Page 73 of I Love a Good Challenge

“More chocolate for more information.” Rafe’s smile is evident in his voice.

A laugh escapes me, and it cinches my ribs together in a way that’s a bit painful. The last time I truly laughed was with Graham, the night before, when he nuzzled into my neck and told me how much he missed me over bites of his birthday cake. Because, yeah, Graham is a nuzzling king.

Rafe shifts beside me, his arms casually resting on top of the counter, his guitar-playing, calloused hands moving gently, as if he’d rather be playing the piano or making music than talking right now. It’s one of his nervous tics. I almost appreciate it, knowing that he is making an effort to check on me.

“Listen, D’Artagnan,” I begin, a sniff echoing between us as I hold back the emotions threatening to appear at any moment. “Don’t worry about me. It’s Graham you should be worrying about.”

I catch Rafe watching the front door, where Graham is now talking to Gladys. Rafe’s brow furrows.

“Do you think he needs rescuing?” I ask.

“Nah. It’s best he learns how to handle Gladys sooner rather than later.”

“True.” I shrug. “Hey, did you know about Nashville?”

Turning so my hip can lean against the counter, I face him but not before shoving the rest of the mini chocolate bar into my mouth. If he’s annoyed, he doesn’t show it. But that’s Rafe. And I almost envy Graham for having Rafe as a friend before me.

“Yes, but it might not be permanent. Sounds like a good business decision. He can rent it out when I’m not there, or when he visits, we will all save on hotels. We have a lot coming up later this year. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“While his mother lives in his apartment? So, where’s he gonna live, D’Artagnan?”

“I thought you wanted him out.”

I huff, and Rafe hums, fresh crumbs from the muffin littering the counter while he sways back and forth, wrestling with his thoughts.

“Let it out,” I warn with a snarky smile.

A determined look crosses his face. “If you can stop being stubborn for a minute, you’ll realize that Graham living in town is a gift.”

“A gift?”

“You hurt him. I know. And I’m not minimizing that. But he’s here.” He gestures toward the window where Gladys is now measuring his shoulders with tailor’s tape. He is either going to end up in a play or posing for one of her next portraits. In short, he’s doomed.

“For now,” I mutter.

“And if you think for a second that you don’t deserve to love or to be forgiven, then you’re not letting yourself be human. We all make mistakes. We all hurt. We all want love, Lily. And you have it. Right in front of you.”

At this, I glance back at Graham through the window, who still (rightfully) has concern etched across his face. He begins to unbutton the sleeves of his shirt. I watch in fascination as he rolls them up, one after the other, so quickly and efficiently that it’s over before I can register that those arms want to hold me . . . and I’ve kept them at arm’s length.

“You should realize that you’ve won, even if he stays in town.” Rafe partially sings the last words.

“What on earth do you mean? If he leaves, I lose him again. If he stays, I need to figure out how to trust myself enough to love him well. I don’t know, D’Artagnan. I think I’m okay and that I can move on, but then I’m alone, and I’m tempering chocolate, or adjusting my ponytail, or—I don’t know—trying to fall asleep for the hundredth night in a row, and the deepest parts of me whisper that a memory of him will never be enough.”

I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to process how tears have slipped out.

“Because you love him.”

“He’s infuriating,” I counter.

“He’s your spark. One that you shouldn’t let burn out. Got it?” Rafe asks.

I nod because he’s right. I stand a little taller. “Got it.”

“C’est beau ca. Now, what are you going to do about it?” There’s a bit of a spark in Rafe’s eyes, and I think about all the times I poked him last year—grilling him about his intentions with Sparrow, never letting him off the hook for a second. Graham is more than a friend to me, and everyone knows it.

I laugh lightly, the levity welcomed in my stormy heart. “Well, D’Artagnan . . . I’m going to try to make it right. Again. Think I can do that?”

He must sense my actual question: Is there still enough forgiveness for me? “Of course you can,” he says easily.

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