Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
By the time we make it back to the museum, the event space hums with energy, a kind of buzzing anticipation that makes my skin prickle. As we step inside, I instantly regret everything. Every single choice that led me here. From the black heels pinching my toes to the jacket I grabbed in some misguided effort to protect myself against whatever tonight might bring. None of it works. I still feel exposed. Naked, almost.
Danny nudges my arm with his elbow, a silent reminder that I’m not alone in this circus.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to a skittish horse. “Or at least pretend to.”
He reaches out to hold my hand as we navigate past the cloakroom and into the main hall.
“Nice turnout,” someone says behind me, their tone casual, like we’re talking about the weather instead of the book signing of the year. I dodge to the side, letting them pass, and pull Danny over to the corner of the room, trying to disappear.
“Love what you’ve done with our vantage point. If we crouch slightly, we might pass for decorative plants.”
I shoot him a look. “You didn't have to come, you know.”
“And miss this?” He gestures at the opulence around them. “Please. It’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”
Trying to hide doesn’t help. The space is alive—people chattering, laughing, sipping champagne from delicate flutes—and even though no one’s looking at me, I feel seen. Too seen.
Why am I here again? Maybe it’s professional curiosity. Maybe it’s masochism. Probably both.
My eyes scan the room despite my better judgment, searching for him. For Rory. Of course they are. Because apparently, self-control is optional now. My throat feels tight, and not just because the air smells of expensive perfume and anxiety. This isn’t my world. Not really. And yet, here I am, standing in the middle of it, heart pounding like I’m waiting for something.
Correction: someone.
“Glass of fizz?” Danny offers, as he takes two from the table. I shake my head, and he shrugs. “Oh, well. I’ve touched it now, would be rude not to drink it.”
The lights dim just slightly, and the hum of conversation dampens down as Rory steps onto the small stage. He looks… good . Of course, he does. Tall, poised, wearing that annoyingly perfect combination of casual confidence and tailored charm—a navy jacket over a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up like he’s about to get his hands dirty with something creative and profound. His dark hair is artfully tousled, which I know for a fact takes him at least five minutes in front of a mirror, pretending it’s effortless.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice cutting through the silence like warm honey, smooth and impossibly steady.
The crowd leans in—literally. Danny claps excitedly. Even I feel myself swaying forward slightly, like some magnetic pull I can’t fight. Great. Just great. My plan to blend into the wallpaper is going swimmingly.
“Thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate the publication of Fully, Forever .” His gaze sweeps across the room, not landing on me—thank God—but my chest tightens anyway, an involuntary reaction I didn’t sign off on. “This book is… Well, it’s special to me. For a lot of reasons.”
I stiffen. My palms are clammy against the cool stem of the champagne glass that I’m clutching like a life raft. Don’t do this, Rory. Stick to your script. Talk about how long it took to write, or how much caffeine was consumed during revisions. Make a joke about deadlines. Anything but what I think you’re about to say.
He doesn’t open the book yet. It rests on the podium like a secret waiting to be told, its cover gleaming under the soft spotlight.
“Writing is always personal,” he continues, his tone shifting, softer now, almost introspective. “But this one… this one challenged me in ways I didn’t expect.”
My heart thuds harder at that, because I know exactly what he means. I was there for it. Every late-night brainstorming session. Every rewrite. Every argument where his stubbornness collided headfirst with my perfectionism. Every touch, every feeling, every desire…
“Sometimes,” Rory says, his hands gripping the edges of the podium now, “you need help finding your way. A muse, you might call it. An inspiration. Someone who sees you—even when you’re not sure what they’re looking at. Even when you’re not sure you want them to see the true you.” His voice catches just slightly, a crack no one else might notice, but I do. God, I feel it in my chest. I feel it in my hand too as Danny squeezes it hard—he’s as caught up in the speech as everyone else.
Rory pauses. There’s a shift in the room, a collective breath held, and I realise mine’s caught somewhere between my throat and my ribcage. He’s deviating. I can tell. The Scott he sweeps the room first, as if searching, as if needing permission. But then those green eyes lock onto mine like they’re tethered by an invisible string, and suddenly everything else—the low hum of chatter, the shuffling of feet, even the too-sweet scent of perfume wafting from the woman beside me—fades into static.
