Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER…
My fingers trace the edges of the proof copy on the table in front of me—my proof copy. The cover is smooth, the paper sturdy, heavier than I expected. It feels… real. Too real.
I flip through the pages for what must be the hundredth time, my thumb catching slightly on the corner of chapter one. There it is. My name. In bold, serif font, glaring up at me like it’s mocking my audacity.
Lara Yates. Author .
“Ridiculous,” I say, shoving my glasses higher up on my nose. It earns me a curious glance from the barista behind the counter, but I ignore her. Instead, I stare down at the book. My book.
My chest tightens. Excitement? Terror? Both. Definitely both.
A shadow moves across the table, and before I can look up, someone slides into the chair opposite me with the kind of effortless confidence I’ll never understand.
“So this is it?”
Rory Keane. Of course. He’s wearing that lazy grin that should come with a warning label, his dark hair falling just enough over his forehead to give him an air of “I woke up like this” charm. His shirt is hanging loose, jacket slung casually over one shoulder, because Rory Keane doesn’t just enter a room—he saunters into it like he owns the place. If he notices how tightly I’m gripping the proof copy, he doesn’t say anything.
“Congratulations, Lara,” he says softly. Not teasing. Just… sincere.
Rory doesn’t ask. Of course, he doesn’t ask.
Before I can blink, his hand darts across the table, long fingers brushing mine as he plucks the proof copy right out of my hands like it’s some casual trinket and not, you know, the culmination of my entire existence .
“Ah, ah,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “That is classified material.”
“Good thing I love secrets.” His smirk is maddening, the kind that drips with enough mischief to make a saint reconsider their vows. He leans back in his chair, flipping open the front cover with an exaggerated air of nonchalance. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
“Rory,” I warn, but it’s weak—embarrassingly so. My voice does that wobbly thing, half stern, half secretly thrilled, because there’s something completely absurd about watching him— The Sunday Times bestselling author, the undisputed king of romance, professional heartstring-puller—reading the first sentence of my book.
He clears his throat dramatically, squinting at the page like he’s preparing for a public reading. “‘In the margins of his life, she had only ever been an editor—until the day he wrote himself into hers.’” He lowers the book slightly, raising one dark eyebrow at me. “Oof. You’re really coming for my gig, huh?”
“Give it back.” I reach forward, but he holds it just out of range, his grin widening. The audacity of this man.
“Not yet,” he says, tilting his head as if considering something deeply profound. “You might actually be better than me. Should I be worried?”
“Yes. Now return the stolen goods before I call security.”
“Security?” His laugh is low, warm, and entirely too contagious. I feel it curl around the edges of my resolve like smoke. “Lara, please. You’d miss me if they dragged me away.”
“Debatable.”
“Admit it,” he continues, tapping the edge of the proof playfully against the table. “This is good. Like, really good. You should be proud.”
“I am. Very.”
I can’t seem to stop looking at the book. It’s mine—every word, every comma, over ten years in the making, if you count the time from when I began to when it’s published. And now here it is, sitting in the middle of a sticky café table next to a half-empty latte cup. Somehow, it’s more terrifying than exhilarating.
“Hey,” Rory says, breaking through the static in my head. He stands and approaches my side of the table. He holds a hand out, palm up, stopping just short of touching mine. I reach up and take it; he waits until I meet his gaze again. “It’s real, Lara. You did this.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, barely audible. “I did.”
Something shifts then, subtle and impossible to pinpoint, but I feel it anyway. I stand and Rory closes the space between us. His forehead brushes against mine, warm and steady, and my breath catches in surprise.
“See?” he says. “Not so scary, right?”
I don’t respond, not with words, anyway. Instead, I let my eyes drift shut, leaning ever so slightly into him—into this moment, fleeting and fragile but undeniably real.
And for the first time, maybe ever, I believe him.
Rory pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his forehead still so close I can feel the faint trace of warmth lingering there. His gaze is steady, searching, and—of course—just a little smug, like he knows exactly what kind of chaos he’s causing.
“Alright, Yates,” he says. “So, what happens next?”
