Chapter 2
TWO
I have to re-read one of Rory Keane’s sentences three times just to make sure they are indeed the words that are written on the page; a line so saccharine it makes my teeth ache.
“‘Love poured from his soul like sunlight spilling through an open window.’” I read the line aloud under my breath, and if sarcasm had a tone-setting, I’d just nailed it. My face twists involuntarily—half grimace, half smirk. Sunlight spilling? His soul? I scribble a note in the margin: Overwrought. Too abstract. Where is the emotional anchor?
My fingers drum faster now, glancing at the clock for what must be the third time in five minutes. Late. Of course, he’s late. Rory Keane, The Sunday Times #1 bestselling darling and literary sensation, can’t possibly be expected to arrive on schedule like the rest of us mere mortals. No, punctuality would probably clash with his carefully cultivated image of effortless brilliance.
I lean back, crossing my arms, and try not to picture him breezing in here with that trademark grin—the one that sells millions of paperbacks, breaks thousands of hearts, and somehow manages to say both Trust me and Good luck figuring me out . It’s infuriating how someone can look so put-together on his back cover author photo, and yet write sentences like Her love was a lighthouse guiding his shipwrecked heart .
Another note: The nautical metaphors need to stop.
Just as I’m debating whether I have time to pour another coffee before he decides to grace me with his presence, the door creaks open. And there he is. The man of the hour, in all his casually dishevelled glory, sauntering into the room as if he owns, not just this meeting, but time itself.
“Hi, Rory. I’m Lara Yates. I’ll be taking over from Rachel.” I offer a hand and he shakes it.
“Afternoon,” he says, his voice warm and unhurried, like we’re old friends catching up over lunch rather than two professionals with a looming deadline. His dark hair is mussed, as though he’s spent the morning running his hands through it in deep creative thought—or maybe he just rolled out of bed. The sleeves of his creased white shirt are shoved up to his elbows, revealing forearms that no doubt inspire fanfiction somewhere, and his jeans are just this side of inappropriate for a business meeting.
“Nice of you to join me,” I reply, my tone clipped. I don’t bother masking the irritation in my voice; he doesn’t deserve that courtesy.
He flashes me a wide, unapologetic smile, one dimple appearing like punctuation at the end of his charm offensive.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, dropping into the chair across from me with a lazy grace that makes me want to roll my eyes so hard they might never come back down. His bag slouches onto the floor, the very picture of carelessness.
I glance at the manuscript in front of me, then back at him. The contrast between us couldn’t be starker. My jacket is immaculate, my notes colour-coded and neatly stacked. Rory looks like he’s wandered in from some bohemian artist loft, where he’s just finished a spirited debate about the meaning of life over cigars and cognac.
“Let’s get started,” I say crisply, ignoring the way his grin deepens, as though he finds my no-nonsense demeanour endlessly entertaining. God help me, I already regret agreeing to this meeting.
“Your heroine, Sophie,” I begin, flipping to the first flagged page in the manuscript, “is about as emotionally available as a plank of wood.” I tap a manicured nail on the edge of the table for emphasis. My voice is flat, my words precise, and I don’t so much as glance up at Rory. Eye contact feels like conceding ground, and I’m not in a generous mood today.
Across from me, I can feel him stretch out in his chair, every movement deliberate, unhurried. When I finally do look up, the corner of his mouth quirks, an expression that screams amused, not alarmed .
“Go on,” he says, his tone light, inviting even. Like I’m telling some engaging yarn over drinks and not systematically dismantling his life’s work.
“Right,” I snap, flipping to another tabbed section with the precision of someone tearing through a legal brief. “This scene here? Page fifty-eight? Where they’re supposed to be connecting over their shared childhood trauma but instead just… flirt awkwardly? It doesn’t work. You’ve got dialogue standing in for substance, and it’s not even good dialogue. A lot of it reads like filler, or notes to yourself that you meant to replace later.”
“Filler?” he repeats, drawing out the word like it’s a new flavour of ice cream he’s sampling. The grin widens into something toothier, and I swear it takes everything in me not to hurl the manuscript across the table. “Interesting choice of critique.”
“Is it?” I arch a brow, refusing to let him bait me. “Because what I’m seeing here are two characters who are presumably falling in love but sound more like they’re reading cue cards for a health and safety in the workplace video.”
