He straightened like she’d trickled cold water down his spine and turned in his chair. “Hulda! I thought you were Beth.”
She didn’t correct him for not calling her Mrs. Larkin, though her wiser half warned that she should. Professionalism is protection, she reminded herself, but now it was too late to make the correction without being awkward about it, so she let it slide. She moved for the tray but paused before picking it up. “Might I ask why you’ve become a hermit?”
Mr. Fernsby set down his pen and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “The other letter I got last week was from my editor. I’ve a meeting with him in a week and a half, and I want to have as much of this damnable thing finished as possible before I see him. I’m worried it won’t be as good as the first book.”
She glanced over the stacks of paper at his elbow. “I don’t know about the first book, but would presenting a synopsis of sorts suffice?”
“I can’t write a synopsis.”
“Why not?”
“Because then I would have to know the ending, and why would I finish a book when I already know how it ends?” There was mirth in the question, but she sensed his reasoning was entirely serious. “Actually.” He turned his chair toward her, and Hulda became very aware of how close his knees were to hers. She could feel heat emanating from them . . . but that was preposterous. Who had hot knees?
She flushed, realizing she’d completely missed what he’d said. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”
“Would you help me?” He clasped both hands over his knees, as though hiding them from her scrutiny. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t been staring at his knees of all things, had she? “Your idea for the beginning unfolded so well. I’d like to pick your brain again, if you have a moment.” Suddenly sheepish, he glanced around the room. “I, uh, will clean this up afterward.”
She waved the barter away. “I hardly care for the mess considering you’re under deadline, Mr. Fernsby.” She was grateful for the excuse to talk with him. She felt . . . better . . . around Merritt Fernsby. There was a simple wood chair in the corner, so she pulled it over, ensuring adequate space separated their knees. Fixing her professional self into place, she asked, “For what, precisely, do you need my assistance?”
He pulled over several papers and scanned them. “It’s for this blasted romance subplot.”
Her warm feelings dissipated, and the professional mask cracked. She stood. “I should go.”
“Oh please.” He grasped her hand. “Just hear me out.”
Her gaze shot to his fingers. He definitely noticed that, given how quickly he released her afterward. He cleared his throat. “That is, if the others aren’t waiting on you.”
Rolling her lips together, Hulda sat, wrists and neck pulsing. “All right.” Her upright tone was slipping. “Tell me.”
“I’ve only just started it. I’ll go back and allude to it. Longing glances and the like,” he replied, and Hulda was grateful his eyes had focused on his papers and not her. “But I’ve got them alone together at this Quaker’s house, and I’m wondering . . . should I do this now? And do what? Though with her being an heiress and him being from Hartford, I intend for them to go their separate ways at the end. But I don’t want female readers to think—”
“Mr. Fernsby.” Straight back. Firm voice.
Pausing, he met her eyes. His looked especially blue when he was tired. “What?”
“I am aware my reading background does not make me an expert on the subject,” she went on, “but that is not a romance.”
“Sure it is—”
“If you don’t intend for the couple to have a happy ending, then don’t involve them with each other at all. You’ll lose readers. The general populace prefers comedies, not tragedies.”
He pondered this for a moment. His nose dipped when he pursed his lips. “So I should have them, what, kiss?”
Hulda fidgeted, trying to ignore the heat creeping up her neck. “I don’t know about that. But I’m sure as long as they’re together, perhaps married or engaged by the end . . .”
“They have to kiss before they get married. He’s a liberal.” He winked and glanced at the papers. “Might be too soon for that . . . unless I add some tension to this scene where they’re hiding in a shed.”
“I-It’s your book, Mr. Fernsby. I’m sure whatever you think is best will be right.” She stood and picked up her chair, meaning to return it to the corner.