Danny, never missing a beat, quips, “If you bolt now, I’ll fake a fainting spell to cause a diversion.”
“One more person deserves my thanks tonight,” Rory says, and there’s this tiny quake in his voice, so small most people wouldn’t notice. But I do. Of course, I do.
“Someone who has challenged me, frustrated me, and pushed me in ways I never thought possible.”
Oh no. Oh, absolutely not.
“She’s the reason this particular book exists,” Rory continues, holding a copy of Fully, Forever aloft, his gaze still pinned on me, unwavering and relentless. His voice lowers, softens, but somehow carries even further. “Not only did she rewrite most of this book, for which she deserves my eternal thanks. She reminded me of what honesty looks like. What bravery feels like. She reminded me how to be vulnerable, even when it terrifies you.”
My lungs seize. I can’t breathe. I think I might actually pass out right here in the middle of this infernal museum, surrounded by twenty-something Bookstagrammers and some guy wearing red braces over a white shirt.
He shifts slightly, and for the first time all evening, his posture isn’t easy confidence—it’s something rawer, stripped of performance.
“The truth is,” he says, voice steady despite the flicker of uncertainty in his expression, “I was stuck.”
Members of the audience sit up a little straighter, really paying attention now.
“I don’t mean writer’s block. I mean stuck. Because for the first time in my career, I had to do this alone. I had to prove to myself that I could write something without my sister by my side, without the person who helped shape every book that came before. But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t know how.” He swallows. “Because the truth is, I’d spent my entire career writing about love, but I had no idea what it really was. Not until her.”
The words settle like an avalanche in my chest.
The room is utterly silent now. No one moves. No one dares.
“I built my success on the idea of perfect love,” Rory continues, his fingers gripping the podium a little tighter now. “Love that follows a neat formula, love that always lands on its feet. The kind that makes sense in a three-act structure. But that’s not what Lara Yates taught me.”
Oh God.
“She taught me about messy love. The kind that challenges you. That forces you to grow, to be better. The kind that isn’t neat or predictable, the kind that can’t be packaged into tropes and happy endings on demand. The kind that terrifies you.” He exhales shakily, like he’s forcing himself to keep going, despite the weight pressing on his chest. “She ripped apart my pages and called out every lie, every lazy shortcut, every time I leaned on clichés instead of truth. She didn’t just make this book better. She made me better.”
My throat is tight. Too tight.
Rory shifts, then looks directly at me again.
“And, Lara,” he says, my name dropping from his mouth like a stone into a still pond. “I need you to know something.”
No. Please don’t.
“Working with you changed my life.” His voice dips, barely more than a breath. Then, quieter—not for the audience, not for anyone but me.
“Loving you…” His voice cracks, just slightly, but enough to make my hands clench. “Loving you has been the greatest risk I’ve ever taken. And the best thing I’ll ever do.”
The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air.
I’m dimly aware of the crowd’s reaction—soft gasps, a few audible exclamations—but it’s all background noise to the roaring in my ears. Because this isn’t real. It can’t be real. Rory Keane, bestselling author and professional heartbreaker, is not standing on a stage in front of dozens of strangers and admitting that he loves me.
I can feel them looking, their gazes heavy and intrusive, but I can’t move. Can’t speak. All I can do is stand there, exposed, while Rory waits—hope and determination etched into every line of his face. Danny doesn’t pressure me, doesn’t speak. He just squeezes my arm gently, like he’s wordlessly saying, I’ve got you.
The air feels too thick, like I’m trying to breathe through a wool sweater. My legs are rooted to the spot, even though every instinct in my body is screaming at me to move . Forward, backwards, anywhere but here. Rory’s words are still ricocheting around in my skull—“ Loving you has been the greatest risk ”—like some cruel echo designed to short-circuit my brain.
This cannot be happening.
