Chapter 8 #2
He couldn’t have looked away from those glittering eyes if he’d tried. This was the Cecelia he knew and loved—a woman who never shirked a challenge worth having. Hope nudged at his despair. “I’m listening,” he said, spreading his hands before him.
“I’m furious because I was perfectly fine before I met you. I had accepted spinsterhood. I had my work, my mother, Rosie. My life was full.” Her eyes narrowed accusingly. “Then you had the unmitigated gall to be…you.
“You met every challenge I threw at you. You insisted on turning every scandal into a joke and every competition into an adventure. Somewhere along the way, I stopped wondering how to beat you and started looking forward to whatever ridiculous thing we'd do next.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “It was nice, damn you. Nice that you never asked me to be prettier, or quieter, or sweeter. Nice that you never cared that I’m opinionated or overly concerned with compost. Nice that you simply…” Her voice caught. “…liked me.”
Every instinct screamed at him to close the distance between them, to gather her into his arms and tell her she'd never been wrong.
But one of the first things he'd loved about Cecelia was that she never swallowed her thoughts to make someone else comfortable. He’d sooner bite off his own tongue than ask her to do that now.
“I have never cared what society thinks of me, but I cared what you thought.” Her eyes were limpid pools, drowning him. “Do you have any idea what it's like to discover you've fallen in love with someone on the exact day they leave you all alone?”
His chest cracked open. “Oh, petal. I love you, too.”
Her hand slashed through the air. “This is not the time to exchange sweet words!”
Despite everything, a laugh huffed out of him. “It’s not?”
“No!” She pointed at him, though the gesture lacked its former force. “You are going to give me your excuse. Then we are going to agree that this was our first—albeit catastrophic—fight. After that, we will discuss love and how you intend to make this up to me.”
“Understood.” He moved slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop him, and slipped an arm around her waist. She remained rigid for one long, agonizing breath, but then she softened, shifting forward in his arms until she was flush against him.
Drew closed his eyes in relief. He hadn't realized how badly he'd needed to feel her warmth.
To feel her solid and real in his arms. To borrow some of her strength after a day that had shaken him more than any boxing match ever had.
He pressed his nose into the curls at her brow, inhaled her comforting scent, and murmured, “Granddad collapsed.”
“Oh, God,” she breathed.
“He’s all right, as far as I can tell,” he added. “But he gave me one hell of a scare.”
Cecelia leaned back in his arms, concern already replacing the anger in her eyes. “Tell me everything,” she insisted.
“I could tell he’d overdone it yesterday.
He was tired. Shaky. I told him he should stay home today, but you know Granddad.
Stubborn as a mule and twice as proud.” His hand drifted to his chest, the memory a vise around his ribs.
“I was making breakfast this morning when I heard him fall. I ran upstairs. Tried to get to him, but the way he’d fallen…
” He swallowed. “He was blocking the door. I couldn’t get inside without moving him. Without hurting him worse.”
“What an awful choice to have to make,” she whispered. Her arms tightened around him, and he let himself lean into the comfort of it—the gentle stroke of her hand against his back, the simple fact that he didn’t have to bear the strain alone.
“He was unconscious, and there was blood. A lot of it.” He shook his head to dispel the image from his mind.
“I got him onto his back, covered the wound, and ran to the Fresh Air Cottage. Nurse Mary was on duty. She came at once. By the time we got there, Granddad had awoken.” A disbelieving laugh escaped him.
“Said we were making a fuss for nothing.”
“A fuss for nothing?” Outrage colored her voice. “I think not!”
“That was our opinion, as well. We patched him up, but Nurse Mary insisted he shouldn’t be left alone. Head injuries can be unpredictable.”
“So you stayed.” Her expression softened. “Of course you did. I would expect nothing less.” Then her brow furrowed. “But couldn’t you have sent a note?”
“I did,” he said, wincing at the poor timing of it all. “I paid a pack of roving boys a dime each to deliver a message to your house just past nine.”
She sighed. “I left at quarter to eight.”
“So I learned, but your mother was home. She came straight over with her aide and a box full of medical supplies. Shouted instructions up the staircase until Granddad finally gave up and allowed me to carry him downstairs so they could sit in the same room and argue over his care.”
Cecelia chuckled. “Lord, those two are quite the pair.”
“They are.” His smile broadened. “Your mother is wonderful. She told me she’d keep an eye on Granddad, then ordered me to stop wasting time.”
Cecelia tilted her head. “Surely she knew it was too late for you to enter the show.”
“She said, and I quote—the flowers be damned, go find my daughter.”
“That sounds like Mother.”
“So here I am.”
“Here you are,” she echoed, her brow puckering. “I’m sorry. I should have known there was a real reason.”
“Petal, no. Your hurt was real. You had every right to feel it. It kills me that you stood there believing I’d chosen not to come.”
“It’s not only that,” she admitted in a low voice. “I was…I was afraid that after last night, after we were intimate, you wouldn’t want me anymore.”
For a heartbeat, Drew could only stare at her. “Once will never be enough, petal. I want every night and every morning after. I want every goddamn crumb of affection you’ll toss my way. Because I’m yours. You claimed me, remember? I’m yours.”
“You’re mine,” she repeated, wonder coating her voice. “And I’m yours.”
He touched her cheek, his voice dropping. “I never meant to let you down.”
“I understand,” she said, drawing a deep breath and giving her shoulders a little shake. “So there will be no more apologizing. Only planning.”
“Planning?”
“The next challenge, of course.”
Relief rushed through him so suddenly he nearly laughed. Only Cecelia could move from heartbreak to strategy in the span of a breath.
“And when does this challenge begin?”
Her eyes gleamed. “Now.”
He watched, puzzled, as she slid between him and the oak desk crowded with stacks of paper, only to press her hand against the already-closed door. She examined the door handle, shrugged, and circled behind Theo’s desk to pick up his chair.
He began to laugh, even as his prick hardened with anticipation. “What are you up to, petal?”
“That depends, sweetheart.” She wedged the high-backed chair beneath the handle, then faced him, her brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Can you be very, very quiet while we misuse this office?”
He was on her in a flash, peppering her face with kisses. “I love you,” he said against her cheek. “So fucking much.”
“I love you, too.” Her hands swept down his sides to grip his hips. Then she was turning him, pressing him back against the wall in the narrow space between the door and the bookcase where they were out of sight.
“You’re all mine, Drew Sutton,” she whispered.
He shook with love and need as she trailed kisses down his chest. His head dropped back against the wall, his eyes fluttering shut in rapture as she undid his pants and slipped her hand inside to fondle his prick.
“Always have been, always will be.”