Page 67 of I Love a Good Challenge

I forgot about the handful before I got into this stare down.

“Yes, please. When I’m done . . . we feast on the eclairs!”

We just added the pastries to the menu, but that’s beside the point as I rush to the kitchen. I’m doing my best not to think about what it would mean for Graham to stay in Birch Borough. If his future isn’t with me, I don’t know how I’ll move through it. My nature, the way I process feelings and words, makes me want to run to the mountains. And I don’t even hike. I’m considering taking it up—much like I did boxing—when Graham reaches for my hand as I pull out a set of pans. Gently, he lifts it to his lips. Just when I think he’s going to kiss the back of it, he turns my palm so his mouth meets the base of my wrist, his lips warm and soft against my skin. I clear my throat, a smile blossoming on my face as he grabs my apron.

We settle in. He unbuttons his shirt, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows. I act as though I’m immune to the sight of it, even while my throat constricts with awareness of him. Even when we were at odds with each other, he never raised his voice to me. He has never called me a name or made me feel like I’m an unacceptable human. He’s always steady, cautious, and curious, qualities which make it all so much more puzzling that he wants to be with me.

At times, I know I irk him. I poke when I shouldn’t and prod when I need to quit. I give sharp retorts and like to be ornery. I wear black to his mostly blue. I’ve always had what I needed, and he’s been working since the day he could—even before it was fully legal. He calls his mother every morning, and I’m lucky if I get to check in with my parents once a quarter. It’s honestly a bit of a miracle that we ignited with the sparks we had. But ignite like a blazing fire, we did.

“So, are we still challenging each other?”

I see the tentative expression in his eyes. The question hovers between us of whether I still want him out of this town or if he is welcome to stay. I’m not confused about how I feel about him, but I’m still unsure that I’ll be able to love him fully and in the way he deserves.

“We’re not past the wedding yet,” I reply shakily. “Perhaps we can just see . . .?” Wildly, I motion toward the ingredients I’ve been throwing in a pile on the counter between us.

The smirk playing on his face transforms into a gorgeous smile. “Then let’s do this,” he declares, all assuredness and joy.

His eyes flash with a bit of heat meeting amusement. Looking at him, I feel growing excitement for a game we haven’t even begun. He looks at me, not a hint of anything besides happiness on his face. He doesn’t act like our arrangement is absurd or abnormal. That’s one of the things I’ve always loved best about him. Graham never attempts to talk me out of my antics. He just goes along with them. He’ll call me out on my crap and tell me if he doesn’t want to do something, but he is always so clear about his boundaries that I can’t ever get mad.

Anticipation flows through my system. I’m like a wheel of possibilities, and a sudden realization hits me. Graham is the one who elevates what I think I’m capable of. He makes me want to do irrational things like change the shape of my eyebrows or wear something that’s not . . . black. Ha! Joke’s on him. I’ll always want to wear black. I allow only colored accessories and one colored clothing item a month into my wardrobe.

Graham turns to face me and slowly takes off his watch. At this, the blush surges on my cheeks. Graham is clocking every part of my face right now, his eyes trailing the path of embarrassment taking over. The heat of his stare isn’t helping. His expression is subtle—and if I remember him at all, with a hint of something like desire at the edges—which triggers memories of us standing in the wildflower field . . . and of him taking care of me . . . and of me taking care of him . . . and of the chamomile sprig this morning. I try to quiet the war within me and attempt to quell the trigger response that itches to categorize him as a nemesis all in a vain effort to fortify my heart. All I can think about is the smear of chocolate icing that hovered at the corner of his mouth at the cake tasting . . . and the feeling of his soothing hands on my shins . . . and those scandalous ankles.

“By the way, tomorrow night is my birthday dinner. It’s with my mom and uncle.”

I hear the hesitancy in Graham’s tone, and I ache to go back to the days when there wasn’t ever a hint of it. “I’ll be there.”

He nods, his shoulders shifting down a touch despite my reassurance. As I will myself to maintain eye contact, the challenge in his eyes mixes with a hint of something like skepticism for what I’ll say next. I hate that he still has a reason to doubt me.

“One day, I hope you’ll call me Graham again,” he says as he studies the butter I'll need to melt over the stove, even though I’m already melted from the blue in his eyes that I want to get lost in. “Because I think that’s how you feel about me. And I think you know how I feel about you.”

My breath catches as he walks backward with a smile, his head tilted away as he rearranges the bunch of chamomile in his suit pocket.

“Oh, and even if you’re tempted to, don’t ever go easy on me, Lily.”

With that, he smoothly turns on his heels toward the front of the store and walks through the swinging door. I peek through the tiny round window, and my mouth falls open as he has the audacity to start laughing with Sparrow. A pain au chocolat is handed to him on a plate with a smile. A few minutes later, he’s behind the counter, washing his hands. In disbelief, I watch him put macarons into the case, each one looking tiny in his large hands as he gently stacks them on their trays, his smile strong and bold. He appears far too comfortable, and as much as I enjoy the sight of it, the pain of panic grips me. In a short span, I went from wanting to drive him out of town to wanting to do whatever it takes to keep him here. And I may know just how to do it.

Another point: Graham.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Graham

Ithink you should know this is more than alarming,” Lily whispers. Her eyes catch on the view as we stand outside the old North Church in Portsmouth.

An art crawl is being featured along the streets tonight. Lily has always said she wants to fill her life with more art, so I thought this would be a great way to do it. My mom loves art as well, so it is a win-win.

“Meeting my family or being with me?” I look down at her with a smile.

“Neither. I am talking about the sheer number of people I’m seeing right now who should be on a sitcom and not casually walking through their lives as if they don’t belong on television.”

We took the day to explore the quaint neighboring city of Portsmouth. All afternoon, I’ve watched Lily’s blonde ponytail swaying through antiquated streets, coffee shops, and tiny shops filled with trinkets. She stops every few feet to look around her, like this old city is somehow new.

Now, we’re lingering under a tree with new green leaves, waiting for my mom and uncle to meet us for my birthday dinner. The sound of a violin and a trumpet mix somewhere from opposite directions. The music, the fresh air, the faint scent of the ocean on the breeze—all of it reminds me why I wanted to move here in the first place. There’s magic in the small towns scattered across New England. It feels as if I’ve come home but discovered something I never have before in the process.

“Thank you for being here,” I say, cataloging in memory the glow of Lily’s hair in the just-setting sunlight. Even though I know to expect it now, I’m still surprised every time I see it. I reach out to her, and she wraps her arm around mine. I’m still getting used to the fact that I can touch her and hold her and not have her respond with hostility.

“You’re welcome,” she replies softly. Tonight, she is wearing a black, short-sleeved dress that whispers deliciously around her frame. It’s the stuff of madness, with what I think is called eyelet lace and satin ribbon accentuating her waist. Despite the extravagance, the dress is also so very her, clothing the color of a silky raven mixed with elegance and femininity. She’s the element of dreams, this one.

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