I blink at him, thrown for a second by the question, though I shouldn’t be. That’s Rory for you—always diving straight into the deep end without checking if I’ve had time to put on a life jacket.
“Next?” I echo, stalling because, well, I’m not sure I trust myself to answer without sounding like an idiot. My brain feels like it’s been rewired entirely in static since he leaned in.
“Yeah, next,” he repeats, drawing the word out like it’s obvious. “Because now you’re a big, famous author and all. I guess… I need to know you’re still happy slumming it with this big lummox.”
It hits me then, how much weight those words are carrying, despite the lightness in his delivery. For all his bravado and cheeky grins, Rory doesn’t say things like this lightly. Not when it matters. And this? This definitely matters.
“Rory,” I start, but my voice catches halfway through his name, and I have to clear my throat to try again. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
“That I am,”
I glance down at the book again, its crisp pages marked with the fingerprints of every doubt that got me here. The culmination of years spent behind the scenes, convincing myself that stepping into the spotlight wasn’t for people like me. And now? Now I’m sitting across from the person who never stopped pushing me to believe otherwise, the one who saw through every excuse and stayed anyway.
“Always,” I say finally, the word slipping out before I can overthink it. I look up as I say it, meeting his gaze head-on, and this time, my voice doesn’t falter. “You’re always part of what’s next.”
The smile that spreads across his face is slow, deliberate—like he’s savouring it—and it feels like the sun breaking through clouds I didn’t realise were still there.
Rory leans forward first.
Not all at once, not in some grand cinematic sweep. No, it’s smaller than that—intentional, deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. And of course, he does. His hand comes up, pausing just shy of my face, like he’s waiting for me to stop him. But I don’t. God help me, I don’t.
Always , I’d said, and now there’s no taking it back.
“Say something,” he begs, his voice low enough to send a shiver down my spine. His breath is warm, close enough to skim my cheek. “Anything. Tell me to stop, tell me to keep going—tell me I’m an idiot, I don’t care.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Thanks a bunch,” he says, the delivery laced with that infuriating, familiar smirk. His eyes flicker over my face, searching, analysing, waiting.
And then he kisses me.
It’s tentative at first, almost hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, gauging whether I’ll pull away. But I don’t. Instead, I lean in—just slightly, just enough—and that’s all it takes. The world tilts. Or maybe it’s just me. Either way, everything narrows to this one moment: the soft press of his lips against mine, the faint scrape of stubble brushing my skin. It’s… grounding. Disarming. Terrifying.
Perfect.
I don’t realise I’ve closed my eyes until the rest of the café disappears—the clink of cups, the hum of conversations. All that’s left is him. Him, and the steady warmth of his hand now cupping my jaw, as though I might disappear if he lets go.
I tilt my head slightly, deepening the kiss, and a soft sound escapes him—surprise or relief or something else entirely, I don’t know. I barely register it before his other hand finds its way to my face, anchoring me to the moment. There’s a heat to it now, a quiet insistence, but it’s never rushed. Never careless. Every movement feels measured, intentional, like he’s aware of every barrier we’ve crossed to get here.
When we finally break apart, it’s not because either of us wants to—it’s because we have to. Oxygen is apparently non-negotiable.
“You know what?” he says. “We should write a book together.”
“We already did.”
“I mean one with both of our names on the front cover.
“Collaborations are risky.”
“Sure,” he agrees easily. “But sometimes they’re magic.”
God, he’s infuriating. And brilliant. And possibly right.
“Fine,” I say, exhaling a laugh as I lean forward. “Magic it is.”
“Magic it is,” he echoes, and then his hand finds mine on the table, his fingers threading through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
For once, I don’t overthink it. I don’t analyse or dissect or search for hidden meanings. I just let myself feel it—the warmth of his hand, the steady thrum of possibility between us, the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.
“Ready?” he asks, his voice low and brimming with something that feels suspiciously like hope.
“Always,” I say, the word slipping from my lips without hesitation.
And when he leans in for another kiss, I know—I know —that this is the beginning of something bigger than either of us. Something worth every risk.