One Bed

Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

O n the following Friday, Bea heard Gib walking into the cottage, and wished she’d taken him up on his offer to teach her to kayak. Anything, even testing her useless coordination and using muscles she rarely exercised, would’ve been more fun than the time she’d spent at her desk.

She’d accomplished next to nothing for most of the morning. She’d tried various plots for book ten, and none of them worked. Frustrated, she’d flipped over to brainstorming her spin-off series and every idea was either clichéd or boring as mud.

She’d spent the morning treading water, and was sinking under the weight of imposter syndrome, self-doubt and writer’s block.

And yes, she was resentful that she’d chosen to sit in front of her computer instead of spending the little time she and Gib had left with him. Her arse was numb, and she was grumpy. What a bitching waste of her time…

Gib stepped onto the deck, his grin wide. With his messy hair and heavy stubble, his shirt open and his shorts hanging low, he looked like he’d had a great time on the water. She was glad one of them had enjoyed their morning.

Waah, waah, waah… God, she was annoying herself.

Gib placed one hand on the back on her chair, the other on her desk and bent his head low to brush his mouth across hers. ‘Your morning wasn’t productive,’ he stated.

He knew her so well, already, and could read her like, well, a book. ‘Horrible,’ she admitted. ‘I made no progress at all.’

‘Maybe you need to step away,’ he suggested, placing his butt on the desk and stretching out his long legs. He was tanned, and she smiled, remembering the blond-haired boy who’d raced through the villa, did wheelies on his bike, and annoyed her.

His board shorts hung off his hips, showing off a strip of white, sun-deprived skin. She drew her finger across it, slowly. He captured her hand and held it against his semi, his eyes turning darker and warmer, a sure indication that he was turned on. Oh, and the hardening of his erection was a good clue, too.

‘Come to bed, I’ll inspire you.’

She laughed. Her morning was about to improve. She was about to stand when the notification of an incoming email flashed on her screen, one she couldn’t, or didn’t want to ignore.

‘Let me just read this quickly, it’s from my editor. It’s probs just an email saying she loved book nine and wants a few revisions. I won’t be long.’

‘Take your time,’ Gib said, but he didn’t release her right hand from the bulge in his pants. It took Bea more time than she liked to click on the email using her left hand, but she didn’t complain.

If this was an email from anyone but Merle, she’d blow it off. She skimmed through the words, but they didn’t make any sense.

Her last paragraph penetrated Bea’s confusion.

Frankly, this MS would require a massive rewrite to get it to the desired standard, and given the amount of work that would entail, I believe it might be better to move on from this WIP. I recommend setting this story aside and starting fresh, incorporating all the essential elements you need to effectively capture the essence, action and wit of your previous books.

Bea slapped her hands on either side of her laptop, turning ice cold as the words danced in front of her eyes. Was she reading Merle’s words correctly? She was demanding an entire rewrite? On the book Bea had thought was good, maybe even great?

‘Bea, what is it?’

What? How? How could she have gone so badly off track? What happened? What was so bad about this manuscript that Merle wanted her to start again? Jesus. The sense of failure, hot and acidic, crept across her soul, melting it inch by painful inch.

She’d always hated criticism, but this was more. This was failure , on an epic scale. Professional failure, and a dagger to her heart. Merle must think she was such an idiot, uncaring and ridiculous, or arrogant and careless. Apart from Golly, there was no one whose opinion she valued more. Her editor made her books better, took a slightly rough stone and polished it to brilliance. But apparently she’d handed Merle a piece of coal.

How the hell did she come back from this?

Gib’s hand on her shoulder gently shaking her forced her to look at him. ‘Stop biting your lip, Bea, it’s bleeding.’

She swiped the back of her hand across her lip, and looked down, seeing the blood smear on her hand.

‘What’s happened?’ Gib demanded, his eyes darting from her face to the laptop screen. ‘Has someone died? What’s the problem?’

She shook her head, wanting to double over from the cramps knotting her stomach. Acid flared and crept up her throat.

‘Bea! What? ’

Was Gib starting to panic? She looked at him, feeling a million miles away. ‘My editor hates my book and wants me to rewrite it. To start again.’

His taut body slumped, and he released a long, audible stream of air. ‘ OK . I thought it was something really bad.’

