Page 5 of Hers By Summer’s End

Drew looked out into the crowd. For one brief moment, she thought his gaze found hers. Then he raised the gold and rose-pink bloom.

And took a bite.

Men surged to their feet. The floorboards groaned beneath hundreds of boots. Somewhere a glass shattered. Cecelia’s mustache floated to the ground. And the crowd devoured the performance as enthusiastically as Drew devoured her flower.

Petal by petal. Leaf by leaf. Stem and all.

Theo was shouting close to her ear, but she couldn’t hear him over the roaring crowd. Her gaze was fixed on Drew, as hot as the flames searing through her veins.

She would bring him to his knees.

CHAPTER TWO

Ripped from The Seattle Spectator

July 24, 1909.

Fighting Florist Wins Again…?

It has been seven days since the Fighting Florist accepted—nay, devoured—Miss Cecelia Townsend’s latest botanical challenge at the Yukon Gold Athletic Club smoker. Our Fighter can be seen working daily at the Exposition grounds, plumping and pruning his flowery kingdom. But where is Miss Townsend? No one has laid eyes on the elusive challenger since she hurled the gauntlet. Is she cultivating a top-secret specimen? Or has she run for the hills?

July 25, 1909

34 days until Cactus Dahlia Day

Drew Sutton’s patience had worn as thin as pressed petals.

One week of suspense was more than enough to determine whether his favorite opponent was backing down. The only problem was, said opponent was nowhere to be found. A few weeks ago, that wouldn’t have been cause for concern—Cecelia had been bedridden since that unfortunate incident with the goat. But as he’d seen at the smoker, she was back to good health and back to her usual antics.

So where was her relentless campaign of torment?

His mailbox remained suspiciously free of neatly penned condolences on his upcoming defeat. His front door had yet to be decorated with a clipped article from House & Garden titled something along the lines of Beginner Tips for the Hopeful Gardener. Not even a single note reminding him that effort was what counted!

Which left him with a rather ridiculous problem: what was he supposed to do with the enormous second-place ribbon he'd bought her?

It had been sitting on the kitchen table for days, patiently awaiting its intended recipient, when Granddad had declared him the numbskull. Said Drew would never have changed the rules right as the bell rang, not without both boxers in agreement. That he was lucky Cecelia had only gone silent rather than poison his whole garden. Drew had blustered, of course, but he’d been no match against the seed of doubt planted in his mind.

Perhaps he had taken their rivalry too far.

He strode down the familiar streets of Queen Anne, his still-tender cheeks heated by the afternoon sun. He had to admit—he was a bit nervous. They might both live on the same hill, but he and Granddad’s humble abode was a far cry from the Townsend’s three-story mansion. Today might be the first, and last, time he ever set foot on the property.

He had just reached Olympic Place when a dozen boys clad in miniature sailor suits careened around the corner, their knickerbocker-and-stocking-clad legs flailing as they ran. The leader skidded to a halt before Drew.

“Holy moly, it’s the Fighting Florist!”

His comrades clumped around him, chests heaving. They reeked of candied sugar, crushed grass, and unending vigor.

“Holy moly,” echoed the smallest boy, picking his nose as he peered up at Drew with awe.

“It can’t be,” declared another with a ripped shirt pocket and wearing only one shoe.

Drew tipped his straw hat back and gave them a good look at his infamous ear. “It’s me.”

Shrieks ensued.

“My pa says your fighting days are numbered,” Missing Shoe said matter-of-factly. The leader whirled around, frantically shaking his head, but the boy continued. “That your recent wins are like my Granny’s surge right before she croaked.”

“He’s new to town, Mr. Sutton,” the leader—the youngest Williams boy, if he was correct—insisted.