Frank remembered the early days of falling in love, when eating and sleeping gave way to thoughts of Bevy and Bevy alone. The constant daydreams of the future, both thrilled and terrified by the endless possibilities, the uncertainty of it all.If he’d met Bevy during the time he wrote his first book, he doubtedThe Mariposa Methodwould’ve made it into existence.
“How’s the novel coming along?” he asked Juliet, taking advantage of their first moment alone.
“Smooth sailing.” The light in her eyes dimmed, and her features strained, revealing her lie.
“I milked a giraffe this morning,” he said casually, taking another sip.
“S-sorry?”
“I thought we were both sharing things that aren’t true.”
“Oh.” Her shoulders slumped. “Is it that obvious?”
“You have a tell.”
“What is it?”
“Your face.”
Juliet sputtered with laughter, caught off guard by his remark. Some of her tension slipped away. “Okay. You’re right. It hasn’t been going well.At all.”
“Writer’s block?”
“I guess.” With both hands wound around the mug, she stared intently into the velvety liquid, studying the tendrils of aromatic steam. “To be honest, ever since I got here, I’ve had plenty of inspiration, just not the right kind of inspiration.”
He nodded, encouraging her to elaborate.
Instead, she asked, “When you wroteThe Mariposa Method, how did you know that was the book you were meant to write?”
“It was the story only I could tell.”
“And it revolutionized the coffee industry, hitting all the bestseller lists.”
“I didn’t set out to revolutionize anything. Or make any list.”
“So, your success came without even trying?” The possibility seemed to depress her even more.
“Oh, I tried. I’d never worked harder on anything in my life. But I had my own goalposts.”
“What were they?”
“For starters, to end the world’s biggest crisis: bad coffee.” He flashed a wry grin.
She smiled and toasted him with her mug. “And the world thanks you.”
Taking a more serious tone, he asked, “You want to know the truth?”
“Very much.”
“I’d found something I was passionate about and couldn’t keep it to myself. Like a compulsion. I needed people to see their daily dose of caffeine differently. To see what I did. Because it made my life a bit better, and I wanted it to do the same for them.”
“That sounds pretty revolutionary to me,” she murmured.
“You know what’s revolutionary? Writing what’s in here.” He tapped his chest above his heart. “You can study the market and write what you think will sell to the masses or appease the critics. There’s nothing wrong with that. But you can’t control other people, which means you can’t guarantee that kind of success, even if you give it your best shot. Besides,” he added, softening his tone with a note of compassion. “I don’t think that’s what you really want. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be having so much trouble getting your horse out of the starting gate.”
She met his gaze, and he could see her internal struggle reflected in her dark, expressive eyes.
“I won’t lie and say writing the story of your heart will secure you a spot on the bestsellers list,” he told her. “But it can guarantee you success, as long as you redefine your definition and make it your own.”
