How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(32)

Apparently, Clary Ruthven had read every word of the horse lover’s manuscript. She’d replied with detailed eagerness about his work.

“ ‘I never dreamed horses’ teeth were four inches long,’ ” Gabe read before gazing up at her again. “Really? You now have an interest in horse anatomy?”

She inched up one ruffle-covered shoulder. “To be honest, I never gave horses much thought.”

“Nor I. Which is why I soundly rejected his submission. You’re too late on this one. I’ve already sent him a letter.”

“I’d like to send him another,” she said in that determined way of hers, her pretty chin set firmly in the air. “Everyone can use a note of encouragement now and then.”

Gabe pressed his thumb to the space between his brows and willed his head to stop throbbing. “If we’re to be about the business of encouragement, shouldn’t we start with our own authors? I can provide you with a list. Send a cheery note to each of them.”

She chuckled as if he’d said something amusing. “But they already have a publisher.” With one slim finger, she drew her nail along the edge of papers stacked in front of him, creating a strange shuffling tune. “These people submitted their words, their works, with such hope. No doubt fearful that they’d be rejected and that would be the end of their creative endeavors.”

“Some of them deserved to be rejected. Not everyone can succeed.”

“Whyever not? Is there not enough success to go around?”

Not where he came from. Everything was a competition for a place to lodge, food to eat, liquor to warm one’s belly. Only the strong and the dastardly survived. Resilient ones like his sister. Brutes like him, with fists big enough to beat everyone else away.

Gabe huffed as he read the next letter she’d typed. He shoved the sheet toward her. “Read that aloud, if you will.”

After skimming her gaze over the contents, she cleared her throat daintily and began, “ ‘I adore that your story started with a murder, but I would humbly suggest that you add a good deal more blood.’ ”

“You actually typed that?”

She nodded readily. “As you see. What’s wrong with it? She wrote a penny dreadful. They benefit from blood.”

“We don’t publish penny dreadfuls.”

“Perhaps we should.” Walking toward the window, she unsettled his mostly closed curtains to peer outside onto the rainy gray day.

Gabe took a deep, steadying breath and reminded himself that she wasn’t familiar with publishing. That she was here to learn, and as much as he might wish to avoid her and the reactions she sparked in him, he had been tasked with teaching her.

Standing, he rolled his head to ease the tightness between his shoulders. Then he approached her at the window. “The market for penny tales of horror is saturated.”

She whirled to face him, except that a pin in her hair had snagged the edge of the curtain, and she brought half the fabric along with her. As she reached up to dislodge herself, the curtain popped free of one of its rings, and her cheeks begin to flame as pink as her mouth.

“Let me,” he said as he found the misshapen pin and freed her from the fabric. As soon as he touched the crooked metal, the pin slipped from her thick tresses, and he swept the strands back behind her ear. Mercy, she was warm; the softness of the skin behind her nape kept his fingers lingering. And when she gazed up at him, cheeks flushed, lips parted, he learned the agony of maintaining control.

Her gaze fixed on his lips, and then her hand found his. She worked the misshapen pin away from him, but she kept her fingers against his far too long.

“Thank you,” she said on a breathy whisper. “If I had a ribbon in my hair, I’d lend it to you to tie this curtain back.”

Her grin did odd things to him. A lightness filled his chest. The knots in his shoulders unfurled. He remembered the first time he’d met her, years ago. When she’d shed her pristine white ribbon and tied his office curtain back, offending him by insisting he needed a bit of beauty in his world.

Little did he know she’d come back when she was a lush, desirable woman and torment him.

“Watching the world pass by is a distraction.” What he truly wished to tell her was that she was a distraction. His world had been ordered, manageable, respectable before she walked into Ruthven’s as its new co-owner. Now he found himself longing for the kind of intimacy he’d spent his life avoiding. One touch. One glance from her, and he was on tenterhooks. Eager for more. Each moment in her presence had him thinking ridiculous thoughts. Wishing for what could never be. He’d never been one to waste his energy on daydreams.

What had to be done. What he needed to do to survive. That was all that mattered.

“Shall we finish these?” He moved back toward his desk, and after a moment she followed. “Are there any you seriously believe we should consider for publication?”

Leaning toward him, she flicked through the pile and tugged out one manuscript. He recognized the title. A short story about a waif who’d risen from his humble beginnings to become a successful barrister, eventually prosecuting the vile crime lord who’d forced him into thievery as a child.

“I’m quite fond of this one.” She squared the manuscript in front of him.

“Sentimental nonsense,” he pronounced.