His forefinger brushes the faint stubble shadowing his jawline, an infuriatingly casual gesture that makes it clear he’s not taking any of this seriously.
“I’ll admit, that’s a new one. Do I get points for originality?”
“Do you want points, or do you want a functional manuscript?”
“Why not both?” he counters smoothly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table like we’re conspirators in some grand scheme rather than editor and client locked in battle. His eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, betraying genuine amusement. “I mean, isn’t that the dream?”
“Not mine,” I fire back. “My dream involves authors turning in manuscripts that don’t require me to perform emergency surgery on every single chapter.”
“Ah, right, and here I thought we were doing some kind of creative tango. You know, pushing artistic boundaries together, making magic happen.”
“Magic doesn’t happen when your characters spend seventy percent of their time bickering about pizza toppings.”
“Hey, now just a minute,” he interjects, raising a finger as if I’ve crossed some sacred line. “That was a metaphorical argument about compromise.”
“Sure,” I say, “and metaphors are great when they actually land. Yours? Crash and burn.”
His grin doesn’t falter, but I catch the faintest flicker of something else beneath it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d managed to land a blow. But then he shifts in his seat, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of the moment, and the smirk returns in full force.
“Remind me to never invite you to my birthday party,” he quips, his voice laced with mock injury. “You’d probably critique the cake.”
“Only if it’s half-baked,” I reply without missing a beat. “Page one-eighty-seven. Oliver confesses his love during a… drumroll please… a car chase. A car chase , Rory. Because nothing says ‘soulmate’ like dodging articulated lorries on the motorway.”
“High stakes,” he offers, shrugging one shoulder as if this is some kind of brilliant defence. “Adrenaline. Passion. Tyres squealing—it’s all very cinematic.”
“Sure, if you’re trying to write Fast it lingers in his eyes, a shadow refusing to retreat.
I tell myself to focus on the work, on the deadline looming over us like a guillotine. But his words stick, stubborn and intrusive, as if they’ve wedged themselves into some hidden corner of my brain. Because the truth is, I know what it’s like to lose that spark—to stare at a blank page and wonder if you’ll ever be able to fill it with something meaningful again. I know it too well.
“Let’s just stick to the manuscript,” I say finally, my tone clipped but wavering at the edges.
If he notices, he doesn’t comment. Instead, he gives a small nod, subdued and strangely respectful.
“Whatever you say, Captain Critique,” he says, but there’s no bite to the moniker. Just resignation.
It should feel like a victory. Instead, it feels like a truce.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Rory says, his voice smooth as honey, but with a deliberate edge that makes me glance up from my notes. His fingers are interlocked like he’s about to deliver some groundbreaking revelation. “I’m trying to write about love without… you know, actually feeling it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, unsure where this is going, but already annoyed.
“And whose fault is that?”
“Touché.” He grins, unrepentant. “But hear me out. Maybe what I need isn’t another lecture on emotional stakes or narrative arcs.” His gaze flickers—no, lingers—on me, and something shifts in the air between us, subtle but unmistakable. “Maybe I need to experience romance firsthand. You know, for research purposes.”
Oh, no. Absolutely not. I set my pen down with deliberate precision. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Not entirely,” he says. “Think about it. How can I write something authentic if I don’t feel it? And who better to help me than my esteemed editor, who clearly has all the answers about what love should look like?”
“Stop.” I hold up a hand, cutting him off before he can dig himself any deeper into this absurdity. “First of all, your job is to create fiction, not live it. If every author needed firsthand experience to write convincingly, half the fantasy genre wouldn’t exist. Second”—I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, a gesture that buys me half a second to reassemble my composure—“what you’re suggesting is wildly unprofessional, not to mention ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” His eyebrows lift, mock-offended. “I think it’s innovative. Immersive storytelling. Method writing.”
“Method writing isn’t a thing,” I snap, “and even if it were, I am not going to… to date you for the sake of a manuscript.”
“Who said anything about dating?” His smirk deepens, and I instantly regret my choice of words. “You’ve got quite the imagination, Lara. No wonder you’re such a good editor.”
“Rory.” My tone is pure ice, my expression carefully neutral despite the heat creeping up my neck. “Focus. On. The. Manuscript.”