A part of me wants to laugh. A hysterical, borderline-manic laugh that would probably get me escorted out by security. Because this—this grand, sweeping declaration of love in front of an audience—is the stuff of romance novels. His romance novels, specifically. The ones I spend months editing, rolling my eyes at all the overblown speeches and “I’ll die without you” proclamations. And now, somehow, I’m living one.
The irony is not lost on me. At least he’s on brand.
“Just go,” I whisper under my breath, willing my feet to turn toward the door. Leave. Run. Do anything but stand here like a deer in headlights while Rory Keane bares his soul for everyone to see. For me to see.
But I don’t move. My traitorous body stays frozen, my hands clutching the strap of my bag so tightly my knuckles ache. Because as much as I want to bolt, there’s another part of me—a quieter, more dangerous part—that doesn’t want to run. That wants to stay. That wants to believe him.
This isn’t real. It’s… a publicity stunt. A gimmick. The rationalisations tumble in my mind, weak and hollow.
He’s still looking at me—straight at me—with an intensity I didn’t know he was capable of. His expression is raw, unguarded, and so achingly vulnerable I can’t look away.
“Goddamn you, Rory.” He wasn’t supposed to do this. He wasn’t supposed to make me the story.
My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears. The crowd’s attention feels suffocating, their whispers like static pressing against my skin. And yet… and yet, beneath all the fear, all the doubt, there’s something else. Something warm and insistent, tugging at the edges of my resolve.
Hope.
Don’t be stupid. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you hurt . But Rory’s words keep replaying in my mind, stubborn and relentless: Loving you, has been the best thing I’ll ever do.
Danny leans in, voice low and sure. “Go.” One word, firm and unrelenting. When I hesitate, he adds, “You’ll regret it if you don’t. And trust me, I don’t have the patience to listen to you analyse this for the next decade.”
My throat tightens, and before I can talk myself out of it, I take a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
Each movement feels monumental, like wading through quicksand, but I keep going. The crowd parts around me slowly, faces blurring into a haze of colour and sound. I focus on the ground at first—shiny shoes, scuffed heels, chair legs, the edge of someone’s handbag. Anything but Rory. But as I get closer, my gaze lifts, drawn to him like a magnet.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. Not once.
I reach the edge of the stage. My palms are damp, and my stomach is a storm of nerves, but there’s no turning back now. Whatever happens next, I’m here. I’m choosing to be here.
For him. For us. For whatever this might be.
He’s standing there, tall and steady, microphone in one hand, his other hanging awkwardly by his side as if he doesn’t know what to do with it. His eyes are locked on me, wide and unguarded, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he looks… nervous. Rory Keane, the man who could charm a room full of literary critics into loving a poorly written shopping list, is nervous. Because of me.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper. It’s absurd, really, because I’m pretty sure half this crowd has stopped breathing just to hear what happens next.
“Hi,” he says back, soft and certain. His lips twitch, like he wants to smile, but doesn’t quite trust himself. And God help me, I think I love him even more for that.
There’s a pause—no, a moment . One of those cinematic beats where the world seems to collectively hold its breath. I can feel the weight of everyone’s eyes, the heat of their curiosity pressing down on me.
“Rory…” I start, but my voice catches. Damn it. Why couldn’t I have rehearsed this? Oh right, because I never planned to be here in the first place!
“Don’t,” he cuts in gently, stepping closer. The mic drops to his side, forgotten, and now it’s just us. “You don’t have to say anything right now.”
“That’s good,” I admit. “Because I have no idea what to say.”
His laugh is short, breathless, but there’s a flicker of relief in it. “You showed up. That’s enough.”
Enough . The word sits heavy in my chest, cracking something open inside me. For years, nothing I did ever felt like enough—not in work, not in life, not even in the quiet moments when I dared to dream about something more. But Rory… he’s looking at me like I hung the moon, and I think, maybe, just maybe, he’s right. Maybe showing up is enough.
“Do you always sabotage your own book launches with dramatic public confessions?”
“Only when the person I love most in the world is involved,” he counters, quick as ever. His voice dips lower, quieter, and suddenly it’s just for me. “And only when I’m absolutely terrified of losing her.”
