Page 3 of Hers By Summer’s End

Andrew Sutton had arrived.

All six foot two inches of him vaulted into the ring to an appreciative roar of the crowd. He threw a few practice jabs, bouncing on the balls of his feet, surprisingly graceful for a man who weighed two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

Cecelia smiled.

She’d always enjoyed watching him move. His was a body crafted in the garden, not the gymnasium. She’d seen him unload wagonloads of shrubs, transplant trees normally requiring two men to lift, and spend twelve hours on his feet—all before entering the ring. The end result was difficult, if not impossible, to duplicate.

His spectacle complete, Drew shrugged off his silk robe into his trainer’s waiting hands. He stood in the center of the ring, confidence exuding from his body.

And Cecelia broke out into a sweat.

Normally, she refused to ogle men—even Drew, who was unquestionably the manliest man she’d ever laid eyes on. There was something profoundly provocative about a man who spent his days coaxing fragile buds into bloom and his evenings knocking other men about. That she could appreciate, the same way one appreciated a magnificent stallion or an exceptionally sturdy bridge: with appreciation, not appetite.

Unfortunately, appreciation did not appear to be her body’s prevailing sentiment tonight.

Her gaze snagged on the leather-belted trunks that barely reached the tops of his thighs, and, for reasons beyond her control, her eyes then failed to disengage. She ogled—yes, ogled—those strapping legs. That thickset torso, muscles rippling as he rotated. Those firm buttocks, flexing obscenely against the thin material for all the world to see.

Cecelia pressed her fingertips to the back of her neck, frowning at the odd swoops in her lower belly. This was likely a consequence of circumstance. She had, after all, spent most of spring trapped indoors, alternately miserable and bored. Perhaps prolonged isolation had damaged her judgment. Perhaps this was what happened when a woman spent weeks speaking primarily to her mother and various houseplants. Perhaps she⁠—

“Why are you staring at him like that?” Theo demanded close to her ear.

“I’m not!” Denial was instinctual, but the need to have someone else name what was happening to her was a close second. “Staring at him like what?”

“Like he’s the ribbon you want pinned to your bodice.”

Oh dear.

She’d been afraid of that.

She forced a chuckle. “Fear not, dear cousin. Even if I did want him that way, I⁠—

“Stop right there,” Theo interrupted. “I’d rather not know.”

She dipped her head in understanding. As happy as she was for the blossoming love between her best friend and cousin, there were certain things better left unsaid.

Jeers and catcalls saved her from replying. The challenger, a fighter imported from Portland, circled the canvas with a puffed-out chest. Cece scoffed. Arrogant fool didn’t stand a chance.

The bell rang.

The Portlander burst from his corner, landing a trio of short-arm jolts that sent a furious roar through the hall. Drew gave ground for half a second before answering with a punishing blow to the kidney. The crowd screamed its appreciation, and the fight quickly settled into its syncopated rhythm.

The rounds flew by, the noise rising to a numbing decibel. At one point, Drew laughed, delighting the crowd and enraging the Portlander. Men to her left shouted advice neither boxer could hear while the trio in front of her made frantic, last-minute wagers. Cigarette smoke cloaked the ceiling, muddying the chandelier lights. The hall stank to high hell, a mishmash of ripe bodies, damp wool, and spilled beer.

Cecelia loved it.

The fervor seeped into her bloodstream until she was one with the crowd. She groaned when Drew absorbed a hard punch, cheered when he delivered two of his own. By the fourth round, she was leaning so far forward that Theo shoved her back against the pillar.

The final bell never came.

A brutal combination sent the Portlander sprawling to the mat. The referee began counting, the crowd with him. Cece could barely breathe, her sweaty hands white-knuckling her skirt. By eight, half the room was already celebrating. By ten, the banquet hall shook. Drew's arm shot skyward in victory, and daisies and carnations—cheap and plentiful from the vendor outside—rained onto the ring.

Cecelia fumbled at her handbag, her pulse thready for an entirely new reason. She withdrew her specimen, an exquisite Aschenbrodel with twisted petals of gold and rose-pink.

Theo groaned when he saw it, but she merely tightened the robin's-egg blue ribbon wrapped around the stem. Drew would know it on sight—she used it in all her displays. He’d take one look and know he was in for a fight. One he would not win.

She raised the cactus dahlia over her head, aimed carefully, and lobbed it through the air. She held her breath as it soared. The spiky bloom collided with the twisted rope, teetering back and forth. It toppled backward, landing on the edge of the ring atop a pile of half-crushed yellow carnations.

She stared in horror.