She was absolutely that scary.
Her steadfast confidence in her own opinions was another reason he’d rather she never read a single word of his poetry. Vivian was literally paid to be right about other people. Ifshefound Jacob’s poems unworthy, it would wound him more than all the countrywide praise.
She dragged her chair closer. “You won’t allow me to read your poetry because you think it’s bad? Or because you’re afraid it’sgood, and I’ll have no choice but insist you share it with the world?”
He tightened his lips rather than respond.
“Don’t block yourself from success,” she said with surprising gentleness. “The fact that you’re audacious enough to create something from nothing makes you exceptional.”
Inarguably, Sir Gareth Jallow had indeed received exceptional success. But was his fame fully deserved? Or was the pretentious “sir” and the mystery of his reclusive persona doing more to sell books than the actual content inside?
“Why don’t you let me readyourwork?” he countered, hoping to deflect attention from himself and perhaps even inflict a sliver of the same doubt and nervousness upon Vivian.
She shrugged and gestured to the sideboard. “Read anything you want. I’ll take over the dishes.”
He stared at her. “Read your work right now? In front of you?”
“Or take a script home. I have duplicate copies of everything, remember?”
Could she truly be that nonchalant about something she’d poured her heart into?
Jacob dried his hands and crossed to the sideboard. She didn’t stop him. He scooped up an entire pile of manuscripts. Rather thantense in anticipation of his impending first reaction, she turned toward the sink. He started with the topmost page. She wasn’t even watching him.
By the third line, he’d forgotten all about Vivian. He forgot he was standing in a tiny kitchen. He forgot his sausages were over on the table growing cold. He forgot he lived in this world at all. Instead, he turned the pages faster and faster, snorting at the witty dialogue and holding his breath at all the moments of drama and suspense.
When he reached the end of Act One, he glanced up in awe. She still wasn’t peering at him, watching for any sign of approval or censure. She’d actually finished clearing the dishes and tidying the entire kitchen. He’d been too lost in her play to notice.
“I was going to help with that.”
She shrugged. “Reading is more important than housework.”
All right, then. Rather than continue to Act Two, he flipped through the stack, pausing at random to skim whatever lines happened to appear.
Every single page was brilliant, even without context. The humor, the swift pace, the action. She was the prima donna of playwrights… or would be, if anyone with a brain gave her half a chance.
“You sent these plays out?” he asked.
She nodded and joined him at the sideboard. “To every theater manager in the country.”
He considered. “What if you didn’t?”
She frowned. “If I’ve garnered no interest whatsoever when maximizing my chances, why would I purposefully minimize them?”
“You wouldn’t be,” he said. “Trust me on this. You are a logical person, but most of the world is not. Sometimes the only way to win is by resorting to a bit of trickery.”
“No,” she said flatly. “I’ll be published on my own merit or not at all.”
“Notbadtrickery,” he assured her. “Normal trickery. The sort everyone uses every day.”
“It’s not true success if I cheat my way to the top. What did I tell you about obstacles?”
“No, it’s… Look. Why do society hostesses rent expensive pineapples to display as centerpieces at their dinner parties?”
“Because the rich have absolutely nothing else to do with their time and money? If I had a pineapple, I’d eat it.”
“And they might, too, if pineapples weren’t so exotic and rare that they cost more than a horse. Pineapple motifs are carved all over stately homes because their scarcity implies status, and everyone wants a little bit more of that.”
She sighed. “What does tropical fruit have to do with my plays?”
