by T. Bester
DEAR DELILAH
HUDSON U #1
TAMSYN BESTER
Edited by
CHANTE NAIDOO AT BRAZEN INK
Copyright © 2017 by Tamsyn Bester
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
“What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.” - Charles Bukowski
CONTENTS
1. Savannah
2. Nathan
3. Savannah
4. Nathan
5. Nathan
6. Savannah
7. Savannah
8. Savannah
9. Savannah
10. Nathan
11. Savannah
12. Savannah
13. Savannah
14. Savannah
15. Savannah
16. Savannah
17. Savannah
18. Savannah
19. Savannah
20. Savannah
21. Savannah
22. Savannah
23. Savannah
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tamsyn Bester
1
SAVANNAH
I SIT AT MY DESK, scrolling through baking recipes on Pinterest. Most of my colleagues at the student paper are gone for the day. I revel in the quiet, happily staying inside where it’s warm. Outside, the snow falls, covering Union Square in blankets of plush white snow. It’s the coldest winter we’ve had in over a decade and Mother Nature decided to herald in the new year with a freak snowstorm. My colleagues have all left for the afternoon. That leaves me, and Toby, the editor. I’m humming a song when my email pings, and I immediately smile when I see it’s from Toby. He’s in the next office, and yet chooses to email me instead. My smile falls when I recognize the pattern — he only ever does that when he wants me to do something for him but is too afraid to ask in person. Which can only mean I’m not going to like what he’s going ask. But I almost always say yes anyway. It kind of makes it hard to say no when your boss is also your older brother’s boyfriend. And maybe because I love him like a brother too.
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: Job Opportunity…
I need a favor.
The fact that he has emailed my private account instead of my intern email account at the paper is also another bad sign.
From: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
To: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Job Opportunity…
Why are you emailing me? You do realize I’m still in the office, right?
Like maximum 15 steps from your door?
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Job Opportunity…
I didn’t know you were still here.
From: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
To: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Job Opportunity…
Uh yeah, you did. Quit stalling, what do you want?
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Job Opportunity…
You know, that’s no way to speak to your boss. Or your brother’s more attractive half. You’re just as stubborn as he is too. Speaking of your brother, want to have dinner with us tomorrow night?
I can’t fight the smile on my face. His stalling tactic (bringing up how alike my brother, Griffin, and I are) means that I’m really not going to like what he’s about to ask. The last time he pulled this stunt on me, he set me up on a date with one of his friends. It didn’t go well. Turned out Toby had no idea my date was lactose intolerant. I insisted we have ice-cream after dinner. He never called me for a second date.
From: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
To: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
Subject: Re: Job Opportunity…
No.
Stop stalling.
WHAT.
DO.
YOU.
WANT.
I hit send, and snicker at the image in my head of Toby sweating bullets behind his desk. I turn back to Pinterest just as my email pings again.
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: You’re Not Allowed To Hate Your Boss. You Love Him.
A LOT.
The subject line alone is enough to have me sweating bullets. He’s really laying it on thick.
I keep reading.
So, BEFORE YOU SAY NO, you should know that I’m about to bestow, on you, the greatest of honors. Only the best writers get offered a position like this. I haven’t taken this decision lightly…
I try not to roll my eyes. Usually, when Toby tells any member of staff that ‘only the best writers get offered a position like this’ it means no one actually wanted it. It’s what we like to call the ‘kiss of death’. Well, that’s what the journalists call it. I’m just an intern, which is the only reason I’m even entertaining Toby’s request before he tells me what exactly it is. Truth is, I don’t know what I want to do yet. Toby offered me a job as an intern in August when my freshman year officially started. Under normal circumstances I would have to be studying something like media and communications or journalism to even apply for a job such as this, but Toby took pity on me, I think. And as much as being the office ‘gofer’ can sometimes suck, I’ve learned a lot already. I’ve had a chance to ‘shadow’ journalists and photojournalists in the hopes of being inspired to find my passion.
I’m still waiting for that passion to strike.
Kind of.
From: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
To: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
Subject: Re: You’re Not Allowed To Hate Your Boss. You Love Him.