Damn him. Damn his stupid, beautiful sincerity. I take another step closer, close enough now to see the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his pulse flutters at his neck. He’s vulnerable too, I realise, and somehow that makes this whole thing both easier and infinitely harder.
“Rory,” I try again, softer this time. I’m not sure what I’m about to say, but it doesn’t matter, because in the next second, he closes the distance between us.
The kiss is— Well, it’s everything. Soft and urgent, tentative and consuming, like a thousand unsaid words spilling out in a single breath. His hand cups my face, fingers threading into my hair, and I melt into him before I can overthink it. There’s no room for doubt or fear, just the overwhelming certainty that this, right here, is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The crowd erupts. Applause, cheers, someone wolf-whistling from the back—I’m pretty sure it’s Danny—but it barely registers. Rory pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against mine, his breath warm and unsteady. His eyes search mine, and I swear there’s an entire galaxy of emotions swirling in them: hope, relief, love, and something else I can’t quite name.
“Hi,” he says again, grinning like an idiot.
“Hi,” I reply, breathless and smiling despite myself. And for the first time in a very, very long time, I feel like I might actually be okay.
“That was… dramatic.”
“Had to make sure I had your attention. You know I have a thing for big romantic gestures. And for the record, it would have been even better during a car chase.”
“Congratulations,” I say wryly, letting my hand drop back to my side. “You’ve officially made a spectacle of both of us. Hope you’re happy.”
“I am,” he replies, his gaze holding mine. “Are you happy?”
Happy . The word lands softly, but is heavy, like a stone skipping over water before sinking into the depths. I blink up at him, my mind scrambling for an answer that won’t betray how entirely undone I feel right now. Happy? Who has time to process happiness when they’ve just been publicly kissed by their ex-collaborator-turned-muse-turned?—
“Ask me again in five minutes,” I manage to say, my voice steadier than I expected.
“Okay,” Rory says, his eyes not leaving mine. “But for the record, I’m going to keep asking until the answer’s yes.”
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, or slap him. Instead, I just shake my head, biting back the smile threatening to break through.
The crowd is still buzzing—clapping, cheering, someone probably live-streaming this whole thing—and it’s starting to dawn on me that we’re standing here on a stage, under very bright lights, being incredibly… visible. My cheeks flush hot as reality crashes back in.
“Rory,” I hiss, leaning closer, my voice low enough that only he can hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them.” His tone is impossibly easy, like he hasn’t just detonated my carefully constructed life in front of half the publishing industry. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” I shoot back, arching a brow. “Because I’m pretty sure we’ll be trending on BookTok.”
“Good.” He smirks, and for a second, I want to hate him for how insufferably confident he looks. “I’ve always wanted to go viral on social media.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of my skull. But then his fingers brush against mine—just the lightest, briefest touch—and all my snark evaporates like mist under the sun.
“Rory…” I start, but my voice falters. There’s too much to say, too much I’m not ready to say, and the words knot themselves up in my throat. He seems to understand anyway, because his expression softens, the smirk giving way to something quieter, something real.
“Hey,” he says gently, his voice dipping low enough that it grounds me. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Everything. You and me. Us. Whatever this is.”
My heart does this ridiculous little flip, and I suddenly feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, wind whipping through my hair, the ground miles below. Terrifying, exhilarating, inevitable.
“Bold of you to assume there’s an ‘us,’” I say, aiming for dry, but landing closer to breathless.
“Bold’s kind of my thing,” he shoots back.
“Rory,” I say again, softer this time, and I don’t even know what I’m about to follow it with. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t screw this up,” I say, half-teasing, half-serious. Because if anyone has the power to ruin this—whatever this is—it’s him. Or maybe it’s me. Probably both of us, if I’m being honest.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises, and for the first time, I think I might actually believe him.
We pull back then, just enough to look at each other fully, and the weight of what’s happened—what’s happening —settles between us like a fragile, precious thing. His eyes meet mine, steady and searching, and in that moment, it feels like we’re standing on the cusp of something vast and unknowable. Something terrifying. Something wonderful.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.