Page 65 of I Love a Good Challenge

He laughs, a rich reverberation filled with depth and a hint of spice—basically, a chai latte wrapped up in a sound. “Of all the things, this is what’s doing it for you?”

Proudly, he assesses his shapely ankles. The medicine is held out to me in his palm.

“It’s the fever,” I protest, greedily grabbing the pills from his hand and taking them with the huge glass of water he put beside me. I didn’t even think I owned a cup this big, but he has managed to find a vat to hold water in. I’ll never be dehydrated again. “So, what happens now?”

Looking at me thoughtfully, he runs a hand through his hair. The top is so startlingly unruly for him that I feel proud, knowing what it means for me to see him like this, slightly unpolished and disheveled.

“And where did you get those pants?” I pause to breathe because I’m still stuck at the mental bus stop of inexplicable feelings. I’ve seen him in something other than dress pants only three times before today. Three! Once when we went to the carnival in our pre-challenge era (what I’m affectionately calling the time before he showed up in Birch Borough), once for the storm in our modern-day challenge era, and once at In the Ring. This makes the fourth.

“I own them,” he states without explanation. “And I think that what happens next is that we are . . .” he trails off, reaching for my hand. We meet in the middle of the couch, my fingers intertwining with his, my palm vibrating with the thrill of it. “This. I think that we are this.”

Nodding, I lean my head onto the cushion, focusing on the warmth I find in his eyes. We’re this. And I want this.

“I also think . . .” he begins, reaching for the remote. Turning on the TV, I watch in delight as he navigates to my recorded programming and clicks on my favorite show. “I’ll make you more soup when you want it. I’ll get you hot tea and cold ice cream, depending on what you want to soothe your throat, and I’ll sit here and suffer through this mayhem.” Though he says it with a straight face, his eyes narrow as he scrolls down the list of episodes as if he’s searching for a specific one.

Satisfied with a selection, he leans back, his frame melting into the back of the couch, his hand still in mine. The theme music for The Man is a Rake plays through the air, and tears brim in my eyes.

“You watch this show?”

He swings his head toward me dramatically. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You picked an episode,” I insist, using our clasped hands to point toward the screen. “You know this show.”

“I plead the fifth.”

“You picked the one with the rake who reformed and left city life to go after his girl in a small town. It’s us! You. Watch. This. Show.”

He laughs, its perfection coating the air between me and catapulting a smile onto my face. Being sick bites, but being sick with Graham? Not bad at all.

“Oh, also, I forgot to ask,” I continue. “Are you going to be sick because you’ve been with me all day? Do you have to leave?”

In another dramatic gesture (which he seems to be full of today, and I’m enjoying way too much), he grunts and reaches for my legs as if they’re too far out of reach. Catching the hint, I scoot closer and swing my legs up until they are tucked across his lap. My head rests on his shoulder.

His strong hands—their heat creeping through my own pair of sweats—are the best warmers I’ve ever experienced in my life. Instantly, I settle in, nestling into his neck.

“I think that’s as close as you can get,” he says with a smile in his voice.

“I’m testing that theory,” I reply, my eyelids already heavy with sleep.

He answers my earlier question. “No, I won’t get sick because I took a bunch of immunity shots already, and I don’t think my body will let me go down. I want to take care of you too much.”

“That’s sweet,” I manage. His kindness finally settles into my system, allowing me to fully feel his presence as our synchronized heartbeats get reacquainted with each other.

His voice continues softly in my ear. “And no. I don’t want to leave. If I had my way, I’d never be out of your sight again—even if my ankles must be.”

I grin and curl my free arm up to my chest, the other still safely entwined with his. The sounds of the TV dim, even as the beat of his heart becomes stronger. I feel him nuzzle into the top of my head, his lips lightly kissing my forehead.

“Sleep, honey. I’ve got you.”

And I know he does. It’s why I know that, even in my fevered state, there will be no nightmares tonight.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Lily

Chamomile is everywhere. My favorite flower sticks out in cheerful clusters all around me. I’ve gathered some into vases and have set them out around the bakery and café. This morning, I noticed bunches and bunches of the pretty flowers surrounding the café steps. Seeing them makes my heart happy. I wear a ton of black clothes, and there’s something so satisfying about chamomile’s tiny, creamy, white petals sticking out of a bouquet in my arms. I also love the smell, earthy with a hint of sweetness. Currently, I wish it was in tea form because I could use a bit of a sedative right now as my thoughts are consumed with everything Graham.

It turns out that love does not always make you immune from viruses. Graham started to feel sick the next day. Thankfully, Sparrow and Rafe have been in town, and we’re still a couple of weeks away from the wedding. It was easier for me to get better and head to his place to bring him care packages, sitting with him while we binged our favorite show. (I say ours because, eventually, he admitted in his fevered state that he has been watching it religiously since we met.)

---