He did not say that! No fucking way. ‘This is the worst thing that can happen to me. I have to rewrite a book. What part of that do you not understand?’ she yelled, sounding like the shrew he’d accused her of being when they first met. ‘I messed up so badly that none of my work is redeemable, Gib! Nothing! What kind of writer does that make me?’

‘A normal one? Surely everyone messes up, Bea.’

‘Not on a scale like this, they don’t!’ she retorted, furious because he wasn’t getting it. This might not be career suicide, but it was a self-inflicted wound. ‘Merle must think I’m a total idiot, like I’ve lost my mind or something.’

Bea paced, her arms hugging her chest. The problem with talking to non-authors about your industry was that they just didn’t get it. They didn’t understand that writing a book was like birthing a baby, and then holding it up to the world and asking whether your kid was pretty. As much as she tried to keep it impersonal, to divorce herself from her writing, she couldn’t because her characters were a part of her, ripped from her soul. How could you not take criticism personally when writing was all you knew how to do, what you loved?

She didn’t like criticism at the best of times, it always made her feel like she wasn’t doing enough, being enough, adult enough, but criticism from her editor killed her. And being asked to rewrite a book was criticism on steroids.

* * *

Gib sighed, pushed his hand through his hair and guessed that sex was now off the table.

He caught the glitter of tears, and the depth of her pain in her eyes. Her quick-to-smile mouth was tight with tension, and her shoulders were up around her ears. Right, this was a lot more serious than he thought. Her world had been rocked, and he wanted to understand how and why.

This from the guy who never asked questions, who kept a hefty emotional distance between himself and the women he slept with. But Bea wasn’t just another woman, she was someone who’d slid under his skin, who’d breached a wall, maybe two. She was dangerous…

He knew he needed to find the willpower to walk away from her before whatever the hell was bubbling between them spilled over and scorched them.

But that was for later. Right now he needed to work out how to handle, and comfort, Bea. Because, God, she needed it. Taking a chance, he walked over to her and pulled her into him, criss-crossing his big arms over her back and plastering her to his chest. She stood board still, her arms at her sides, refusing to engage.

That was OK, she just needed to know he was here for her.

‘I’ve got you, Bea-baby,’ he murmured, his lips in her hair.

Bea slumped and he held her up as her hands lifted to grip his shirt. When a wet patch of his shirt stuck to his chest, he realised she was silently sobbing. Not knowing what to do, or say, he pushed his fingers into her hair and cradled her head to his chest. If crying would release some of her tension, he was all for it.

She’d cried a little the other day, but this time she cried noiselessly, endlessly, and every intake of breath sounded painful. He didn’t understand how an email could cause so much hurt. Because these weren’t ordinary tears, the normal ups and downs of a professional relationship. This was visceral, a hurt that sliced through muscle and chipped bones, that ripped apart lives and scorched souls.

‘Can you talk about it?’ he asked, after five minutes had passed.

She shook her head, her refusal unsurprising. Some things went too deep for conversation. Stepping back from her, he wiped away her tears with his thumbs before placing his lips on her hot forehead. Remembering what she’d said about her childhood, how she hated criticism, he thought she might need a little perspective.

‘How long has this Merle person been an editor?’ Gib asked, stepping away from her.

She threw her hands up in the air, annoyed. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ Anger was acceptable, it was far better than despair. Or self-pity. Anger was alive and active, and healthier.

His eyes didn’t leave hers. ‘Humour me.’

‘I’m having a crisis and you’re asking me inane questions? I don’t know … fifteen … seventeen years? Can we go back to what’s important?’ she snarled. ‘FYI, that’s my incipient nervous breakdown.’

He ignored her statement. She was a lot stronger than she thought and needed to be reminded of that. ‘And in all that time, after editing hundreds and hundreds of books, do you think you’re the first person Merle has asked to rewrite one?’

She stared at him, his words sinking in. ‘No, probably not, but?—’

‘But people go off track, they mess up. They get bogged down and don’t see the wood for the trees. They get tunnel vision.’

Maybe it would help if he told her about some of his failures. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t bother, but Bea needed to understand she wasn’t the only person who’d messed up. ‘About seven years ago, Hugh asked me to oversee a deal for him. We were looking at buying out a music label and I was confident, cocky, and didn’t consider all the implications of that deal. My mistake cost the company a million dollars.’

