Page 48 of I Love a Good Challenge

Silently, I applaud some of our locals for wearing garb that would qualify them to be extras in a historical drama as they make their way down the street toward Town Hall. I’m still lingering, amused at the sight, when I feel a bit of wetness soaking through my shoe. Is there anything worse than having your feet wet unintentionally?

“Are you kidding me right now?” I mutter, the stay—or version of a corset for this era—suddenly feeling much too tight. Oh, why did I ever think I’d be happier living in a Regency novel?

If I’d just kept walking, I would have had my answer to that burning question. When I look up and see Graham moving across the square near the gazebo, I know exactly why my daydreams have been filled since girlhood with visions of men striding across a misty lawn while the dew clings to blades of grass. My mouth goes dry as I track his movement. I feel my jaw drop, but I’m too impressed at the sight of him to care. He’s wearing a cravat, people—those incredibly attractive precursors of neckties—and a dark blue coat that has tails. It. Has. Tails. High leather boots fit his calves like a glove. Speaking of gloves, I see a pair tucked into one of his coat pockets. Rather than being perfectly styled, his hair is shifting in the balmy evening air, and I swear I can already smell the scent of his beard oil and the wildflowers in his hand.

The closer he gets, the more I want to cry. The man really should come with a warning label for my heart. Forget Darcy crossing a field—this is Graham only crossing the street in my hometown, and I can’t understand how this is real life.

He looks like a dream. I try my hardest to breathe normally while also feeling very grateful that I chose to make the ball a Regency theme, meaning I don’t have a fake piece of whalebone digging into my ribs right now. It’s hard enough to stay upright. I can still feel his hands in my hair as he braided it weeks ago. The memory sends a wave of heat to my cheeks, climbing up my neck like ivy on a wall.

When he gets within a few feet of me, I notice the infuriatingly attractive grin on his face. He knows how affected I am by him. Honestly, how could I not be? Suddenly, I understand why women carried smelling salts back in the day. If a man who looked like Graham came across my path almost two hundred years ago, I would’ve had trouble functioning too.

Here’s the truth of it: One of the most unrealistic things in all those made-for-television movies (or any movie, really) is not when the main actress has a tool for a boyfriend. It’s when she’s close to the more attractive guy who is clearly into her, and she doesn’t marry him immediately. How is that travesty even a choice? I’m one to talk. I’m already living that nightmare.

A gust of wind sends Graham’s smell closer to me (because of course it does). He does, in fact, smell like clean laundry and the sweet scent of open pastures as he always does. It’s madness.

He holds the flowers in his hand toward me, and I feel my eyes widen.

“For you, my lady.” He takes a slight bow, the top of his hair shifting once again with the movement. My stomach flips. It’s more than butterfly wings—it’s the feeling of something buried in the ground coming back to life.

“They’re wildflowers,” I say. I could smack my forehead for how intelligent that line was. When I’m finally placed in a Regency setting, the first thing I do is state the obvious. Perfect.

He hums in amusement. Hums. “They are indeed.”

“Stop that immediately,” I gasp.

“Stop what, exactly?”

“Speaking like Darcy!”

Graham remains undeterred. His eyes sparkle. “Hm, I see we’re going to act a bit uncivil today, are we? Even after we’ve already had our interlude during the rain. Don’t worry. My feelings won’t be puffed or my wishes unchanged, although I did think you wouldn’t be as taciturn on a day you are meant to be incandescent.”

I lift myself in my satin flats so I stand a little taller. “I think you’re just adding a bunch of words together to make it sound like you’re auditioning for an Austen TV movie. And I am not uncivil, and . . . thank you?” I drag my eyes away so I can stop staring at his handsome face, focusing instead on the people walking down the street. I have to distract myself from the way my fingers are begging to touch Graham.

As I observe the costumes many townspeople are wearing, I’m thrilled to see so much enthusiasm, but the sight of them makes me want to stop them and ask what they were reading or thinking of when the notice of tonight’s Regency Ball landed on our town website. I’m pretty sure Andrew, our town pharmacist, is dressed as a pirate. But with Graham beside me, I suddenly don’t care if tonight doesn’t ring as historically accurate as I hoped.

Standing a short distance away, Graham clears his throat, the flowers still extended.

“Why did you even get these for me? And don’t you still need to find a plus-one for the wedding?” I cringe immediately at the sharpness of my tone. I don’t mean it, but I don’t know what to do with the surge of emotions this man stirs in me.

“There’s time,” he replies. There really isn’t with Rafe and Sparrow’s wedding almost upon us. My heart leaps, but I push the feeling away. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, then I gladly won’t. “And I may have spoken too soon,” Graham continues.

His words make my heart race and hope at the same time. “You didn’t get lilies,” I state the obvious again.

“You’re allergic.”

I can’t help but grin. “Yes, but people still buy them because of my name. They don’t usually remember—”

“I remember.” That’s all he says before turning toward the event hall and holding out his arm for me to wrap my hand through.

“George, I . . .” I can’t seem to finish the sentence, but I slide my hand into the crook of his arm. It’s warm and strong beneath my palm.

“For Sparrow and Rafe,” he says. Graham’s gaze is distant, his eyes squinting. “Can’t have it look like the wedding party is at odds now, can we?”

Rather than reply, I pretend to be riveted by a little boy who is struggling to keep his socks pulled up across the way. My thoughts dance to a dangerous rhythm. He’s right, of course. And what I know Graham senses, that few others realize, is that I don’t bristle because I’m angry or trying to be a grump. I just don’t know how to fit into what society terms as normal. And it’s exhausting trying to be what everyone wants me to be.

Hence, why I tend to give too much of my time and free pastries to locals who may have read Austen in grade school and agree that a Regency-themed party is a chance to test out a British accent.

Graham and I step forward together. As we cross the street and count down the shops along the way, Town Hall looms closer and closer. Its open double doors allow warm, golden light to spill onto the green. In a deviation from the authenticity of the night, Cricket (not her real name . . . I think) snaps photos of all the guests as they enter. No doubt the mayor will use them for the next fundraising campaign as evidence of how cultured we all are. I stumble over my vintage shoes, thinking of having to see Graham next to me in photos other than the ones I’ve been preparing myself to endure after the wedding.

---