Page 35 of Hers By Summer’s End

Relief rushed through him so suddenly he nearly laughed. Only Cecelia could move from heartbreak to strategy in the span of a breath.

“And when does this challenge begin?”

Her eyes gleamed. “Now.”

He watched, puzzled, as she slid between him and the oak desk crowded with stacks of paper, only to press her hand against the already-closed door. She examined the door handle, shrugged, and circled behind Theo’s desk to pick up his chair.

He began to laugh, even as his prick hardened with anticipation. “What are you up to, petal?”

“That depends, sweetheart.” She wedged the high-backed chair beneath the handle, then faced him, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Can you be very, very quiet while we misuse this office?”

He was on her in a flash, peppering her face with kisses. “I love you,” he said against her cheek. “So fucking much.”

“I love you, too.” Her hands swept down his sides to grip his hips. Then she was turning him, pressing him back against the wall in the narrow space between the door and the bookcase where they were out of sight.

“You’re all mine, Drew Sutton,” she whispered.

He shook with love and need as she trailed kisses down his chest. His head dropped back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut in rapture as she undid his pants and slipped her hand inside to fondle his prick.

“Always have been, always will be.”

EPILOGUE

Two Weeks Later

“Not you again,” groaned the weedy doorman outside the Yukon Gold Athletic Club.

“Me again.” Cecelia tried—and failed—to prevent a smirk. The dismay etched into his coarse face suggested she’d announced her intention to climb into the ring herself. “I’ll take one club membership for the smoker, please.”

“Let her in,” a deep voice called from the group of men lining the walkway. “That’s the Fighting Florist’s woman!”

The doubting Thomas hugging his tickets gave her an appraising glance. “You’re the botanist who stole his heart?”

“Guilty,” she said cheerfully, holding out her hand in expectation. “Now, are you going to let me in, or will I need to wear a mustache?”

“Please don’t,” he replied in a strangled voice. “I’ll be in enough trouble as it is.”

Hmm. She didn’t want the man to lose his job, especially not over something as silly as allowing a woman to attend a sporting event.

“You have my permission to tell anyone who asks that I snatched it out of your hand, shoved you aside, and sprinted inside.” She waggled her brows. “I’m quite strong. Most would believe it.”

He puffed out his chest. “I’ll do no such thing!”

“He would, but he’s afraid our Fighting Florist will pummel him for lying,” said a scruffy man leaning against the brick building, his cigarette smoke curling into the night.

The doorman sent him a sharp—but sheepish—look. Then, with a heavy sigh, he tore off a ticket. “Please tell Mr. Sutton that I wish him luck with the bout and with …” He waved a hand in her direction before finishing in an incredulous tone, “with love.”

“You’re a gem,” she assured him, slipping the ticket from his hand before he could reconsider. “If you’ll excuse me…”

The Athletic Club was much the same as she remembered—still sleek, still brassy, still conspicuously flowerless. She was noticed at once, as expected. Hard to miss a large woman wearing a bowtie and a bowler hat. The only difference was her reception. Men’s whispers followed her progress down the corridor, but this time, the snatched fragments tilted her lips.

That’s his lady.

She’s the one he competes with.

The moment she entered the banquet hall-turned-gymnasium, her cousin materialized at her side.

“Caught you.”