How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(13)

He couldn’t lambast her for skulking into the office and commandeering the old man’s typewriter. This was her office now. Her business. Her typewriter, if she damn well pleased to use the machine. Apparently, she did.

Gabe cleared his throat as loudly as he dared.

She jumped before turning an irritated glare his way. “You startled me.” After an enormous gulp, her tone softened. “I didn’t expect anyone so early.”

“Likewise.”

“Do you always arrive before everyone else?” She collected whatever she’d been composing from the typewriter and turned to face him.

“Always.” Gabe gestured toward Daughtry’s work space. “What required typing so urgently?”

“Nothing.” She shoved the paper behind her.

The movement amused him. How many filched objects had he pushed behind his back or stuffed into his pockets as a child? Once he’d even hidden a stolen pocket watch in his mouth while a constable passed on his nightly rounds. The bitter tang of tarnished metal had lingered on his tongue for days.

“May I?” he asked, palm out, much more politely than any copper had ever cross-questioned him.

She notched up her chin a moment and then relented, shoving the half-covered sheet in front of him. “It’s nothing. Truly.”

The page smelled of flowers. Gabe wondered if she imprinted her scent on everything she touched. Rows of letters typed over and over were broken with lines of text such as “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.” The words were familiar to Gabe, though he couldn’t recall from where.

“I must become proficient with the typewriter. I came early so as not to disturb anyone.” She stepped closer and snatched the sheet from his fingers. “Did I disturb you, Mr. Adamson?”

“No,” he lied. But she did disturb him. Mightily.

His senses ignited in awareness, every nerve firing. She was the brightest spot in the room, her blouse a bright buttercup yellow that clashed with the darker gold of her hair. And those violet eyes of hers seemed to eat up everything they beheld. She had an eager way of gazing about, as if she was seeing the world for the first time, and every sight fascinated her.

She moved constantly too, like a flower swaying in a stiff breeze. Shuffling her feet, twisting at the hips, she behaved as if the act of standing in one place put a fearsome strain on her patience. “Would you mind if I continue, at least until the other employees arrive?”

Yes, I would mind quite a lot.

“As you wish, Miss Ruthven.”

“Will you be at the meeting later this morning, Mr. Adamson?” she put to him over her shoulder after settling herself back into Daughtry’s chair.

“Of course.” The question irked him, almost as much as her sweet floral scent. Where did she think he’d be? This was his domain. At least for a little while longer. “I’m the one who called the meeting.”

As he headed back to his office, a thought struck like a punch to the gut.

He’d miss this damned place—the tidy workroom, the hum of activity when a shipment came in or a new title started production, even the simple orderliness of his desk. Employees like Daughtry, who believed in working as hard as he did to make the enterprise a success, were a rarity. Would he find the same at Wellbeck’s?

Then another thought came, and a chill spilled down his back like ice water.

“Will you be attending the meeting, Miss Ruthven?”

She shifted her enticing hourglass figure, glanced at him over her shoulder, and shot him an irksome grin. “Since I’m here, I might as well.”

Wonderful.

When the bell over the front door jingled at ten minutes to nine, Gabe sprang from his desk, straightened his necktie, and smoothed a hand through his hair, eager to face Kit Ruthven. Requesting a private meeting before the general company weather report must have struck his employer as odd, but Gabe couldn’t wait another day.

Sara was right. Time shouldn’t be wasted. Now or never. That philosophy had saved his skin more than once.

“Is something amiss, Adamson?” Ruthven strode into Gabe’s office and stuck out his hand in greeting.

“Not at all, sir, though there is a matter I wish to speak to you about.”

Aside from height, they were opposites in every way—background, temperament, and, most starkly, how they viewed the publishing business. Mr. Ruthven pushed for change, regardless of financial prudence. Caution had been a hard-learned lesson for Gabe, but he’d become skilled at avoiding risk and fighting the instinct to run headlong into trouble.

“I have a proposal for you,” Ruthven said, seating himself in front of Gabe’s desk and hooking his hat over one knee. “But let me hear you out first.”

The speech he’d planned petrified in Gabe’s throat. Doubts swarmed in.

He should have given Ruthven a chance to pay him more before submitting his resignation. He deserved a higher wage. By any standards, his compensation was meager compared to the responsibility the elder Ruthven had heaped on his shoulders. Other men would have harangued their employer a dozen times already.

“Something’s troubling you.” Ruthven leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees as he subjected Gabe to an irritatingly intense stare. “Is it your sister?”

“No, not my sister.” In an offhand comment, Gabe had mentioned that Sara was unwell. He’d given no details, and Ruthven must have assumed she was ailing with more than the common cold.