Her eyes widened. ‘A million? Holy crap, that’s a lot of money. What happened?’

He didn’t bother telling her that a million dollars was peanuts in the grand scheme of things. ‘My uncle gave me a loud and long – what’s that word you English use? – bollocking, and told me to get my shit together. Then he gave me the opportunity to do another deal.’

‘And you made the million back,’ she muttered. ‘I’m sorry, but it’s not the same and you don’t understand.’

Failure was failure, and however you did it, it still stung.

‘No, I lost money on that one, too. Not so much, but we still took a bath. I learned something from those deals, though.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Bea demanded. He knew she wanted him to walk away, to allow her the space to give into her despair, to crawl into the corner and weep. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

‘Because you learn from failures, Bea, you learn from criticism. It makes you better, and stronger. Failing is not the issue, how you react to it is. And you always learn more from failure than you do from success.’

‘Yeah, I’m learning that my instincts about being a fluke are dead on. I’ve written eight books, maybe that’s all I have in me! My well is empty and I can’t make words anymore.’ She ran her hands over her face. ‘I’m an eight-book wonder. I could, maybe, live on my royalties for a little while, but then I’d have to get a job!’

‘So, I guess coming out as Parker Kane is the least of your problems, now?’

She glared at him, and Gib rolled his eyes. Right, too soon. But it was time for her to snap out of her woe-is-me attitude.

Gib gripped her shoulders and bent his knees so his eyes were level with hers. ‘Snap out of your self-pity, Beatrice, and step back from your emotion. Start thinking and stop reacting.’

Her eyes widened at his sharp tone. ‘You’re not hearing me, Gib! I don’t know if I can do this anymore. Even before I got this email, I was doubting myself, couldn’t find my creativity. I need to write this book, am contracted to give them something, but where do I go from here?’

He went into problem-solving mode, something he was an expert at. ‘You still have the choice about how to react. Is your editor prepared to work with you, to help you get it right?’

She glanced down at the email, shook her head and wiped her eyes. She read the email again and shrugged. ‘Merle said she’ll help me in any way she can.’

Then he didn’t see the problem. ‘Then you take her help and rewrite the book. And you do it better than before.’

‘You make it sound so easy,’ she complained. ‘You don’t understand … writing is hard work. Hemingway called it bleeding over the typewriter, and to lose that number of words feels like a death.’

A tad dramatic, but he’d let it go. ‘All work is hard, and rebounding from a mistake is harder still. This is just a bump, Bea.’

‘A bump? It’s a bloody mountain!’

Stubborn, too. Gib slid his hands into the back pockets of his shorts. ‘The other day, you told me that you were heavily criticised as a child. Are you reacting to this like a child, or like a professional? Can you step back and read that email without judging yourself? Can you try and read it without becoming triggered, and defensive? Can you pretend that email is directed to someone else, and put some space between you and it?’

‘This isn’t a business deal, Gib, it’s my life!’ she retorted, rocking on her heels.

‘OK, then what are your options?’ he asked, striving for patience. ‘Break it down.’

She bit her lip. ‘Do the rewrite or buy myself out of my contract. I’d have to rework my entire writing life if I do that.’

That sounded drastic and melodramatic. ‘You are going to rewrite the book, Bea. That isn’t up for debate.’ He wasn’t going to let her give up, just as Hugh had never allowed him to. Quitting wasn’t an option.

‘And while you get cracking on writing another kickass Urban Explorer adventure, you’ll start to realise that this is a way to grow, to learn, and to prove to yourself that you aren’t that kid who can’t take criticism anymore.’

Gib ran a hand over her head, his finger down her jaw. ‘And let’s be honest, Bea-baby, you can’t give up writing to find a job. You’d hate it, and it would steal your soul. And there isn’t a boss in the world who’d let you amble into work in yoga pants and messy hair, a makeup free face and wearing your most comfortable slippers.’

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and let it go when he tapped her chin. Hopefully, his talking this through with her, logically and unemotionally, had given her some perspective. She looked calmer, her tears had tried up, and she’d stopped rubbing the spot between her ribs. Had their chat made her feel stronger, tougher, a fraction more resilient?

