Page 71 of One Bed

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 shedid.

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 herUrban 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.

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