Chapter Thirty-Six Savannah
| Thirty-Six |
Savannah
Savannah went back to her reading, trying to dismiss the feeling she was being stared at.
She glanced up again, but Henri seemed to have lost interest in her and was waiting on another customer.
She must have imagined it. An hour later, she began to make notes in a separate Word document on what the next several chapters could be.
Bennett’s comments replayed in her head, and she began to doubt herself.
Maybe it was trite. This kick-ass woman who could shoot and fight.
She could revisit that later, but she needed to keep working.
She had a new idea for the next chapter and began to type, delighted her fingers were moving across the keyboard.
She continued, not even stopping to take a sip of her coffee, afraid to break the spell.
When she finished and checked her word count, she saw she’d written twelve hundred words.
She sat back in her chair, exhilarated, and took a sip of her now-cold coffee.
There was no other feeling like this. She glowed with a sense of accomplishment.
This was what it felt like to be immersed in the story you were writing.
She felt in her bones that this would be the book to finally land her a contract.
She glanced up at the wall and gasped. Seven o’clock.
Shit. She had wanted to be home an hour ago.
She hurriedly gathered up her things and ran out the door.
It was pouring! She hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella.
She tucked her laptop under her coat and ran the block to where her car was parked.
She was soaked. Great. Now she’d look like a drowned rat when she walked in the door. She started the car and called Bennett.
“Hey, babe. Where are you?”
“On my way home from Mast. I started writing and lost track of time. I’m sorry. I meant to be home in time for dinner. Felicia said she was making a roast. It’s probably been done for a while now.”
“It’s fine. She put it in the oven on warm. It’ll hold. But I don’t like the idea of you driving in this rain. Why do you have to go there to write? There’s plenty of places for you to work in the house until your office is ready.”
“Sometimes I just need to get out of the house. And Felicia’s around so much—”
“Felicia has nothing to do with it. Just humor me, okay? No more coffee shop.”
“We’ll talk about it when I get home,” she said, and disconnected. Why was he making such a big deal? She was ten minutes away, it wasn’t like she was driving for hours.
Bennett looked up as she entered the kitchen.
“Ugh. Stupid rain,” she said, walking over to kiss him.
When she pulled back, he stared at her, then pushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead.
“Your hair. It’s curly.”
Her stomach tightened. “Yeah. I’ve always hated it. I straighten it.”
“I love it. You should wear it like that.”
A vision flashed in her mind. The photo of Poppy, her hair tumbling around her face in untamed curls. Savannah’s breath caught.
“I prefer it straight,” she said.
He smiled, almost dreamily. “No. Like this. It’s gorgeous.” He leaned closer, his hand tangling in her damp hair. “It makes you look wild.”
Something in his tone, reverent, hungry, made her skin prickle. Did he mean her, or was he seeing Poppy in front of him?
His mouth was on hers before she could think, urgent and demanding. He pressed her back against the kitchen island, peeling her clothes away as though he couldn’t get to her fast enough.
“I want you so bad,” he whispered against her throat.
She wanted to feel the same way, but the kitchen light was bright, and the counter hard against her back. She felt exposed, staged.
“Tell me how much you want me,” he said.
She was still thinking about Poppy. Imagining Bennett pretending that she was her. She pushed him off her. “Sorry, I’m soaked and uncomfortable. I need to change.”
For a moment his eyes darkened, confusion flickering, maybe anger. “Sure. Go change.”
She went upstairs and put on a pair of jeans and a sweater, then swept her hair back into a ponytail. Screw him and his opinions on her hair. He smiled at her when she walked into the living room as if nothing had happened.
“Shall I give you my notes on your pages?”
She suddenly felt bad for her earlier reaction. “Yes.”
They went into the kitchen and sat at the table. He pushed a folder toward her. “I printed the pages and made some notes. I can see how hard you worked to make Darcy come alive.”
Her spirits soared, and she released a pent-up breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding.
“But…that’s kind of the problem. I can hear you writing. You know, as the author, you shouldn’t be felt on the page. It needs to be your characters. I couldn’t connect with Darcy.”
Her mood plummeted. “Can you be more specific?”
“There’s a lot of telling. You explain why Darcy feels the need to avenge these women. It needs to be more subtle.” He pointed to the folder. “I made more detailed notes. It still needs a lot of work. I’m sorry to not have better news, but voice is not something that can be taught.”
Her cheeks burned and she swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. “Bennett, don’t sugarcoat it. Are you saying it’s shit?”
He sighed. “No. It’s just…a bit amateurish. I put my time in. Paid my dues. You need to do the same.”
But she had paid her dues. This was the fourth book she’d written.
She’d taken countless evening workshops and courses.
Spent five years at a literary agency spotting talent.
She wasn’t some novice who’d written one draft and expected it to be gold.
She opened the folder and glanced at the first page.
Red pen everywhere. More notes than the first time he read them.
“Well, I guess I’ll read through your notes tomorrow and digest them.”
“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, but all writers have to accept criticism. It’s part of the job.”
“I know. After I go through them, can we talk again?”
“Savannah, I have to finish my book. You know, the one I’ve been paid to write? I love you, but I don’t have time to hold your hand while you work on your attempt at a novel. I’ve already gone through this two times.”
“My attempt?”
He laughed. “Don’t be so sensitive. I didn’t mean it like that. I have a real deadline. You’re writing this on spec. It can wait.”
“You promised me you’d help me with my writing. And now you’re making me feel like some…some…I don’t even have the word.”
He jumped up and tried to pull her to him, but she pushed him away. “Savannah, you’re blowing this way out of proportion. You asked me not to sugarcoat it, and now you’re blaming me for being honest. You can’t have it both ways. You’re being way too sensitive.”
That word again. Her mother’s voice rang in her mind. You always take things too seriously. Don’t be so sensitive. You’re such a baby. Confusion filled her. Were they right about her? She had asked for the truth. It hurt, though. But it wasn’t Bennett’s fault if her writing still needed work.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s hard to hear.”
He put his arms around her. “I know, babe. But you’ll get there. You have to be patient. In the meantime, why don’t you focus on redoing the bedroom. Maybe shifting gears for a bit will be good for you. The writing life isn’t for everyone.”
She disentangled herself from his arms. “Are you telling me to give up on my book?”
“No. I’m saying give yourself some distance from it. Sometimes that helps.”
“When I said I wanted to get a job, you berated me for not focusing on my writing! Now you’re telling me to take a break. Which is it?”
He shook his head. “A job is long-term. All I’m suggesting is a little breather. Why do you have to be so extreme? Chill out.”
“I need to keep at it. I’ll look at your notes, get back to work.” Especially as you’re too busy, she wanted to add but didn’t.
He shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy. Let’s go sit. Dinner’s getting cold.”
She was unsettled as she joined him at the kitchen table, thinking of what had just transpired.
Maybe she had misinterpreted the condescension in his voice.
He was only trying to help. But when she thought about his comment about her focusing on decorating instead of writing, she couldn’t help but wonder: Was she more afraid of failing or of Bennett hoping she would?