“I was lost in my efforts here.”
“Thought we’d decided to call it a day.”
“This is personal.” She gathered up several sheaves of paper, opened a drawer, and placed everything inside.
He narrowed his eyes. “I was hoping we were past keeping secrets from each other.”
She clasped her hands together on top of the desk. He could see her knuckles turning white as she studied them. He was struck hard with the disappointment that after all they’d discovered, after they’d become partners in the club, she didn’t trust him, wouldn’t share with him. “I’m going to Gillie’s for a pint.”
He turned on his heel—
“Finn?”
He stopped, waited three heartbeats, needing the time to turn his expression into an unreadable mask. He swung back around, wishing she didn’t look so bloody vulnerable.
“I’m writing an article about my experiences in the streets. It is my hope to have it published in a newspaper, to bring attention to the reforms that are needed when it comes to the treatment of our most vulnerable.”
Even from this distance he could see her cheeks turning red as though she were embarrassed by the admission.
“I suspect it’s not good enough to be published—”
“If you pour half your passion into it, Vivi, it’ll be good enough.”
“You’re kind to say so, but you were always a voracious reader so you know it takes more than a desire to form a well-turned phrase. It takes a certain skill, which I fear I might lack. I’m trying to be incredibly honest with the words I use, about what I’ve seen, the women I’ve met. It’s terribly hard. It’s like baring one’s soul. Sometimes what I write makes me feel as though I’m in the process of discarding my clothes in preparation of walking through the streets naked.”
Quietly, he ambled into the room until he was standing before her. “I should think that is what honest writing requires.”
She looked incredibly nervous, biting into her lip, a furrow between her brows. “Will you read it?”
The joy that hit him—that she would trust him with her words—was unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It also humbled him, greatly. “I’d be honored.”
With a quick nod, she opened the drawer, pulled out the papers she’d placed in there earlier, and held them out to him.
“Now?” he asked.
“If you’ve the time.”
For her, he always had the time, but thought if he spoke the words out loud, she’d dismiss them and merely accuse him of being flirtatious. Taking the sheaves of paper, he walked over to his desk and sat. After turning up the flame in the lamp, he began reading.
“I want an honest opinion on whether what I’ve written is ridiculous.”
“I would give you nothing less.”
“I won’t take offense if you don’t like it.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Vivi, let me read it.”
“Yes, all right. Carry on.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her lean forward and clasp her hands in her lap, her gaze on him similar to that of a cat waiting to pounce. The tension in her was palpable, radiating out, causing the hairs on the nape of his neck to rise.
He concentrated on what she’d written—
And then suddenly he was no longer aware of her, the room, the flickering flame. He was walking through alleyways, he was comforting frightened children, he was holding a babe too weak to survive no matter how much milk or encouragement he offered. He felt the pain of women being forced to give their babes into another’s keeping because society’s censure would prevent them from being able to provide for the children. He read of heartbreak, grief, pain, ugliness. When he was finished, he could do little more than strive to regain a sense of himself.
“It’s very raw,” he finally said.
“I know.” She hopped out of the chair and began to pace. “I haven’t a way with words. I feared I’d embarrass myself if I sent this to a newspaper.” She came to a halt. “I should no doubt just tear it up.”
