Page 4 of I Love a Good Challenge

I laugh lightly. “Honestly, who are you? You know the works of Austen . . .” I hold off in case the only thing he’s read of her work includes Pemberley, but he gives a boyish smile.

“And others.”

“And how do you feel about strong women?” I counter quickly, my hand flying to my hip, unable to hold back from spouting out the thoughts springing into my mind. I’m good at that. A little too good. And, for some reason, the idea of him already retreating from me based on my personality makes me regret the tub of popcorn (just a little).

“Are there women who aren’t strong? If so, I haven’t met one,” he replies solemnly.

My mouth falls open.

Graham continues, “Now, if you’re talking about having a feisty quality, I like a woman with some fire. Call me an arsonist, but I like seeing how much I can light a spark in her until something between us starts to burn.”

His ears tinge a little pink at the same time heat flushes my face. His response shows he intended it to be PG, but now that they’re in the air, we also know the words could mean so much more in other circumstances.

I huff, but it’s more out of annoyance than frustration. I’m beginning to think there’s no way this man could ever be real. I never hold back from honest commentary, so I try to give him all I can to see if he can handle my greatest weapon: my mouth. “Honestly? I don’t know whether to love you or take up boxing . . .”

“I hope it’s the first one.” His response is immediate. No hesitancy.

A blush creeps up my cheeks, irritating me further. It also ignites something in me that’s new—perhaps how a butterfly might feel to suddenly find it is not what it once was. Graham laughs, and the sound warms me even more, the sincerity of it disarming me.

“But there’s something I need to know if you’ll be kind enough to tell me.”

The way he’s looking at me, I already feel some of my defenses slipping. “Yes?” I ask, holding my breath.

The palm trees towering over us sway in the wind, seemingly unaware of gravity, rooted resiliently to the earth as they stretch toward the sky. The jarring sounds of LA traffic punctuate our conversation while unaffected locals eat an early dinner on the patios of the cafés lining the street. Tourists with large cameras meander down the sidewalk, taking dozens of pictures of the sidewalks and signs they must think are famous landmarks. Meanwhile, they just missed the A-list celebrity disguised in a baseball cap who just walked by.

I find it all amusing. It’s amazing what we can be distracted by while missing what’s right in front of us.

Graham stops on the sidewalk with a hum, his eyes assessing my face as if I’m a puzzle and he’s looking for clues. “What’s your dream?”

“What? Why would you ask me that? People don’t just go around asking people about their dreams. We’re not living in a musical.”

Graham shakes his head. “Agree to disagree. I can’t sing, but I do love music.”

“Of course you do,” I say under my breath.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

Emotion clogs my throat, but I know nothing will clear it out. If this is what it means to truly be seen by someone, I don’t know how to feel about it. “You’re a stranger.”

“I hardly think anyone who enjoys that movie together could be considered a stranger.” He gestures back toward the theater, which is fading in the distance behind us. “Fine, I’ll tell you mine. My dream is to be a good man.”

“You aren’t already?”

He shrugs in my peripheral vision, the warmth of him simultaneously calming and yet so brutally exposing all the things I’ve talked myself out of.

“I hope so. But I’m not sure I would know. Didn’t have much of an example except what not to be.”

His honesty startles me. And something in me wants to tell him. To let out the words that have been clawing at my mind. The thing I’ve wanted so badly for so long that I almost forgot it was there. Who knew Austen movies could bring out confessions of my own? Still, something about the softness in his eyes gives me courage. Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.

“Fine. The thing that I want . . . I mean, my dream . . .”

He nods for me to continue, though the surprise on his face strikes me as even more endearing. He’s not taking it for granted that I’m answering his question.

As I try to collect my thoughts, I think of my parents, who love me but decided to move overseas to help others. I think of how they’ve always put their work in medicine and helping people at the forefront of their minds and their lives. Somehow, they believed I was strong enough to handle life on my own. If not for my small town, I would believe that love looks like doctors’ offices and eating dinner by myself. They tried on weekends to make up for it, but still. People seem to assume that because I’m strong-willed, I’m not soft. But I’ve been inwardly begging for someone to try to understand who I am. I protect others but don’t always know how to protect myself. I need banter to feel like I’m heard. I need wit woven with kindness to feel like I’m seen. The veiled urgency of it makes me want to weep, and I’m nearly desperate to feel understood.

“I want to be someone’s first choice.” The words burn in my throat but feel strangely liberating. It’s one truth from a sea of hidden secrets that cling to the bottom of my soul like barnacles on a boat.

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