Page 19 of Promise Me Never

Savannah had merely nodded. “I’ll work during the day and write at night. It worked for John Grisham.”

Her father scoffed. “He was a lawyer. Had the good sense to arm himself with a profession. He always had that to fall back on.”

Savannah had rolled her eyes. “Well, the writing seems to have worked out for him. Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to continue to support me. There’re plenty of jobs I can do while I follow my dream of becoming a novelist.”

As angry as she still was at them, there was a part of her that would never stop craving their approval. For them to just once tell her she was good enough. She had embarked on her quest to prove them wrong. She would be a successful novelist. For the past five years, she had worked hard all day and, in the evenings, taken classes on writing from local groups. It hadn’t taken her long to become a valued asset at Margolis, Sutton & Klein. During that time, she had submitted her work under a pen name to other agencies. She had hoped to get an offer before she asked Marion to read. That way she’d know it was good enough to take her one chance. But all she kept getting were rejections.

She wouldn’t dwell on the other rejection, the one that had stung almost as much as the letters of dismissal from agents. She had truly believed that Derek was the one. He had singled her out in the writing workshop, complimented her work, and offered to help her refine it and get it in good enough shape to give to his agent. He was nowhere as successful as Bennett but did well enough and was with one of the big five publishers. She had fallen for him hard. When the semester was over, so was his interest. She had made a fool of herself. He had used her. She swore she would never let a man do that to her again.

She was getting maudlin. Why was she ruminating on the past? Bennett loved her and would never hurt her. Her future was bright. No more regrets. Nothing was going to stand in her way this time.

| Nineteen |

Before—Poppy

Things moved fast after that kiss. He invited me over to his house for dinner.

“You cook?” I asked, surprised.

“I know my way around the kitchen. Can you take off work Saturday night?”

I laughed. “Um, no. That’s our busiest night. But I can come Sunday if that works?”

“Sunday it is.”

I showed up with a bottle of wine. I was a little nervous when I got to his house. It was so isolated. A driveway that seemed half a mile long, surrounded by woods, no other houses in sight. And after reading his novel, I was feeling even more apprehensive. I had to wonder if the man who wrote such violent and bloody scenes could be harboring a secret desire to enact that same violence in real life. But then I thought about the number of authors writing horror and the likelihood that they were killers and dismissed my worries as absurd. But when I raised the knocker on the red door—again I was reminded of blood.

Bennett was all smiles and welcomed me in. He leaned in to kiss me, and I was relieved to feel the same spark of attraction that I’d felt at the park. I followed him to the kitchen where the aroma of butter and cinnamon filled the air. Before I could ask him what smelled so good, an adorable black-and-white dog loped over to me and sat at my feet, looking up at me with big brown eyes.

“Who’s this?”

“Finn.”

I leaned down to pet him and his tail thumped on the floor. “He’s so well behaved. Is he a Dalmatian?”

Bennett shook his head. “Great Dane. I’ve trained him. I don’t need him knocking folks over!”

“He’s beautiful. I thought Great Danes were brown.”

Bennett raised an eyebrow. “Common misconception. There are actually around fourteen different-color coats. Finn has the Harlequin pattern.”

Finn looked up when he heard his name and nudged Bennett with his nose. Bennett rubbed his head. “Okay, you. Go to your good place.”

The dog got up and walked over to a large cushioned bed and lay down.

I gave him a mischievous look. “I hope you don’t expect everyone in your orbit to obey you so easily.”

He laughed, a deep and hearty laugh, and I was struck again by his good looks. Why was he still on the market? There had to be plenty of women vying for his attention. Famous, rich, and handsome. Not a combination I came across often.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked, holding an open bottle—not the one I’d brought. It looked expensive, not that I knew that much about wine. Maybe it was the word Reserve that made me think so.

“I’d love one.”

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a wine glass filled halfway.

I noticed a photo on the end table. Bennett and a pretty brunette. He had an arm around her, and she was looking up at him with a besotted smile. I picked it up, examining it closer.

“And who might this be?”