Page 70 of One Bed

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. ‘Youaregoing 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 kickassUrban Exploreradventure, 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.

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