Chapter 1 #2
His spectacle complete, Drew shrugged off his silk robe into his trainer’s waiting hands. He stood in the center of the ring, confidence exuding from his body.
And Cecelia broke out into a sweat.
Normally, she refused to ogle men—even Drew, who was unquestionably the manliest man she’d ever laid eyes on.
There was something profoundly provocative about a man who spent his days coaxing fragile buds into bloom and his evenings knocking other men about.
That she could appreciate, the same way one appreciated a magnificent stallion or an exceptionally sturdy bridge: with appreciation, not appetite.
Unfortunately, appreciation did not appear to be her body’s prevailing sentiment tonight.
Her gaze snagged on the leather-belted trunks that barely reached the tops of his thighs, and, for reasons beyond her control, her eyes then failed to disengage.
She ogled—yes, ogled—those strapping legs.
That thickset torso, muscles rippling as he rotated.
Those firm buttocks, flexing obscenely against the thin material for all the world to see.
Cecelia pressed her fingertips to the back of her neck, frowning at the odd swoops in her lower belly.
This was likely a consequence of circumstance.
She had, after all, spent most of spring trapped indoors, alternately miserable and bored.
Perhaps prolonged isolation had damaged her judgment.
Perhaps this was what happened when a woman spent weeks speaking primarily to her mother and various houseplants. Perhaps she—
“Why are you staring at him like that?” Theo demanded close to her ear.
“I’m not!” Denial was instinctual, but the need to have someone else name what was happening to her was a close second. “Staring at him like what?”
“Like he’s the ribbon you want pinned to your bodice.”
Oh dear.
She’d been afraid of that.
She forced a chuckle. “Fear not, dear cousin. Even if I did want him that way, I—
“Stop right there,” Theo interrupted. “I’d rather not know.”
She dipped her head in understanding. As happy as she was for the blossoming love between her best friend and cousin, there were certain things better left unsaid.
Jeers and catcalls saved her from replying. The challenger, a fighter imported from Portland, circled the canvas with a puffed-out chest. Cece scoffed. Arrogant fool didn’t stand a chance.
The bell rang.
The Portlander burst from his corner, landing a trio of short-arm jolts that sent a furious roar through the hall. Drew gave ground for half a second before answering with a punishing blow to the kidney. The crowd screamed its appreciation, and the fight quickly settled into its syncopated rhythm.
The rounds flew by, the noise rising to a numbing decibel.
At one point, Drew laughed, delighting the crowd and enraging the Portlander.
Men to her left shouted advice neither boxer could hear while the trio in front of her made frantic, last-minute wagers.
Cigarette smoke cloaked the ceiling, muddying the chandelier lights.
The hall stank to high hell, a mishmash of ripe bodies, damp wool, and spilled beer.
Cecelia loved it.
The fervor seeped into her bloodstream until she was one with the crowd. She groaned when Drew absorbed a hard punch, cheered when he delivered two of his own. By the fourth round, she was leaning so far forward that Theo shoved her back against the pillar.
The final bell never came.
A brutal combination sent the Portlander sprawling to the mat.
The referee began counting, the crowd with him.
Cece could barely breathe, her sweaty hands white-knuckling her skirt.
By eight, half the room was already celebrating.
By ten, the banquet hall shook. Drew's arm shot skyward in victory, and daisies and carnations—cheap and plentiful from the vendor outside—rained onto the ring.
Cecelia fumbled at her handbag, her pulse thready for an entirely new reason. She withdrew her specimen, an exquisite Aschenbrodel with twisted petals of gold and rose-pink.
Theo groaned when he saw it, but she merely tightened the robin's-egg blue ribbon wrapped around the stem. Drew would know it on sight—she used it in all her displays. He’d take one look and know he was in for a fight. One he would not win.
She raised the cactus dahlia over her head, aimed carefully, and lobbed it through the air. She held her breath as it soared. The spiky bloom collided with the twisted rope, teetering back and forth. It toppled backward, landing on the edge of the ring atop a pile of half-crushed yellow carnations.
She stared in horror.
No, no, no.
Weeks of work. An immaculate specimen! It must be seen. She took one determined step forward but was once again yanked backward.
“Cece, no.”
“But—”
“It’s over.”
She watched, her stomach sinking lower and lower, as Drew paraded around the ring. As he kicked aside a wilting carnation, further obscuring her Aschenbrodel. As her last hope was plucked as ruthlessly as a daisy petal in the hands of an unrequited lover.
A man wearing a three-piece serge suit and a flashing gold fob watch climbed into the ring and seized Drew’s wrist, hoisting his arm high overhead.
The crowd whistled and cheered in approval.
Drew grinned, but his gaze lowered to the mat.
It swept over the flower-strewn canvas at his feet…
almost as if he were searching for something.
Then he hinged forward and lifted her cactus dahlia from its early graveyard.
Cecelia’s breath wheezed out of her. He had it! Now he would perform the next step in their dance. He’d tuck the stem behind one ear, signaling his acceptance, and that would be that. Simple. Quiet. As Theo preferred.
Except Drew wasn’t lifting the flower to his ear. He was talking to the man—the club manager, she now gathered—whose face lit up with a glee that made Cece frown uneasily.
“What is he waiting for?” she demanded.
“What?” Theo shouted.
The club owner raised a hand for silence. The crowd, reluctant to surrender its enthusiasm, took its time. Cecelia’s bow tie became strangling. What was Drew doing?
“Congratulations to our victor,” the manager crowed. “And congratulations to all of us for witnessing not one challenge tonight, but two!”
Beside her, Theo went very still.
“It appears,” the owner continued, plucking the flower from Drew's hand and holding it aloft, “that the Fighting Florist has acquired a new contender. Not in the ring, but in the greenhouse!”
“The Fighting Florist can’t be beat,” a man shouted. “In or out of the ring!”
“You haven’t met this botanist,” Drew replied, his deep voice carrying easily through the hall. “She’s a force to be reckoned with.”
“She?” The club owner repeated in mock surprise. “You don’t mean to be bested by a woman, do you?”
Drew grinned. “Not if I can help it.”
Feet stamped on the ground. A few heads nearest Cecelia began to turn, eyeing her and whispering behind their hands. She ignored them, too busy imagining inventive new ways to strangle Drew for this bold turn of events.
“And where will this horticultural bloodbath occur?"
“Cactus Dahlia Day at the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition,” he replied, taking back the dahlia. “You may be familiar with that little fair we've got going on up at the university.”
“You’ve done some of the landscaping there, haven’t you?”
Drew laid a gloved hand over his heart. “When you see the rhododendron, you can think of me.”
Good-natured laughter swept through the hall. Cecelia rolled her eyes.
The owner gestured to the dahlia. “And what do you think of your contender’s specimen?”
Cecelia leaned forward. Despite everything, she couldn’t help herself. Her specimen was magnificent. He wouldn’t be able to withhold his praise.
Drew squinted at it with his one, unswollen eye. “Lackluster.”
A few men booed. Most laughed. And Cecelia’s blood began to simmer.
“And what message do you have for your challenger?”
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.