Page 13 of Hers By Summer’s End

“Correct. Mr. Sutton, which rival exhibitor once accused Miss Townsend of specimen tampering?”

Drew’s brow creased, and triumph fluttered through her chest. The accusation had happened years before they'd met. Humiliating, yes, but ancient history. Surely even Drew couldn't⁠—

“Richard Jenkins,” he said. “Though I also heard he was the one who left Seattle in disgrace the following year.”

Her smile vanished. How on earth did he know that? The realization struck like a pebble between the eyes. It appeared they had one gossip in common—her damned cousin.

“Correct. Miss Townsend, which variety earned Mr. Sutton his first blue ribbon?”

She pondered a small wine stain on the tablecloth. “That depends," she said slowly, “on whether you mean his first local blue ribbon or his first regional one.”

“Just answer the question,” Nancy said tightly.

“Delphiniums locally. Hybrid tea roses at the state exhibition.”

Nancy frowned at Drew’s slate. “Correct.”

“It’s a tie?” Mr. Corley demanded.

“They know each other so well,” Miss Harcourt breathed, her hands clasped over her heart.

Now the young woman found the courage to speak?

Cecelia risked a glance at Drew. His corded neck was a shade pinker above his tall collar, though that could easily be the summer heat. He was outwardly composed, if a touch stiffer in his chair. Was he as surprised by the breadth of their knowledge as she was? It was so hard to tell. Then he smiled at Miss Harcourt, causing Cecelia’s stomach to clench with something suspiciously like jealousy.

“Know thine enemy and all that,” he said.

Right.

“Thank you for the reminder,” she murmured.

“What was that, Miss Townsend?” Nancy asked.

“I said ‘What now, Mrs. Edgewood?’ Surely your silly game allows for such an eventuality. It would make sense considering we’ve all known each other for years.”

“It does indeed,” Nancy replied, ignoring her prickly tone. “This next round will test our contestants to a higher degree. There are ten questions. You'll hear each question only once and will have ten seconds to write your answer. Whoever answers the most correctly wins. Understood?”

Cecelia nodded, chalk already poised over her slate.

The questions came quickly. Which hand did Drew favor? In which storm did Cecelia catch pneumonia? His preferred sweet. Her most despised beverage. The tool he refused to lend anyone. The poems she sometimes recited while she worked. She wrote without pause; so did he. Every correct response drew a chuckle, a murmur, a slight intake of breath.

She suddenly realized that what she was doing was not proving herself clever. She was proving—to people she cared nothing about and to one she cared for more than she had previously known—that she had spent months collecting the small, ordinary details that made up Drew Sutton's life.

And he hers.

By the time Drew received yet another maddeningly simple question—what style of garden Miss Townsend cultivated at her house—Cecelia was ready to grind her chalk in half. He had only just seen the blasted thing! She scribbled woodlands with unnecessary force, then flipped her slate.

A collective gasp swept across the lawn.

She looked up, startled. Every eye was fixed on Drew’s slate, some with delight, others with disbelief. He’d written English cottage.

He’d written the wrong answer…on purpose. Her gaze flew to his, but he was too busy making grimaces of defeat to his adoring crowd.

What was he doing?

“Incorrect,” Nancy announced, unable to disguise her disappointment. “Which means Miss Townsend takes the lead. One final question remains.”

“This could be it!” Miss Blount crowed, bouncing on her toes beside the table.