Honestly, he thought it went quite well. For someone who never usually engaged, who stayed uninvolved, he’d willingly walked into an emotional situation and tried to help. He’d offered some good advice, some genuine encouragement.

Navy would be proud of him for getting his hands emotionally dirty.

But he felt a little drained himself and, honestly, could murder a beer. ‘Let’s get out of here. We’ll go for a walk, hit the beach and a taverna. You need some time to digest this.’

She looked grateful for the reprieve, and he wasn’t surprised. He knew from experience how good it felt to bury your head in the sand for a while. The problem was that you had to yank it out at some point and carry on.

‘That sounds good. I think I’d like that.’

Gib followed Bea into the bedroom, watched as she pulled a bikini from the chest of drawers and started to walk into the bathroom to change. He hooked his finger into the band of her shorts and stopped her in her tracks. ‘After everything we’ve done together, you still can’t change in front of me?’ he asked, smiling.

Heat flooded her cheeks. He’d explored every inch of her –with the lights on! –and she had no secrets from him, but she still felt bashful. She looked away, her cheeks brightening.

‘God, you’re adorable,’ he said, laughing. ‘I love your body, Bea, and there’s no need to hide it from me.’

He wanted her to feel beautiful, and lovely, and adored, so he hooked his hand around her butt and lifted her to her toes, and he bent his head to kiss her mouth. He kept their kiss light, but he sensed Bea wanted more.

‘I want to make love to you in the sunshine,’ she softly murmured.

Her tongue slipped into his mouth, and he pulled back, his hand brushing her hair off her forehead. ‘You’ve had an emotional morning, Bea, and I don’t want to be the plaster you slap on your weeping wound.’

She bit her lip, considering his words. ‘I’m not going to pretend I’m not upset, Gib, and confused and feeling emotionally battered. But your touch burns everything away.’ Her smile seemed a little forced when she added, ‘Has anyone ever told you you’re pretty good in the sack?’

He lifted an arrogant eyebrow. ‘Only pretty good?’

She sighed dramatically. ‘OK, shockingly good. Why wouldn’t I want to be on the receiving end of all that skill?’

‘Are you sure?’

She nodded and he wrapped his big hand around her neck and lifted her chin with his thumb. ‘If we get naked, I don’t want you to think about anything else but me, Beatrice.’

‘As soon as you kiss me, all I’ll think about is you and the pleasure you give me.’

Gib’s last rational thought was that it would be a long, lovely, pleasure-filled while before they made it to the beach.

* * *

Bea lay on a lounger on the beach and watched Gib swim out to sea. His stroke was long and sure, powerful and controlled, elegant. It was a pretty good description of the way he made love.

She’d lied a little this afternoon, she did use him as an emotional Band-Aid, as a way to get out of her head. When he touched her, nothing else mattered, she was totally, completely in the moment, lost in the pleasure he gave her, as mindful as she ever got.

But now that she was alone, the morning events came rolling back in and she sucked in a breath, caught between mortification and frustration.

Where did she go so wrong? How did she not realise that she’d gone so badly off track? Had she been so involved in the story that she forgot the framework, neglected to pull all the threads together in the revision process? Or had she got lazy and complacent, thinking she was smarter and more experienced than she really was? Had she thought she could coast?

Maybe a lot of getting lost in the story, a little arrogance.

She picked up her towel and wrapped it around her shoulders, bending her knees. A man played with his toddler in the shallows, picking her up every time the waves rolled close to her feet, laughing when she squealed.

Bea felt calmer now and being away from the cottage afforded her enough emotional distance to think logically. Gib was right: her only real option was to rewrite the book. She had time – she’d submitted that first draft a couple of months before it was due – and maybe that was the problem, maybe she’d rushed it, and hadn’t given it the time and energy it deserved. With the next one she would take it slower, be more present.

She’d reacted badly earlier, immaturely, caught up in the criticism and the emotion it pulled to the surface. Of course she couldn’t throw in the towel, couldn’t give up because of one setback. What she could do was be a professional, suck up the criticism –God, it was hard, and it felt like steel wool scrubbing her soul –and tell Merle she respected her opinion. Which she did, of course she did .

