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.”
“Hello, Theo. I was invited, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m well aware. My job is to give you this.” He handed her an ostentatious paper crown, complete with hand-cut points and pasted petals.
“What on earth is this?” Laughter bubbled from her as she took it. “What has that rascal planned?”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“The plot thickens,” she said dryly when Theo took her arm. “Where are you taking me now?”
“There’s a special seat just for you.” He nipped her a glance. “If you’re going to infiltrate a gentleman’s club, you might as well take the front row.”
“Might as well.”
They crossed the standing section and up the row of folding chairs, knees and elbows already jutting into the aisle.
She drew a deep breath, enjoying the event’s unique tang of sweat, cigars, and liniment.
There, on the seat reserved for her, lay a single pink rose and a note bearing her name in Drew’s unmistakable hand.
Cecelia looked from the note to Theo. “Times certainly do change, don’t they, cousin?”
“The club owners deplore your existence,” Theo said solemnly. “But not enough to turn down the revenue your presence brings.”
She smirked, removed the rose, and took a seat.
Then she considered the crown again, tracing each petal she knew came straight from Drew’s greenhouse.
He’d been practically giddy that morning when he’d risen from her bed.
She’d lain in the sheets rumpled from their lovemaking during the night and watched him dress with undiluted pleasure. When he’d
asked her to attend the smoker, public opinion be damned, the only possible answer had been yes.
She removed her bowler and donned her crown.
Drew’s arrival sent the room into a frenzy. The floor trembled beneath stomping feet, and shrill whistles pierced the air. Cecelia shot out of her seat, craning her neck to catch sight of her brawny, soft-hearted boxer. Her gasp was swallowed by the deafening roar.
An enormous summer hat, festooned with her pink Pompons and dangling blue ribbons, bobbed toward the ring. Drew’s visage bore an impudent grin, an unapologetic cockiness that invited all who watched to join in the joke. She threw her head back and laughed. It was utterly ridiculous.
It was also, unmistakably, for her.
He leaped into the ring, his feet dancing to the beat of the thunderous applause.
Spinning toward her, he caught her eye and sent a quick wink.
She watched with pleasure as he shrugged off his silk robe.
The fabric slid like honey down his powerful frame and pooled at his feet.
He danced backward, giving the room his back.
Written in bold black letters were the words:
I bow before my queen.
Cheers and catcalls rolled through the room like thunder. Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them away, laughing as the crowd gorged itself on Drew’s theatrics. Oh, that ridiculous man.
Her ridiculous man.
Drew milked the moment for all it was worth, strutting around the ring and twisting his torso with exaggerated motions so that none could possibly miss the words emblazoned on his skin.
Only when the uproar began to decrescendo did he move to stand before her.
Holding her gaze, he sank to one knee and held out a glove.
Nestled inside was a ring.
“Cecelia Townsend,” he shouted above the din, “Will you marry me?”
Cecelia laughed through the tears spilling down her cheeks, her heart so full it seemed impossible that her body could contain it.
Hands urged her forward from both sides, lifting her toward the ring.
She reached for Drew, smiling at the ridiculous, magnificent man who had somehow made her happier than she had ever imagined possible. Let the world say what it pleased.
She would seize what life offered her with both hands.
Thank you for reading Cecelia and Drew’s story.