Bookish With Benefits (Romancing the Workplace #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

Happily-ever-afters are my job. Believing in them is optional. Which is probably why I have no patience for romance that doesn’t add up on the page.

I circle yet another clunky sentence, the margins already drowning in corrections. It’s chapter ten—or maybe eleven—of Lovers in the Cotswolds , and I’m knee-deep in untangling a subplot that makes no sense. A grand romantic gesture from a character who’s been emotionally unavailable throughout the entire book? Bold choice, Melissa. Bold. My red pen hovers over the printed pages spread across my desk, poised for another surgical strike.

“Show, don't tell…” I mutter, crossing out yet another paragraph where the heroine spends three sentences describing how much she loves sunsets. “We get it. The sky is orange. Move on.”

There’s a rhythm to this work, soothing in its predictability. Problems present themselves; I fix them. Stories have shapes, rules, and I wield omnipotent power over errant commas, adverb abuse, and obscure metaphors. Order and precision. Satisfaction hums in my chest when the prose sharpens under my hand.

I adjust my glasses—third time in five minutes—and reach for my coffee. It’s cold. Of course, it’s cold. I grimace but take a sip anyway, distracted by the next note forming in my head.

Melissa , I write in the margin on page ninety-five, Consider introducing emotional stakes here instead of more interior monologue. Readers need something to root for .

And then, just as I’m hitting my stride, my phone buzzes. Fiona’s name lights up my screen like an ominous flare.

“Great.” When Fiona chooses to call rather than email, it’s never good news. Usually, those calls are accompanied by a tone that suggests I should already be halfway through solving whatever disaster she’s about to unload.

“Hi Fiona,” I answer, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear as I keep writing corrections. Multitasking: the lifeblood of publishing.

“Drop what you’re doing,” Fiona snaps, crisp and efficient as ever. I can practically hear her manicured nails tapping against her desk. “Meeting room. Now.”

“Is this about the new cover concept?” I ask, my eyes continue scrolling through the manuscript as though finishing this sentence might save me. “Because if it’s another watercolour design, I swear?—”

“Not the cover. Bigger problem. Just come.”

“How big are we talking—” But the line goes dead. Classic Fiona.

I sigh, snapping my laptop shut and grabbing my notebook. Whatever this is, it’s serious enough to interrupt my carefully curated workflow, which means it’s bound to ruin my day. As I make my way toward the meeting room, I mentally brace myself. Fiona’s emergencies usually involve bestselling authors with god complexes or last-minute requests that defy both logic and the laws of time.

When I push open the door, Fiona is already pacing, a clear sign she’s in full battle mode. She doesn’t even glance up as I enter.

“Rachel’s pregnant,” she announces, as though this is somehow my fault.

“Uh… congratulations to Rachel?”

“She’s going on maternity leave. Effective immediately.”

“Wow.” I blink. “That’s… sudden. Did she just find out?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lara. She’s known for months, just somehow failed to inform me. Apparently, she ‘didn’t want to make a fuss.’” Fiona’s air quotes could slice through steel. “What she also didn’t want to do was inform me that Rory Keane is months behind on his manuscript. Months.”

Ah. There it is. The penny drops so hard that I feel the reverberation in my spine. Rory Keane. The golden boy of Scott it’s nowhere near finished.”

“Nowhere,” Fiona confirms, stopping mid-pace to level me with a look. Her eyes are fierce, unyielding. “Rachel’s been covering for him, stringing me along with vague updates. And now she’s gone, leaving us with a mess to clean up.”

“Sounds like a Rachel problem,” I offer, though I know exactly where this is heading.

“Not anymore. Now, it’s your problem.”

“Of course it is.”

“Pre-orders for Fully, Forever are in the tens of thousands,” Fiona announces, her voice slicing through the sterile air of the meeting room like a guillotine. “Marketing has been building buzz for months. The publication date is locked. We’ve got daytime TV spots arranged. This book has to launch on time, Lara.”

