Page 58 of I Love a Good Challenge

I’m nearly about to attempt a text to Sparrow to be sure this is truly what she wants for photos filled with wedding bliss when we round a grove of trees and reach a clearing.

My breath breaks its rhythm as I discover the most gorgeous field I’ve ever seen in person. It’s nothing fancy. It truly is a field, with trees around the edges and a patch of wildflowers the size of half a football field in the middle. The patch of grass we’re standing on walks right up to a wall of flowers. There is a small alcove just big enough for people to stand in while the earth looks like an upside-down smile.

I don’t know how it is possible I’ve never been here before. I’ve lived nearby my whole life. At first glance, the flowers appear to be mostly yellow. But when you look closer at them, you begin to see that the colors woven throughout are rich shades of pink and red, purple and blue, with even some hints of white. It’s stunning. But the meadow is not Sparrow’s aesthetic.

“Huh,” I muse, walking toward the little alcove in the flowers, trying to immerse myself in as much of this experience as possible.

Graham follows me—his presence not unwelcome—and when I’m close enough, I lean over to catch the sweet scent of wildness meeting beauty.

“As much as I’m loving this scene that would surely thrill the legendary Bob Ross, this isn’t our friends’ vibe,” I remark.

“No, it’s more . . .” Graham doesn’t say it, but we both know the end of that sentence. It’s more us.

When I turn toward Graham, his eyes are closed, his face tipped up to the sun. The wind blows the top of his hair in a mesmerizing pattern, spinning some gilded threads throughout the light brown. As much as I miss the sight of his blue eyes, it’s at this moment that I see Graham not as he is now but as he could be. He and I.

Maybe it’s the dark grey dress pants and the white button-up shirt he’s wearing, rolled up at the elbows and perfectly tailored, but my throat starts to close at the mental image of Graham and me in front of a pastor in the middle of this field. The wind in our hair, nature all around us, hard edges meeting softness.

I feel hesitant, but I move toward him anyway, the feeling that we’re the only two people in the world propelling me forward. My hand reaches out to grab his wrist, which hangs loosely at his side. His eyes flash open. He turns to me immediately with a question in his eyes. Rotating it toward me, he turns up his palm in an invitation. This time, without hesitation, I slide my hand over his and thread our fingers together.

“Lily, what are we doing?” There is a question wrapped all around and in that statement, from the tone of his voice to the look in his eyes.

“I wish I knew.”

He releases a hum of contemplation. “You do know that, as much as it meant to us . . . I’m not Darcy. You’re not Lizzie.”

“Then who are we?” I whisper.

“We’re Graham and Lily. We always have been.” He starts to pull away.

I pull him back toward me, refusing to let his hand go now that it’s threaded through mine. “It’s stunning here, and I . . . I want to feel it all.”

His jaw shifts. “What do you want to feel?”

“Everything. You. This.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

I wince a little at his words because he’s right. If someone could win an award for mixed signals, I would be the unequivocal world champion.

“Are we going to talk about it yet?”

I shake my head, unwilling to ruin the memory of this field and this moment with the things that have haunted me. His brow furrows, eyes wandering over my face, reading my features, searching for something I don’t know he’ll find. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He steps a bit closer, the space between us blurring. The edge of his thumb traces the top of my eyebrow and the plane of my cheekbone, sending tingles throughout my face. His thumb lingers near the top of my lips. The weight of it meeting gravity causes it to slide down and caress my bottom lip, parting it from its mate. I’ve never wanted anything more than to be stuck in this moment with him for the rest of my life. A moment frozen in time, where he’s looking at me like he’s remembering what we used to be, and his eyes have picked up a light that could be interpreted as reflecting more than what we’ve been.

“You know what I’ve been wondering?” he says softly, the hand not tied to my own sliding down again. The edge of his thumb now maps a route from my jaw to my neck. He continues until he traces an inch of my collarbone, his hand slowly gliding to wrap around the back of my neck.

“What?” I whisper, my body leaning into his through some invisible force. Or perhaps the years of heartache that are trying to heal compel me toward him.

“I’ve been wondering if you still taste like chocolate.” The intensity of his expression meeting the slight grin pulling at the corners of his mouth tells me he has, indeed, been wondering this.

Of all the good fortune, I actually did eat a chocolate bar before he picked me up. So, I know I won’t disappoint him. That must be why, instead of running away or making a joke, I match his grin. “I think you should find out.”

His eyes darken, their various blue tones meeting vats of dark chocolate as his face hovers over me. My chin tilts up to welcome whatever he’s willing to give me with his kiss. If it’s like anything we’ve shared before, I’m about to be lathered with his affection.

With my free hand, I reach up and cup his face, the delightful feeling of his short beard soft beneath my palm. He used to put on beard oil to make it even more smooth to the touch. When my palm glides across his jawline, I smile because I know this about him. And it hasn’t changed.

“What are you waiting for?” I murmur.

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