A LOT.
The longer you stall, the higher your chances are of me quitting…
#justsaying
SPIT IT OUT.
I wouldn’t quit, but sometimes it scares Toby if he thinks I might. And this time, it’s no different.
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: Re: You’re Not Allowed To Hate Your Boss. You Love Him.
A LOT.
I need you to take over the ‘Ask Annie’ column.
I frown at the screen when I read his latest email.
The ‘Ask Annie’ column is the paper’s sex column. Toby tried to revive it a year ago, but the readership hasn’t been what he wants. And we have someone who writes that stuff already. So why is he asking me?
I’m about to ask him as much but his next email is already in my inbox.
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: Re: You’re Not Allowed To Hate Your Boss. You Love Him.
A LOT.
Gina has left me high and dry to get married or something. And it’s really not that hard. Just write advice, mainly about sex, and answer letters. It’s no biggy. And it might have the occasional letter about relationships.
I think you’re perfect for it.
Remember: Job opportunity.
I stare blankly at the screen.
> Is he mad?
He wants me to take over the university’s sex column?
I scowl. If this is his idea of a joke, I’m not laughing. I know less than nothing about sex and relationships, which might be a statistical improbability but still, I’m clueless with that stuff. I mean, I only lost my virginity in December for crying out loud and relationships? Forget about it. That shit is for the birds.
From: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
To: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
Subject: You’re mad.
He can be glad he’s using the paper’s email server and not his personal email server - I’d have a lot more to say than just ‘you’re mad’. Unfortunately I have to keep it professional.
You have lost your mind.
No.
Just. NO.
I sit back in my chair, and glare at Toby’s closed office door. There’s no way I’m taking over ‘Ask Annie’. I’m the last person who should even consider writing about men, sex or even relationships. I’m about to tell him as much in another strongly worded — but professional — email when another message from him pops up.
From: Toby Daniels ([email protected])
To: Savannah Leigh ([email protected])
Subject: Re: You’re mad.
Savvy… PLEASE. Without you we have to cut the column and I had big plans for it. We need more female readers.
You have to do this for me.
Or else.
Now I’m glaring. I pound away at the keyboard and then decide a conversation like this will be more effective face-to-face. It will pack more of a punch, and hopefully Toby will reconsider. I stand and defiantly stride towards Toby’s corner office, not even bothering with a knock. He looks up, a sheepish expression making his boyish features seem more boyish. His brown hair, a little overgrown, flops into his face, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. The action has me doing the same.
“Savvy…”
The nickname makes me prickly. Not his fault, but he knows I hate it. Vehemently.
“No,” I tell him emphatically. I fold my arms across my chest and try to come across as intimidating as my small five-two frame will allow. I’m not successful.
Toby steeples his hands in front of his mouth and begs, “Please”. He might not be classically handsome like my brother, but his charm and doe-eyes can make even the most stubborn person do what he asks. It’s impossible to resist, and I’m always happy to help him - I love my job — but this?
I can’t.
I won’t.
“I’m not qualified,” I blurt out. “I know nothing about….” My cheeks flame just thinking about writing sex advice. “That”.
Toby quirks a bushy eyebrow in response, and adds, “That’s not what I heard.”
He realizes his mistake the moment the words sink into my brain. I stare in absolute horror.
“I didn’t say that.” Toby stands and rushes around his desk. “Shit, I wasn’t supposed to-"
“He told you?” My voice cracks, humiliation licking its way across my skin. Suddenly, my jeans are too tight, my plain grey Henley suffocating. I have no reason to be ashamed, I’m not the first girl — and I certainly won’t be the last — to have a reckless one-night-stand. But the fact that it’s no longer a private shame is what gets me.
I’m about to turn around and walk out when I hear a throat clearing behind us. Toby isn’t tall, but he straightens when his eyes lock on something — someone — behind me. I lift my gaze, and feel that familiar warmth wash over me. Nathan regards me, and when he notices my stricken expression he frowns.
“Everything okay?” His voice rumbles, and rather than soothe me the way it used to, it makes me hot and mad.
