Page 17 of Hers By Summer’s End

Beside him, Cecelia was a statue but for a slight widening of her eyes. Was it alarm? Embarrassment? Blast it, he still couldn't tell. How could he be so good at reading a crowd, but unable to decipher the expression of the one person that mattered?

“I’m afraid I’m accompanying my grandfather⁠—”

“That’s it, Sonny! Show them what’s what!” Granddad’s shout carried over the water. When Drew cast a glower his way, he found both Granddad and Mrs. Townsend with arms overhead, clapping with enough enthusiasm to set the nearby geese to flight. More fairgoers craned their necks for a better look at the commotion.

Drew groaned. “You’d think they planned this.”

“Pure chance,” Cecelia replied. “Though one conniving soul always recognizes another.”

He dipped his head toward hers and lowered his voice. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Why wouldn’t we?”

“Because we didn’t choose this. It’s like you said⁠—”

“We can choose it now.” She gave a small shrug. “It's only the next act in our very public play. Better to walk onstage than be shoved there.”

The remnants of his smile vanished. “Is that what you think the garden party was?”

“What else would it have been?"

His jaw ached as useless words battered against his throat. This wasn’t the place to have this talk, not surrounded by hundreds of spectators eager to eavesdrop. “Never mind.”

She raised a brow. “Mr. Sutton, if you're trying to make a point, you've hidden it remarkably well.”

“Forget I said anything,” he said shortly. “You have a particular talent for that.”

“What does that mean?”

“Here are your oars!” A cheerful young attendant with sunburned cheeks appeared beside them as though conjured from thin air, thrusting an oar into each of their hands. “Your rowboat is number sixteen. Best of luck!”

“Thank you,” Cecelia said, though the way her fingers wrapped around the oar suggested she was deciding whether it might better serve as a weapon.

“Wait!”

Drew closed his eyes. The infernal woman from the neighboring rowboat had returned. “What now?” he muttered.

“The stakes!” she called as her partner pushed them away from the dock. “What are the stakes?”

“That’s right,” said a man sporting a bushy beard with flecks of his ice cream in it. “There have to be stakes!”

“Why?” Drew demanded, fully aware that he was taking his frustration out on the wrong person but unable to stop himself. “We’re already doing the damn race. Why do there have to be stakes, too?”

Several faces turned toward him in puzzled silence. The gentleman blinked. “Because…you’re rivals? Stakes are…important?”

“Why are you being so resistant?” Cecelia hissed under her breath as she shouldered past him.

Her confusion was warranted. At any other time, he would relish a show of strength on the water. Would leap headlong into any ridiculous stakes the public wanted, so long as they cheered for him. But for the first time, the downside to notoriety was crystal fucking clear. All he wanted in this exact moment was to get in the rowboat, float along at whatever speed he goddamn wanted, and talk to Cecelia. But if all she wanted was to continue the act, then that’s what he would do, too.

“What do you propose,” Cecelia asked the gentleman, “considering Mr. Sutton and I are on the same team this time?”

“You win together, or you lose together,” he supplied eagerly. “If you win, no harm done. But if you lose, each of you must wear something ridiculous to the flower competition.”

“Ridiculous how?”

“Whatever your partner chooses.”

“I accept.” She turned back to him and arched a brow. “Mr. Sutton?”