Page 6 of Hers By Summer’s End

Drew cast Missing Shoe an intrigued glance. The kid had nerve; he’d give him that. Such nerve deserved a response in kind.

“Is that right? Sounds like your Pa needs a—” Drew paused to rub his knuckles thoughtfully. A sharp indrawn breath from the flock nearly made him break. “—a ticket to the next smoker.”

The air expended around him in hoots and hollers.

But Missing Shoe, bold as brass, held his gaze. “He’d like that. But I wouldn’t put it past him to root for the other fellow.”

Drew tossed back his head and laughed. “Fair enough,” he said, reaching in his pocket to pull out a scrap of seed packet bearing the name of his landscaping business. “Tell him to bring this and tell the doorman his kid—” He paused meaningfully, waiting for the kid to blurt out his name, then nodded. “His kid Walt told him to come.”

The boy beamed. “Thank you, sir!”

The children went running down the street, exclaiming and shrieking and pushing each other all over the place. Drew shook his head in amusement. He’d once been such a kid, the only son of a working-class family. He’d spent plenty of days tramping about the neighborhood with his own pack of friends until Granddad threatened to hide his tail if he wasn’t home by the time Ma’s shift at the hotel restaurant ended.

A sliver of doubt wormed its way in with the memories. His life couldn’t be more different than Cecelia’s. Why did she humor their rivalry at all? Hell, no one else understood it. Not even his biggest champion, Granddad. He shoved the thought aside with practiced ease. Always best to square his shoulders and get on with it—doubt was for after the fight.

The white picket fence outside Townsend House was ajar. He stepped inside, then shut it firmly behind him. Wouldn’t want any of the youngsters getting ideas and causing trouble in Cecelia’s garden. He paused, one finger still hooked around the warm latch.

He’d never seen her garden. Heard about it, certainly—she sure did love to brag—but she’d never seen fit to invite him in. A quick peek couldn’t hurt. Might even give him something to fall back on when his thoughts inevitably tripped over themselves in her company. Before good sense could object, he strode down the drive lined with pretty rows of yellow shrub roses, rounded the corner of the house, and swept the garden with one discerning glance.

At least, he tried to.

His inspection had barely skimmed the elegant circular glasshouse in the center of the garden before his attention was yanked sideways like a salmon hooked on a brass spoon. Cecelia stood in the path, bent over at the waist, examining a bed of who-the-hell-cared.

Wearing pants.

Thick cotton pants that clung to her perfect pear of an ass. Pants that stretched tight as she shuffled forward, outlining a behind he’d already spent too many nights lusting over. Pants that proved, due to the lurch in his pulse and the fresh sweat beading on his brow, that he had no control over his body when it came to the boldest spinster in town. Those pants were fucking dangerous. What he’d give to—no. No. He would not subject a lady like Cecelia to his base, animalistic urges.

He must have made a sound—probably a strangled wheeze, by the way he was having trouble breathing—because Cecelia’s gaze nipped toward him.

“Some spy you’d make,” she drawled, hinging upward in a smooth action that made Drew’s abdomen clench. “The dahlias are on the west side of the house.”

He gave his body one last, ruthless order, then offered her an impudent grin. “Must have gotten lost. Good thing I’m only a humble boxer.”

“Only a boxer?” She huffed out an incredulous laugh. “We both know that isn’t true.”

See, that was the problem with Cecelia. She’d always insisted on treating him like an equal.

He remembered the day they met with aching clarity. It was three years ago, when he’d at last found the heart to fulfill his mother’s last wishes and enter a local flower show. He’d felt utterly out of place—a day laborer tolerated by the genteel hobbyists—and had been halfway to bolting when a statuesque woman with a riot of brown curls strolled up to his display of lavender and soft blue delphiniums. She’d studied the arching plumes with pursed lips, let out an exaggerated sigh, and declared: Looks like you’re the one to beat. Then she’d flashed that gap-toothed grin and added, which I will.

Drew’s heart had flopped right out of his chest and landed in a mess at her feet.

It flopped there still.

It most likely always would.

“Brought you a ribbon,” he finally said, digging into his coat pocket.

“Let me guess. Second place?”

Always a step ahead of him, she was. He grunted and produced the robin's-egg blue ribbon with a flourish, letting it unfurl between them. “Behold.”

Her boots crunched across the gravel as she walked, bringing with her that scent of fresh earth and crushed petals that was so uniquely hers. Drew pursed his lips, drawing tiny sips of air, until the ribbon was in her hand and he could take a step backward.

“It has my signature color!” Her chestnut brown eyes sparkled. “So kind of you to notice.”

Of course he noticed. He noticed every damn thing about her. Which flowers she greeted like old friends and which earned only a dismissive sniff. Which people she steered clear of, and which disappointments she pretended rolled right off her back.

But what good did all that knowing do?