Page 7 of Hers By Summer’s End

They belonged to different worlds. She’d been born into wealth and was university educated. He was neither. Flowers just happened to be the one place where those worlds overlapped. Every month or two, a competition cracked the door open just wide enough for him to step through. To trade barbs, do his best to make her pulse race, and pretend, for an afternoon, that they weren't separated by more than a few flower beds. Then the judges handed out the ribbons, folks tipped their hats and went home, and the door shut again.

Competition was all he’d ever have from Cecelia Townsend. He’d made his peace with the harsh reality long ago. Still...he'd take a few borrowed hours over none at all. Every time. Even if it cost him a week's sleep and caused an ache to take up permanent residence beneath his breastbone.

“Hard not to recognize your color,” he said with practiced levity, “seeing as you attach ribbons to all your infamous deliveries.”

“Touché.” She planted both hands on her waist. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

His pulse gave an altogether unnecessary leap at the word pleasure. It was only a turn of phrase. Had nothing to do with him.

“Seems I owe you an apology.”

One brow rose. “Now, why would you think that?”

So she wasn’t going to make this easy. The knowledge pleased him, showed him she was ready for some verbal sparring. That he could do, in spades.

“It appears I might have carried our little contest a step too far.”

“There’s no question of that,” she said bluntly. “May I ask why you did it?”

Fair question. Trouble was, he wasn’t entirely certain himself. He’d always kept a tight grip on his feelings where Cecelia was concerned. Admire her? Certainly. Flirt a little? Couldn’t be helped. Lose his head over something as mundane as seeing her? Absolutely not. That is, until he’d spotted her at the smoker, bouncing up and down beside a hand-wringing Theo, cheeks pink with excitement and wearing a ridiculous fake mustache.

He’d laughed out loud.

And something inside him had broken loose.

Perhaps it had been the crowd shouting his name. Maybe getting punched in the head had rattled whatever good sense he still possessed. No matter the reason, he’d wanted her to notice him. He’d wanted to be Drew Sutton: Worth Looking At. Worth Cheering for. Worth…no. Best not wander any farther down that road.

“Saw your fancy mustache,” he drawled. “Figured I’d better come up with something equally memorable.”

“So you did see me.”

“Guilty.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “You were showing off.”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be much of a showman if I didn’t.”

She studied him for a long moment, humming thoughtfully. “I’ll accept your apology, but⁠—”

“Don’t tell me you’re calling the whole thing off,” he interrupted, growing almost giddy at the way his taunt made her shoulders square and her eyes gleam. “Scared it’ll be my name on the placard by the winning cactus dahlia when it’s your life’s work?”

“Drew.” She looked at him as though he'd tried to crossbreed a tomato with a thistle. “It’s precisely because dahlias are my life’s work that I was going to offer you the chance to back down.”

“Never,” he declared.

“Then it’s agreed. The battle continues.”

“All right.” He shrugged as if she hadn’t made his day. One thing, however, still didn’t make sense. “If you’re so eager to compete, then why did you disappear?”

She shot him an affronted look. “I was busy escorting Mother to Tacoma after her maid caught a cold. She was ready to cancel her duties for the Women’s Hospital Association, so I stepped in.” She sniffed. “Funny how the newspapers didn’t find that worth printing.”

“Wouldn’t fit the story they’re selling,” he pointed out.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if folks saw you being charitable instead of trying to flatten me, I wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“Doubtful, but thank you. Besides, I had plenty of time to think while I was away. You wouldn’t believe the earful I got the day after the fight. Even the milkman had an opinion.”