But her sneaky actions had killed any possibility of something happening between us.
Unfortunately, my stomach was alive and kicking, which is why I didn’t turn around and leave the kitchen. Walking as if there might be landmines under the black and white floor tiles, I approached the table slowly.
Bonnie’s gaze didn’t stray from me. In fact, it ran up and down my body, checking me out. For the first time in days, I considered what I was wearing.
Glancing down at myself I checked out the t-shirt and dark track pants I’d pulled from my drawers this morning and thrown on without a second thought. Writing clothes. Comfortable, warm, not exactly stylish.
What does it matter?
Before I could answer my own question, Bonnie said, “I hope we weren’t too loud. Did we disturb your work?”
I shook my head, pulling out a chair and taking a seat. “No. I came down because I needed a break. I’ve been going non-stop for hours.”
“You were writing earlier than usual today,” she said.
I blinked. “What do you mean? How do you know that?”
Simone brought my plate, setting it in front of me and the silverware beside it. I thanked her, and she melted away again.
“My room is on the same side of the house as your office,” Bonnie explained. “When I look out my window at night, I can see the light from your window in the tower shining down onto the beach. It makes a little golden square on the sand.”
She took a sip from her teacup. “You usually work very late.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about her keeping up with my schedule. It seemed a bit personal.
It also felt like someone cared. My belly swooped with a dizzying roller-coaster wave of awareness.
“I’ll be working late again,” I told her. “Going to get right back to it after I eat. Although, I’m not sure why I’m bothering. There’s no way I can meet the deadline. And I still don’t have an ending. If I don’t turn it in on time, there’s no point to all this mad writing.”
There was no point in sharing that with her either, but after spending every day all day long alone in my office, it was sort of nice to have someone to make dinner conversation with.
Yep, that’s all it is. Polite dinner conversation.
Bonnie sipped from her cup again, watching me over the rim before setting it down.
“Maybe youcanstill make it. I read that you wrote your first book,Tides of Time, in a week, and it was brilliant. Maybe your best. It’s still my favorite book.”
A warm feeling infused my insides, and it wasn’t an effect of the hot food I’d just swallowed.
Tides of Timehad always been my favorite, too.
Maybe because it was my first, maybe because no one else seemed to love it, so I had to. It had been a commercial flop but would always hold a special place in my heart. You never forget your first, as they say.
The fact that Bonnie loved it, too—better than all the Onyx books the rest of the world had decided to give its approval to… well, I couldn’t lie… it moved me.
“Thanks. I appreciate that,” I said gruffly. “But I don’t think it’s possible.”
I took a bite, chewed and swallowed. She didn’t argue, didn’t respond. She seemed to be waiting for me to elaborate. So I did.
“I was able to writeTidesso fast because I could see the whole story right from the start.” I explained.
“It was all there, you know, just laid out and waiting for me to bring it to life. I wrote that outline in one night, like I did with the outline for Anthem in Obsidian. That’s why having to toss that outline was so devastating. I knew from the first book how the series should end. I knew exactly how to wrap up all the storylines for the different characters, and I spent an entire series setting up those payoffs.”
Bonnie’s face reflected deep concern. “Why not use your original story plan? No one’s going to care once they get the book in their hands. They’re just going to love reading it. I know you don’t want to let Claudia ‘win’ or whatever by admitting the leaked outline was real, but you can’t let pride stand in the way of finishing the book.”
My voice was adamant. “It’s not a matter of pride.”
Or was it? I wasn’t sure now. All I knew was that version of the book was inextricably tangled with heartbreak in my mind, and I couldn’t—couldnot—write it.