I cross my arms and lean back in the too-stiff chair, trying not to bristle under her pinpoint gaze. The smell of burnt coffee lingers from some forgotten cup left nearby, mingling with the faint hint of Fiona’s crisp, lemony perfume. She’s immaculately composed as always, but there’s a tension simmering beneath her usual poise. It’s like staring at an elegant swan that you know could bite your finger off if provoked.

“Let me get this straight,” I say slowly, keeping my tone level. “Rachel’s been babysitting Rory Keane for months while he… what? Channels his inner tortured artist? And now, because she decided to ghost us in favour of baby booties and Lamaze classes, I’m supposed to swoop in and save the day?”

“Pretty much,” Fiona replies without missing a beat. Her expression doesn’t so much as twitch. Impressive.

“Right.” I let out a slow breath. “And by ‘save the day,’ you mean, whip a manuscript into shape that I’m assuming is less novel and more… existential crisis in Word document form?”

“Exactly,” she says, folding her hands neatly on the polished table. “You’ve got six weeks.”

“Six weeks?” My voice pitches higher than I’d like, and I clear my throat, forcing it back down. “Fiona, six weeks isn’t enough time to line edit one of Rory Keane’s novels, let alone fix any major plot issues. Assuming he’s even written anything at all.”

“That’s why I need you,” she says, her tone unflinching, like this is all perfectly reasonable. Like she hasn’t just handed me a flaming bag of chaos tied up with a neat little bow. “You’re the best editor we have, Lara. You’ll make it work.”

“Flattery’s cute, but it doesn’t change the fact that this is impossible.” I gesture vaguely toward the ceiling, where Rory Keane’s name might as well be emblazoned in gold letters. “The man is infamously allergic to deadlines. And structure. And, dare I say, accountability.”

“Which is why I trust you to handle him.” Fiona leans forward, her eyes narrowing in that way that makes me feel like prey. “Think about what’s at stake here. We’re looking at a PR nightmare. Cancelled pre-orders. No point-of-sale displays. A very public black eye for Scott & Drake. Not to mention, our competitors would love nothing more than to see our star author crash and burn. Both Colleen and Emily have books coming out in the autumn, so we’d have to push back until next spring. Total nightmare.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Fun or not, it’s happening,” she snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “Unless you’d prefer I hand this off to someone else? Perhaps someone who isn’t as capable as you? Someone who might let this entire project implode and take our reputation along with it?”

Ah. There it is. The velvet threat wrapped in a compliment. Classic Fiona. I narrow my eyes at her, my mind racing. Somewhere deep down, I know she’s right. The stakes are astronomical, and if anyone can pull this off, it’s probably me. But that doesn’t make the prospect any less maddening.

“Fine,” I say tightly, sitting up straighter. “But let me be clear: Rory Keane and I are going to have words. Many of them. Possibly loud ones.”

“Good.” Fiona smiles faintly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Quite frankly, he deserves a good kick in the bollocks. You’ll be meeting with him here tomorrow.”

Fiona’s voice drones on, crisp and commanding, but I only catch every third word. Something about how publishing would be so much more enjoyable if we didn’t have to deal with authors. My focus keeps snagging on the edge of the table where my fingers tap against the polished wood in a nervous staccato. I force them to stop, curling my hand into a fist instead. Professional. Composed. That’s who I’m supposed to be right now.

“Are you even listening, Lara?” Fiona’s tone snaps me back into the room like a rubber band against bare skin.

“Of course,” I reply, straightening in my chair and adjusting my glasses with one deliberate finger. “Save Rory Keane. Save the book. Save Scott & Drake from public humiliation. Did I miss anything?”

“Yes, the part where you stop acting like this is optional.” She levels me with that laser-focused stare, and I reluctantly nod my acceptance.

My stomach twists, not at her words but at what they imply. Rory Keane. The Rory Keane . The golden boy of romance, whose last eight books have made our company millions, who charms interviewers and readers alike with that easy grin of his, as if he’s never known a day of struggle in his enviable life. Charming, talented, unreliable. A trifecta of everything I avoid in both authors and human beings.

As I leave the room, I feel a strange mix of dread and determination settling over me. This is going to be a disaster. A disaster I’m somehow responsible for averting. But if anyone can handle Rory Keane and his unfinished masterpiece, it’s me. Probably.