She didn’t even have enough money to buy paper and ink to write the article.
She tried to keep her voice nonchalant. “Is there any paper to be found in your aunt’s studio?”
“Probably. Check the corner desk,” Theo said distractedly, examining a leatherbound notebook. He paid for it and tucked it into his waistcoat. “Now, may I see you back?”
“My company has proved too stimulating already?” she asked.
“My brother has forced me into a dinner this evening with a family acquaintance who has the personality of wet paper,” Theo said. He shot her a look as she opened her mouth. “Don’t say it,” he added.
“What?”
“Something devastating about how I’ll fit right in.”
“As though I could ever say something to devastateyou.”
He snorted and turned away, flushing.
Had she said something in the past that had truly hurt him? The thought confused her. She thought she was the only one with scars borne from his words.
“Besides—wet paper hardly suits,” she said, almost before she could stop herself. “As you’re neither mushy nor do you fall apart easily.”
He turned back to her. “What, then?” he asked, studying her. His eyes were dark and glittering.
“Sandpaper, perhaps.” She reached up, dangerously close to his cheekbone.
“A little rough around the edges, but…”
She trailed off, her hand faltering as she glimpsed Frannie in the distance.
Regret flooded through her every time she thought of what she had said to Earnest. She had all but accused him of being Harriet’s murderer, with no actual proof. And now that evidence on tape had refuted it. She needed to gather up every scrap of pride she had and apologize. To try to mend the damage she’d caused with her meddlesome tongue.
“You don’t need to worry about seeing me home,” Grace said hurriedly. “There’s Frannie Allred coming this way. I need to speak with her.”
Theodore took a step back.
“You make interesting friends,” he said lightly.
“Frannie and I have never been friends,” she retorted. “And we’re going to be even less so after what I have to say to her.”
Theodore tipped his hat toward Grace in goodbye and bent, slowly, to kiss her hand. He held her eyes, as though challenging her to avert her glance.
But this time, she didn’t.
It felt more vulnerable than the time he’d seen her cry over Walt, more intimate than a caress.
A feeling of pleasure flushed through her like a fever.
She could feel the brush of his mouth. Burning.
Her face.
Burning.
He wasn’t wet paper, or sandpaper. He was kindling, and her body was set alight.
“Take it easy on Frannie,” he whispered, his voice catching.
“Enjoy your dinner,” she said hoarsely.