“Fine, fine,” he concedes, raising his hands in surrender but looking far too pleased with himself. “It was just an idea. A good one, if you ask me.”
“Which I didn’t,” I say, flipping through the pages in front of me. My pulse is annoyingly quick, and I hate that he knows exactly how to rankle me, how to pull reactions out of me I’d rather keep hidden. “Now, if we’re done brainstorming your extracurricular activities, can we please get back to fixing your female protagonist’s complete lack of emotional growth?”
He doesn’t respond immediately, and when I glance up, he’s watching me with an unreadable expression. The teasing smile is still there, faint but present, yet his eyes… they’re softer now, quieter.
“Sure,” he says finally, his voice lower, almost thoughtful. “Back to the manuscript.”
“Good.” I nod briskly, pretending I didn’t just lose some invisible battle. Pretending his earlier comment hasn’t lodged itself somewhere in my chest, stubborn and unwelcome.
“Rory, I need you to understand something.” I set my pen down with a deliberate click against the glass tabletop, meeting his eyes head-on. “The deadline isn’t some arbitrary date. This manuscript is scheduled for the summer release slot to catch all the Best Beach Reads lists. The marketing team already has their campaign working overtime. Preorders are rolling in and we’ve booked and paid for point-of-sale displays in hundreds of bookstores. If this doesn’t come together—” I take a breath, forcing myself not to sound like I’m lecturing a wayward teenager, though the temptation is strong. “It’s not just your reputation on the line. It’s the publisher’s. And, frankly, mine.”
“Yours?” He arches an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise you were personally invested in my success, Lara.”
“This is my job. My name is attached to this project as much as yours is. If it tanks because you’ve decided to blag this one, we both lose.”
“Blag? Ouch.”
I push the manuscript toward him, keen to crack on, my finger tapping on one of the many highlighted sections. “Page seventy-three. Your protagonist confesses his love for the heroine after three dates. Three. It’s rushed, it’s shallow, and it reads like… like…”
“Like someone who hasn’t been in love in a while?” he offers, deadpan, and I freeze mid-tap.
“That’s not what I was going to say,” I reply, but the heat rising in my cheeks betrays me.
“Uh-huh.”
“Let me make one thing clear.” I stand, gathering the papers strewn across the table, each motion precise and measured. “This isn’t a game, Rory. You might enjoy playing the charming rogue, but if this book doesn’t meet expectations, no amount of winking and smirking will save you. Or me.”
I snap my notebook shut with a decisive thud, the sound punctuating the end of this maddeningly unproductive meeting. The pages are now filled with messy notes and asterisks, each one a reminder of Rory Keane’s inability—or refusal—to approach his manuscript with anything resembling focus.
“You’ve got plenty to be getting on with.” My voice is clipped, all business, even as my mind is already spinning with more potential fixes for the train wreck he handed in disguised as a manuscript.
“Plenty is an understatement,” Rory replies.
“You need to get started on these edits, like, today. Only then might we stand a chance of salvaging this before the deadline.” I adjust my glasses for good measure.
“Salvage. What a glowing vote of confidence. You know, for someone who spends so much time dissecting romance, you’re surprisingly ruthless about it.”
“Ruthless gets results,” I counter, standing and slipping my bag over my shoulder. “And last I checked, results are what you need right now.”
I walk towards the door, but he doesn’t move to leave.
“Was there something else?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. My patience is thinning, but my curiosity—it seems—isn’t. A dangerous combination.
“You’re kind of fascinating when you’re in editor mode. Terrifying, sure. But fascinating.”
I take a step toward the door. “If that’s all, I have actual work to do.”
“You know, for someone who claims this isn’t a game, you’re playing your role awfully well.”
“And what role would that be?”
“The untouchable perfectionist,” he says easily, but there’s a weight behind the words that catches me off guard. “All harsh edges and no room for mistakes. Makes me wonder if you ever let yourself slip. Even just a little.”
The air between us stretches taut, and I hate that my pulse quickens. “My personal habits are none of your concern,” I reply coolly, pulling the door open. “Focus on fixing your manuscript. That’s the only thing that matters here.”
“Right,” he says, standing at last. As I step through the doorway, his voice follows me, low and warm, tinged with something I can’t quite pin down. “But maybe… if you ever want to talk about what does matter, you know where to find me.”
I don’t look back. I don’t trust myself to.