I Love a Good Challenge (Love in Birch Borough #2)

Chapter One

Lily

M y mouth tastes like chocolate. Dark chocolate—bitter and in need of some sweetness to make it a bit more palatable—much like my current scenario. It’s fitting because when you work with chocolate and other baked goods all day, every day, you learn to draw parallels between them and your life. Making beautiful things with your hands from flour, sugar, and pure magic is a comfort because they tangibly remind you that what starts as a mess can become a sort of miracle. When you’re as romantically challenged as I am, that’s a relief.

I’ve saved up for a year to be in LA for the next six weeks. I don’t think I fit into the city, but it is a nice distraction. The great love of my life is chocolate, so when a spot on a chocolatier-intensive course I’ve had my eye on for years opened, I couldn’t pass it up. Becoming more excellent at my craft is an added win.

I rarely take a vacation from Sparrow’s Beret, the bakery and café I co-own with my best friend in Birch Borough. After all, if I’m not there, who will keep our town on its toes and constantly evaluating whether or not it should apply to be on a reality TV show? I didn’t take into account how lonely it would be across the country from the place I call home, though. I’ve spent seven nights in a short-term apartment rental, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe the few crummy people in my life who have led me to believe that I’m “too much” are right.

Despite the lingering smear of chocolate on my pants from today’s session, I’ve made my way to a movie for some comfort and a distraction from my intrusive thoughts. It’s Valentine’s Day, for crying out loud. Nothing good comes from Valentine’s Day. I learned a long time ago that love can be . . . fragile. It breaks easily, even when you aggressively attempt to keep it whole. Much like the tiny shavings of chocolate I sprinkle over our pots de crème, which melt as soon as you take a bite, affection seems to melt at the first sign of heat.

If I were home, I’d be bundled up with hot cocoa and multiple layers to keep myself from turning into ice in the still-frigid New England winter air. But here I am, in a t-shirt and high tops. What a life.

The smell of old movie theater mixed with the different stages of buttered popcorn—from stale to freshly popped—hovers in the air. I’m holding the biggest soda I can manage and a tub of popcorn. Yes, a whole tub. A sense in my bones tells me I will need it today. The theater is featuring a special showing of Pride & Prejudice (the 2005 version with the iconic hand flex). I knew I had to do everything I could to see it again on the big screen, so here I am.

Just as the lights begin to dim, movement to my right distracts me. A figure walks down the row in the direction of my seat. It’s a man—an alarmingly attractive man. Even in a room full of shadows, I can tell. I’m not sure how science explains our ability to sense that someone is attractive before we even fully see them, but maybe I should study the phenomenon.

“Excuse me.” His voice breaks through the ambiance of movie theater sounds.

It’s only us in the section, plus a few teenagers to the left. They’re giggling, and it’s clear they weren’t even born when this movie came out (which is depressing). A few senior citizens sit toward the lower rows and are, without doubt, here to see the men in great coats at a weekday matinee show. They’re my heroes.

I turn toward the newcomer, my eyes catching on suit pants paired with a button-up dress shirt, which is tucked in and peeking out behind a lightweight trench coat. I lift my eyes enough to see half of his face illuminated by the larger-than-life screen. His eyes are light, his hair perfectly styled, and he is wearing one of those leather-banded watches that make a man infinitely more intriguing.

“Are you British?” I mutter, the butter from the popcorn still sticking to my lips. There’s no way this man can be American when he looks like someone my Regency-loving heart would find casually crossing the English countryside and not sitting in a movie theater.

“I’m sorry?”

He’s definitely not British. He shrugs out of the trench coat. I’m rarely embarrassed, but I feel myself sinking a little lower in my seat. My jeans shift awkwardly on the leathery seat cushion as he sits in the seat beside me .

“No, not British,” he continues with a laugh, discarding his coat on a nearby empty seat.

I don’t know what show I’ve landed on, but I just know I’m being punked. If I had to guess a culprit, Gladys—the simultaneously endearing and frustrating busybody from my small New England hometown—has hired someone to mess with me even though I’m three thousand miles away. I don’t know how she knows I’m here, but it feels like the most reasonable explanation that someone who looks like this man has chosen to sit next to me in a nearly empty theater. His level of blatant desirability alone makes me feel like I’ve landed on a movie set. I don’t think they cast men like him to appear out in public where I’m from.

“Ashton?” I whisper expectantly into the air, waiting for a camera crew or a certain celebrity host from the early 2000s to pop out from behind the big red curtains up front.

“What was that?” the man says. He is not affected in the least by my obvious malfunction.

“What are you doing here?” I demand because he couldn’t possibly be here to watch a movie.

“Seeing a movie,” he says with a grin that flashes even in the dim light.

Instantly, I am riled up by the fact that his voice is exactly like I imagine melted chocolate would sound. I growl a bit. His eyes light up with amusement.

“Did you just growl?” he asks in a delighted tone.