“Nathan…” Toby sighs, looking between the two of us as if he got caught kicking someone’s puppy.
“Am I interrupting?”
He steps into Toby’s office, his wood and soap scent assaulting my nostrils. He looks hot as hell — of course he would! — In a pair of white-washed jeans, plain navy t-shirt and an olive-green fur-lined Parker. His dark chestnut colored hair is freshly cut, shaved close to his head on the sides, a little longer on top, and he has a light spattering of stubble on his face. Quintessential college guy and Hudson U’s Homegrown Hottie. His unique silver eyes narrow as he continues to frown, and looking at him reminds me just how much I’ve missed him. I haven’t seen him in a little less than a month, and the last time we were in the same room he ripped me apart, tore my heart out and watched me bleed.
Toby says “no” at the same time I say, “I was just leaving”. The office — this office — is the last place I want to be. I would rather freeze to death outside than be stuck here with Nathan, which means I’ll have to deal with Toby later.
I look at him then. “Dinner at your place tomorrow night?” I scramble for some other excuse to leave, and come up with, “I’m driving to my parents’ this afternoon. I have to take my Dad’s truck back.” It’s not a complete lie, just a change of plans. My Mom and Dad were going to come to Hudson to see my new apartment and meet my new roommate, but suddenly, putting two hours between me and Nathan seems like a good option. Toby, being the perceptive man my brother loves, places his hands on my shoulders and gives me an apologetic look, his eyes sad. “I’m sorry, Van.”
I swallow, aware that Nathan is almost right behind me. It only intensifies my panic, the urge to run heavy in my limbs. “It’s fine.” I try to smile, but it’s forced and painful. “I’ll call Griffin when I get to my parents okay? Then we’ll talk about…” My words trail off and I step back, turning to leave. Or run like hell.
I avoid Nathan’s gaze, hot on my face, and give him a wide berth on my way out.
“Savannah, wait-"
I shake my head. “I have to…”
I brush past him and hustle to my desk, my blood pumping and my heart beating in my ears.
Leave. It’s time to leave.
I grab my bag, power off my iMac, and on my way to the bank of elevators, knock over a trash-can. Deciding to leave it, I run for an elevator that’s just about to close, and choke back the burning in my throat. This is so silly, I tell myself. Which it is. It’s been three weeks, surely that would be enough time to move past what happened with Nathan, right?
Wrong, my inner voice quips. With that, I press my palms to my eyes and take one, two, three fortifying breaths. The elevator doors open, revealing the crowded student union and cafeteria. Everyone is taking shelter from the storm, catching up with their friends after an extended Christmas and New Year vacation and buying textbooks at the campus bookstore. I on the other hand feel like I’m running from my own personal hell. Without injuring myself, I manage to make it through the throng of students and out of the student union building. The icy wind makes me suck in a breath but I soldier on, the fear of slowing down and being caught by Nathan seems to be far greater than my hatred of the cold. He has no reason to chase me, anything he had to say to me was said the last time he saw me. I clutch my waist and curse out aloud when a sharp gust of ice-wind hits my cheeks.
Just when I think I’ve made it into the clear I hear my name being called behind me. Even with the wind distortion, I know the voice. The rich timber, the brusk undertones, the solid rumble.
My feet move faster on instinct, as if my body knows I’m in trouble. I glance over my shoulder and just as I suspected, Nathan is jogging towards me. His legs eat up the distance between us, and I start running. It’s futile though. Nathan is six-six and two-hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. There’s no way someone my size can outrun him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t try. I make it another three steps before he reaches me, and I have a feeling he slowed down on purpose, to make me think I have a chance to get away. But that’s what he does, plays mind games, makes you think you have the upper hand when you really don’t. His big hand wraps around my bicep and even the gentlest of tugs has me coming to an abrupt halt.
“S
avannah, please wait.”
I keep my gaze ahead, looking at nothing. My chest heaves, and my breath comes out in puffs of white air. I’m freezing already, chilled to the bone, and as much as I hate admitting it, it has very little to do with the actual temperature.
