other day, except for my occasional lapses in judgment, tonight, I’m not wearing black. Instead, I’m wearing a vintage dress the color of lilacs in bloom. The shimmering fabric almost looks blue when it hits the right lighting, reminding me of a flower raising its head to greet a clear spring day. To complete the effect, a pair of creamy satin gloves whisper just past my elbows. I’ve gone all out tonight, and I expect my fellow townspeople to have done the same.

It’s not that this town is unfamiliar with dressing up, with our historical reenactments and all sorts of events that require a form of costume, anything from celebrating The Great Gatsby to our Christmas parade. It’s just that the one thing I did not calculate was how devastating a certain someone is going to look if he appears at this event tonight. I know he is bound to since he seems to test me in every way with his presence.

I’m determined not to let one infuriatingly handsome man ruin my fun. The Regency Ball is set to be the event of the season. It’s finally my moment to step into the movies and television series I love so much and get my mind off Graham. Anything to get my mind off Graham Winnings.

At least my dress is making a good effort. However, I already think I might smell a bit like someone wore this outfit on stage one too many times without a good dry cleaning. The online reviews for the costume store where I found my ensemble warned that they were old. There were no refunds allowed since my dress made an appearance in a show with someone somehow related to an actress who once played Elizabeth Bennet in London, so I guess I can’t complain too much. It was a lot harder to find authentic clothing than I imagined. Still, I’m hoping that walking outside in the fresh air (while I attempt not to think of Graham and his fresh-air smell) won’t hurt. I’m still reeling from the satisfied look on Graham’s face when he ate nearly a half dozen cookies I gave him at Bake Fest before he wandered home. These past few weeks have been full of wedding planning and final details, mixed with my excitement for this event, so I haven’t had time to properly process what happened that day.

I pause for a moment on the lawn. While the vintage shoes that go with the dress are surprisingly comfortable, they are thin. With the spring rain we’ve had recently, I’m worried about getting mud on them. I’ll be the talk of the town if I show up to the ball I organized with muddy dancing shoes. I laugh at myself for thinking I would fit in perfectly on my favorite show, The Man is a Rake. The show is alarming, it’s borderline outlandish, and the men who feature as guests should be studied for their ability to raise a woman’s temperature, evoking a sudden need to fan themselves. I can relate.

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