I scrunch my nose. “It’s just . . .” I am waving my hand in the air as if I’m about to land a plane (or half a plane since the other is still wrist-deep in the popcorn tub) when his shoulder brushes against my hand. I feel chills run down the back of my spine. His eyes—which I now realize are blue—take on a darker hue as if they’re in the process of turning from daylight into a starry night.

“It’s just, what?” His voice is suddenly a bit strained.

I’m delighted that he is as affected by me as I am by him. I probably smeared butter on his dress shirt, but I’m slightly satisfied that, even within this brief interaction, I’ve left my mark on him.

“May I sit here?” His tone shifts back to earnest. He sounds sincere. I’m good at calling people on their crap, and so far, this man isn’t reeking of any of it.

“Are you a creeper?”

Immediately, he arches back in his seat. Adjusting his shirt collar, he shakes his head. “What? No.”

“Well, then why does a man who looks like you come to a matinee showing of a movie that causes women to forget the world for a couple of hours and makes them dream of men wearing high-waisted pants?”

“Looks like me . . .” he mumbles to himself. I expect him to ask what I mean. Instead, he faces me with a furrowed brow, and I know he’s about to throw a curveball. “Why do you love this movie?”

“Are you kidding me?” My popcorn-filled hand, now shooting kernels like tiny cannonballs in front of us, moves toward the screen as if I’m summoning the sun. “The hand flex moment. The dancing. The boiled potatoes line. The rain scene!”

“Interesting. Have you read Pride & Prejudice ?”

“Of course I have.”

“How many times?”

I blink. This man doesn’t know how many times I’ve hidden away with a book in my hand and a dream in my heart just to feel like I belong in a story that’s not mine. In books, there can always be a happy ending. In life, not so much. I try to keep my feelings on love as far under the surface as possible, which is surprising, given my tendency to freely express my emotions and opinions. But my love for books and movies set in other times stems from the fragments in my soul murmuring that the timing of my existence is all off. If I had been born in another period, perhaps I would feel as if I fit within my own life. And maybe somewhere else, instead of always wanting to fight with others, I’d feel like I’m the one worth fighting for.

I rally my thoughts to reply. “Dozens. How about you, Mr. Regency? How many times have you read the book?”

He has the audacity to smirk while adjusting his well-fitting designer shirt collar. It is only fair that this aggravating man pays exquisite attention to his attire. I try to focus on his words.

“Sixteen times. I read it every year. When I was fourteen, my mother sat me down and handed me the novel. She told me to read it once a year for the rest of my life. She said it would make me a better man.”

My mouth hangs open while he casually sips the soft drink I didn’t even notice until now. Because of course he can sip elegantly from a concession cup while I wonder how long my hand is going to smell like butter. It’s a good thing there aren’t many people in the theater, or we’d be kicked out for talking. It’s not like that hasn’t happened to me before.

“You’re lying,” I say with conviction.

“I never lie. And I’m a lawyer.” He winks, but his tone and body language tell me it’s true. There’s something so open and honest about him. Something that I want to explore.

“Fine. You can sit next to me. Especially since you’re doing it already.”

“Thank you.”

“But what are you doing here ?”

“I’m about to watch Mr. Darcy be broody and awkward and still win the woman of his dreams.”

He turns his face toward the screen. His profile is something an artist would swoon over. I now notice his neatly kept beard—more than stubble but less than completely full—that carries a scent of delicious-smelling beard oil. I take a deeper breath and shiver. It’s definite. I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a man, and I’m so aware of it.

“Infuriating,” I grumble.

“Endearing,” he counters. “So, um . . .” He gestures in a (dare I say) adorable way to encourage me to tell him who I am.

I lift my chin a little higher and shove a fistful of popcorn into my mouth but regret it immediately when I nearly choke.

“Are you okay?” He pats my back. The spot where his hand gently tries to keep this movie from being my last is now on fire. Forget the iconic hand. I think my spine is flexing.

“Stop it!” I cough. “I’m fine, George.”

“It’s Graham, actually.”

I’m still clearing my throat. “Okay.” Cough. “George.”

He furrows his brow. “As in Wickham . . .?”

I shake my head and nod toward the screen as the promotion for the movie theater company begins. It’s the reminder to silence your mobile phones, and it’s weirdly comforting that I feel unhinged by the sight of it. Still, I want to get right to the movie to avoid thinking about the unusual rhythm my heart has begun to follow. My once dark-chocolate mood is turning sweeter by the moment as I silently beg us to get lost in the familiar film.

“It’s possible you’ll never know,” I retort. By how much I’m already feeling a gravitational pull toward him, I decide it’s best to leave a bit of mystery hovering between us.

“Ah, a challenge,” Graham muses, his voice rich, beckoning me to angle myself closer to him.

As if on cue, the theater darkens until it’s just the runner lights on the carpeted stairs fencing us in as the movie screen lights the way. I don’t know what ride I’m on, but I have an intense feeling I’m not leaving this movie theater the same way I walked in.

“Trust me,” I hear him continue as the distinctive piano intro begins to play. “I’m definitely not the Wickham of this story.”