When she got back to London next week, they could set up a video call to rip her submission apart to see where she’d gone wrong –everywhere? She’d need to take a couple of homoeopathic anti-anxiety pills, but she’d grit her teeth and get through it. And when the writing equivalent of a waterboarding was over, they could brainstorm ideas for the rewrite.

And maybe that was why she hadn’t been able to make any progress with book ten? Maybe it was because she knew, subconsciously, that book nine was problematic?

OK, she now had a plan of action, and she felt calmer. And as Gib had said, she’d learn from this, and become a better writer. Be stronger and tougher and more resilient. Unlike other authors, she hadn’t gone through the rejection-after-rejection grind. She was the goddaughter of an agent and had the inside track. Golly wouldn’t have tried to sell anything she didn’t believe in, but her initial success surprised both of them. Instead of the rejections she’d been warned to expect –a fact of life in publishing –her series went to auction, with six publishers clamouring for her Urban Explorers . The highest bidder got the deal, and she got a substantial advance. Books one to eight had undergone what she thought were normal revisions, in that they hadn’t been hard or taxing.

This was her first proper publishing setback. And she’d fallen apart at the first bump. And she would probably still be on the floor sobbing if Gib hadn’t been there to give her some direct, challenging and supremely logical advice. Everyone messes up. It’s how you react to it that counts. You don’t throw in the towel. It stung, but it hurt because it was true. And she could either wring her hands or be productive. She chose the latter. Because, as Gib said, ultimately, you learn more from failure than you do from success.

She watched Gib emerge from the water, looking far better than Daniel Craig did when he walked out of the sea in that Bond film. They’d turned a corner this morning, and she felt so close to him, emotionally connected.

Yes, yes, she knew that this was supposed to be a fling, that it was only sex-based, but something more bubbled under the surface. He looked at her like she was special, as if he could, maybe, love her, like he couldn’t think of a way to let her go. She wasn’t imagining it, was she? Seeing more than she should?

No .

It was in the way he touched her, in his sweet kisses, when she caught him watching her when they were on opposite sides of the room. Chemistry and tension hummed between them, sparkly and lovely and undeniable.

She didn’t know what would happen when they left Santorini, but not seeing him again wasn’t an option. He, this, was too special to walk away from.

Gib sat down on the lounger beside her and shook his head, spraying wet drops over her. She slapped his shoulder and pushed him away, laughing. ‘You jerk! Why do you keep tormenting me with cold water?’

He leaned back on his hands and tipped his face to the sun. ‘You’ve got some colour back in your face, some light in your eyes. Feeling better?’ he asked.

She traced her fingers over his shoulder. ‘I am, thank you. Thank you for being there for me, for talking me through it.’

‘Sure. So, what are you going to do?’

‘Have a meeting with my editor, work out what went wrong, write it again.’ It would be hard, but not insurmountable.

‘Good,’ Gib murmured, his eyes still closed.

He now knew everything about her, knew her fears and insecurities, her secrets, her past and her plans for the immediate present. He knew her better than anyone, and she liked that he did. Since he knew everything about her –from her childhood to her being Parker Kane to today’s embarrassing fiasco –surely she had the right to ask questions, to dig a little?

She was an open book, and he could be too. Would be. ‘Tell me what it was like when your parents died, Gib.’

She was watching his face and saw his eyes tighten briefly. But he kept his lids down and his head tipped to the sun. ‘Shit.’

Well, obviously. ‘Obviously, you were devastated. How did you cope with that? Did Hugh come and get you straight away?’

‘Yes.’

God, pulling a dinosaur’s teeth would be easier than this. ‘Was the funeral big? Do you remember it or did you tune it out? They say that happens.’

He sat up slowly and turned to face her. ‘What’s with all the questions?’

‘Well, we’ve never spoken about your past, and what you went through.’ About anything really .

His face, degree by degree, shut down. ‘I’m sorry, but why would you think that’s something I’d discuss with you?’

She jerked back, his words a hard slap. ‘Gib, come on. What’s the big deal? Why won’t you let me in?’

‘Why should I?’

Holy crap, this wasn’t going the way she expected it to. ‘Gib, I’ve opened myself up to you, you know everything about me. You know more about me than my ex does, and we were together for five years.’

His expression turned remote. ‘You gave it to me, I didn’t ask for it.’

