Page 87 of I Love a Good Challenge

“In my dreams,” he begins, and I feel my eyes widen, “you never had your hair down.” He clears his throat, the edge of a smile working its way to his face.

Cautiously, he reaches out and strokes his hand through my hair, the tips of his fingers causing shivers to break out across my head and down my spine. I almost laugh at how electric his touch feels, but any urge to laugh pauses at the intensity in his eyes. Graham looks as if he’s finally experiencing something for the first time that he thought was out of reach.

He pulls back and smiles down at me, the expression so full and glorious that it warms me more than the hot drink ever could. He mirrors my movements as I turn my body to face him, tangibly showing me how much he’ll meet me every time.

Graham recently decided to bunk with Liam while his mom takes over his place, and Rafe moved in with Sparrow. The feeling of even more change is in the air. He has completed all the paperwork for his business. Already, as our fellow townspeople make themselves his personal version of strategic marketing, he is lined up to meet a few artists over the next month. Even though he decided to rent a home in Nashville for the times he and Rafe need it, he most likely won’t be going anywhere after all. Or he’ll find a way to take me with him.

“Ahh!” I yell, almost spilling my tea and scaring the crap out of Graham as he continues his caress of my hair.

“What is it?” There is panic in his voice.

“The croissants!” I take off running toward the bakery, Graham tailing me.

To my relief, he works with me the rest of the morning to help me catch up. I also suspect he wants to stay close to me. I’m not complaining. He’s becoming quite an accomplished bakery assistant. The only time we end up being apart all day is when Graham takes a call from some fancy music people while I make more pains au chocolat than I’ve ever made on a Sunday. Once word began to get out that I personally temper the decadent chocolate for the center, they’ve been more popular than ever. My money is on Graham spreading the word.

Later that evening, after kisses in charming alleyways and saying goodbye for the night so many times I lose count, I enter the front door of my apartment building and find a little white envelope with my name on it peeking up from my jacket’s pocket. I recognize the handwriting on it as one thousand percent belonging to Graham.

Running up the staircase, I rush in and close the door of my studio, already out of breath from anticipating what could be inside, and tear open the top—well, not tear . . .Truthfully, I open it gingerly so as not to ruin this paper artifact that I’ll probably hang on to for far longer than necessary. Inside, I find a printed ticket to a Boston Red Sox game, the date for . . . tomorrow?

I pull out my phone to text him, but as I turn the envelope over in my hand, a small piece of paper falls to the ground. I stoop to pick it up, my eyes devouring the neat script.

A final challenge, one I hope you will accept. Wear your jersey. Love, G.

Graham knows I have a jersey because he gave it to me. It was one of many gifts he poured out while we basked in the bliss of our six-week romance in LA. I have never gotten rid of it. I couldn’t. In light of tomorrow’s game, I decide to let it be my one colored clothing item for the month.

Alarms flare inside my head as I throw everything onto the couch and rush to my closet to pull a box from the corner of the top shelf. It’s a box with cryptic markings on the side. Little would anyone know that it holds some of my favorite things in the world. I bring the box to my bed, opening it to find items I don’t think I would give up for anything, Graham’s jersey being one of them.

Draping it over my arm, I return to the couch to find my phone and pull up Graham’s number.

Lily: Game on.

Three little dots dance on the screen.

Hot Stuff: Still have your jersey?

I want to tell him I don’t just to frustrate him. Instead, my fingers fly over my phone.

Lily: Guess you’ll find out.

Silencing the ringer, I toss the phone into my bag. I collapse on the couch, my mind racing with possibilities. I don’t know what Graham is playing at. We talked once about seeing a game together. A grin overtakes my face as I pull another item from the box. I study it. When I decide to take it with me to the game tomorrow night too, my heart begins to race. Whatever is in store for us, I’m ready to play ball.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Graham

Ilove the atmosphere in Fenway Park. In the world of Major League Baseball, it’s the oldest ballpark, having opened in 1912. There’s just nothing like it. From the Green Monster wall in left field, a favorite spot for players to measure home runs or grand slams and fun for the fans to sit on, the park is iconic in every way. As you move through the tunnels to get to your seat, you see the old wooden framework, bending a bit into a smile while holding the history of all the games ever played in Fenway Park. I try to catch Red Sox games whenever I can during the warmer months. Tonight, I’m just happy to be here with Lily, knowing she wants me near her. It doesn’t matter why we’re here as long as we’re together.

“Why do you think these workers are just so dang amusing?” She nods toward the men who walk up and down the stadium steps with boxes, coolers, and food warmers on their heads. I know they are full of pretzels, cotton candy, or hot dogs. Watching them work is riveting. I know I couldn’t even bench press what they probably lift. At the speed they fly along the rows, up and down on repeat, it’s a wonder their calves don’t burst through their pants. You can barely see their feet because they move so quickly.

“I need snacks!” Lily yells. She bolts from the seat, her purse swaying behind her as she hops up and runs down the aisle, trying to get someone’s attention. Calmly, I raise my hand to one of the men, who holds what appears to be caramel corn. I’m munching on the buttery sweet goodness when Lily returns, her eyes wide and hair a little disheveled.

“How did you . . .?” She points to the caramel corn, shrugs, and then steals a kernel before sitting down without a care in the world.

A question burns in my mind, and I feel like I’m going to burst with the anticipation. The only thing stopping me from blurting it out is the fact that I haven’t found a ring worthy of it. Nothing compares to the ring I lost on the beach that night, so I’ve held back, biding my time. I want to savor each moment we are dating, even though I’m ready to speed it along. I think I could run all the bases with the energy that’s pulsing through me right now.

I look over to see Lily holding out a Fenway Frank for me, the name for the iconic hot dogs served at the park (and, for some reason, they do taste better than any other hot dog). It’s covered in mustard and relish. She takes the biggest bite of a pretzel she bought for herself. It sticks up from the crook of her arm. The brilliance of the setting sun behind her casts a glow over her high ponytail, making her hair look like pure gold. She’s the angel of the ballpark, and I happened to witness it.

A grin plays on her face as she chews, one cheek stuck out in pure joy, a hint of mustard layered on her top lip. Clumsily, I reach for a napkin and start to hand it to her, but I quickly realize that, with her soda clutched in one hand and her pretzel in the other, she isn’t able to wipe her mouth.

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