Page 8 of Hers By Summer’s End

“Brawling with a bruiser like myself won’t do your reputation any favors,” he allowed.

“I’ve been brawling with you for years,” she said with a huff. “The only difference is that someone decided to inhale my flower before a contingent of journalists and gossip-mongers!”

“I got carried away. Your fault, incidentally, for attending the smoker in the first place.”

She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “The point is that I know what Seattle is saying: a crazed spinster challenged a local favorite prizefighter to a flower contest. Now everyone wants to see what happens next, and I don’t blame them. From the outside, it does sound rather entertaining.” She met his gaze head-on. “I’ve weighed the pros and cons, Drew, and I’ve decided it’s my own opinion that matters most. What I want, more than anything else, is to show the world what I can do. If I also happen to defeat you along the way, so the better.”

“Cecelia, you are a wonder,” he said before he could stop himself. Color stole into her freckled cheeks, and she was so goddamn beautiful he had to tear his gaze away before he did something foolish like drop to his knees and beg her to love him.

His attention landed on the garden, though garden seemed far too ordinary a word for what she had created. It was as if a forest glade had wandered willingly into the city. A flowering dogwood spread its branches overhead, shading the towering plumes of creamy goat’s beard and swaths of ferns below. Clumps of orange tiger lilies flared through the greenery like little torches, their bold color softened by the quiet stream winding past weathered logs and moss-covered stones. It felt like Cecelia somehow. Untamed at first glance, yet thoughtful upon closer inspection.

“You and your garden both,” he finished.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes soft as she viewed her creation. “This is our sanctuary.”

“I can see why.”

The silence stretched, and Drew was unsure how to break it. He sank to his haunches and inspected the bell-shaped Purple penstemon nodding beside the path, which, he realized with some surprise, was a wide, straight line of crushed gravel, the only unnatural element to her woodland garden.

“Drew,” she said thoughtfully.

He glanced up, startled to see vulnerability flash across her face. Cecelia, who was always smirking, always ready to snipe back, looked hesitant. Ah, hell. She looked like she was about to break his heart. He straightened. Braced himself.

“Yes?”

“I appreciate the apology,” she said, “though it wasn’t the one I’d hoped for.”

“What should I apologize for, then?” he asked cautiously. “I didn’t let the goat in the church grounds⁠—”

She waved an impatient hand. “The goat didn’t know I was there to spy on your display, not steal its food.”

“I see,” he murmured.

He most certainly did not see. If she wasn’t angry about falling from his ladder and being left stranded overnight, what could he have done? He sifted through his memory. “Perhaps sending you a clipping of my victory was ill-timed, considering you were bedridden.”

“No. Not that either.”

“Then what?”

The corners of her mouth pinched into a tiny, almost embarrassed smile. She cradled a nearby foxglove, one of the last of the season, its crimson petals startling against her soil-stained gloves.

“I had hoped you would write me after the accident,” she said after a moment. “I was alone for a long time, you see.”

Oh.

Oh hell.

“I—” He swallowed. “I didn’t realize you’d want to hear from me.”

“Don’t friends write to each other when they have an accident?”

“They do,” he said automatically. Then the words caught up with him. The city thought they were rivals. Cecelia thought they were friends. And he…he'd been in love with her so long that writing while she recovered had felt selfish. Like finding an excuse to wedge himself into her life where he didn't belong.

Guilt lodged beneath his ribs like a stone.

“I am sorry,” he said. “If I'd known, I'd have written more often.”

“It's in the past now,” she said with a wistful sigh. “Though...I suppose you could make it up to me.”