Bea rubbed her hand over her mouth, trying to make sense of what he was saying. So she was expected to be vulnerable, open, and show him all her cards, but he could keep his locked down? What the fuck?

She pushed her hand through her hair, trying to work out what to say, how to act. ‘I’m not sure what to say to that,’ she admitted, her voice hoarse. ‘I thought we’d turned a corner, that we had something…’

Gib looked out to sea. ‘I’m not saying that we don’t, but I’m not saying that we’re going to create a life together either. It’s far too soon for that, and…’

And what? She wanted to grab him and wrench the words out of him.

‘And if you expect me to bare my soul to you, to talk about my feelings, my parents and my past, it’s not going to happen, Bea. It’s not who I am.’

No, that was bullshit. ‘No, it’s who you’ve conditioned yourself to be.’

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug that could mean ‘whatever’ or that he agreed. The knot was back, tighter than before, acid flaming in her stomach. He was being end-of-the-world serious; he was not going to talk to her.

Bea dropped her legs and stared at the pebbles beneath her feet. She could say it was fine, could keep taking whatever he’d give her and push her resentment away. Or she could walk away, telling him she wanted everything or nothing at all. She knew so little about him and had no idea what made him tick.

She was the only one standing in the storm, emotionally battered and whipped. He was somewhere else. Safe, and keeping himself dry.

Had meeting her changed him at all? Had she taught him anything? What was he risking? As far as she could tell, nothing. She was all in, and he stood on the edges of the maelstrom, watching her twist, unwilling to join her.

Bea realised she had another choice to make, and it was a big one. She could compromise or she could be brave and stand up for herself by demanding more. But if she did that, she could lose him…

Before she could decide, Gib spoke, his deep voice low and quiet. ‘This is just a fling, Bea. It’s not supposed to be this serious.’

Was he blaming her? It sounded like it. ‘And that’s my fault?’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he countered. She knew he was irritated, she could see it in his eyes and his tight mouth. Well, tough. She was beyond irritated, she was really pissed off.

Hurt, too. And that hurt would probably deepen and spread, but right now she was as mad as a raging river in full flood. What the hell was wrong with this man? Would it hurt him to give her something ? Anything?

‘Look, Bea, we’ve only known each other for less than two weeks…’

Yeah, she knew what was coming next. ‘I’m not at a point where I feel comfortable sharing my inner world with you.’

And wasn’t that another verbal slap. What was wrong with her that he didn’t feel like he could trust her? No, wait, hold on … why was she somehow at fault for him being unable to open up? This was his issue, not hers. She wasn’t in the wrong here, she wasn’t the one who was emotionally fucked up. OK, she was, but not as badly as him.

Bea pulled her shirt over her bikini top. She stood and stepped into her pretty, short floral skirt. Instead of her habitual flip flops, she’d worn a pair of beaded sandals, thinking that she and Gib would go out for a drink, maybe supper later.

This day had been long enough, though, too much had happened, and she needed some space, some distance. For the first time since last Sunday, she didn’t want to be around him. Now she was desperate for the privacy he claimed he wanted.

She didn’t know how she was going to share a bed with him tonight, but that was for later. Right now, she just wanted to go back to the villa.

‘Bea—’

She didn’t want to hear his excuses, to listen to his justifications. Nothing he said would make her feel better, so it was better he said nothing at all. ‘It’s been a hell of a day, Gib. Will you drive me home now?’

He placed a hand on her arm, and she looked down at it, wishing he didn’t make her body sing. But, like his unwillingness to talk, it was something she needed to live with. Or not live with. She had to work that out.

‘We can talk about this, Bea.’

‘ Bullshit! You can’t, or won’t talk to me. I do all the talking, I open myself up to you, lay it all out, and you dip in and out, skimming the surface. I don’t know if I can do that anymore.’

His mouth tightened. ‘Are you saying we’re done?’

Oh, God she didn’t know ! ‘I’m saying that I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m saying that it's been a long day and I want to go home. Will you take me home, or should I call a taxi?’

He stared at her, obviously frustrated.

‘I’ll take you.’ He picked up his shirt, dragged it over his head, and placed his sunglasses on his face. Picking up his keys, phone and wallet, he placed a hand on her back to steer her to the car.

She sidestepped and moved away from him. She didn’t need his guidance, just like he didn’t need her questions.