Chapter 3
THREE
I’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes just staring at the screen. My laptop is open, my inbox overflowing, and the manuscript I’m supposed to be reviewing is right in front of me. But instead of making notes, I’m just… stuck. Paralysed.
The logical part of my brain knows I’m working from home today, knows the deadline looms, knows I should be doing something— anything —productive. But the rest of me? The part still reeling from Rory’s ridiculous suggestion? That part refuses to cooperate.
Method writing … the gall of the man.
Like he’s some tortured artist in need of a muse, rather than a bestselling author who’s quite literally made a career out of fabricating romance. Like this— whatever this is —is just another plot device to be tested, tweaked, and perfected.
“Focus,” I say under my breath, gripping the arms of my chair as though sheer willpower alone might tether my thoughts to the task at hand. But no amount of glaring at the screen changes the fact that my mind is anything but here.
Instead, it’s spinning—no, spiralling—with the memory of his voice: smooth, warm, and infuriatingly casual, like he hadn’t just unleashed a hurricane into my meticulously compartmentalised life.
Like he hadn’t just proposed the most ridiculous, unprofessional, entirely inappropriate arrangement with the kind of straight-faced ease one might use to suggest grabbing coffee.
Like I was the unreasonable one for being completely floored by it.
I shove back from the desk, the wheels of my chair skittering against the floor with a groan.
“The audacity,” I say aloud, pressing my palms to my temples as though I can physically massage the irritation out of my skull. “Who does that?”
It wasn’t just what he’d said—it was the way he said it, with that half-smile that made it impossible to tell if he was serious or just messing with me for fun. A proposition, he’d called it. Like we were negotiating some kind of business deal.
“‘Work together more closely, Lara,’” I mimic his voice, low and velvety, dripping in charm. My stomach twists, heat creeping up my neck at how easily the timbre of it settles in my ears, even now. “‘ Explore new creative possibilities ,’” I add, punctuating the air with sarcastic finger quotes.
Maybe you’d like me to express my editorial suggestions through the medium of dance. Is that creative enough for you?
I pinch the bridge of my nose, forcing myself to take a deep breath. This isn’t about him. Not really. This is about me, about maintaining control, about—what had he called it? Oh, right. Loosening up . As if I’m some uptight spinster who needs to pop open a bottle of wine and throw caution to the wind.
But beneath my irritation, there’s something else. Something unwelcome. A flicker of intrigue, maybe. Or curiosity. Or the faintest whisper of temptation.
No. Nope. Absolutely not . Whatever Rory Keane thinks he’s offering with that insufferable grin and those maddeningly expressive eyes, I am not buying it.
I’m pacing now. My arms are crossed tightly over my chest, fingers digging into my sleeves as if holding myself together physically will somehow stop me from unravelling mentally. Spoiler alert: it’s not working.
My feet carry me to the living room window, almost unbidden, and I press my palms lightly against the cool glass. Outside, the city stretches wide and glittering in the early evening light, a mosaic of buildings and bustling streets that hum with life. From here, everyone looks so purposeful. So certain.
“How long has it been?”
The question slips out before I can stop it, soft and unfamiliar, like testing the weight of something fragile in my hands. How long since someone looked at me the way Rory had in that moment? Not just saw me, but wanted me. Me, not the polished editor in her sensible heels and tailored jackets, but the person underneath all of that.
It’s unsettling, that thought. Intriguing too, but mostly, if I’m being honest, it’s flattering.
I trace a small circle on my now-stone-cold cup of tea with my fingertip. It’s not that I feel unattractive. Not exactly. But there’s a difference between being appreciated for your work—or even admired—and being truly desired . Desired in a way that feels electric, magnetic, reckless.
Reckless, now there’s a word that feels like it doesn’t belong in my vocabulary. Because it doesn’t. At least, not anymore.
I shake my head and step back from the window, ignoring the faint pull in my chest as I turn away from the view. Whatever Rory thinks he sees when he looks at me—whatever spark of madness made him think this was a good idea—it’s better left unexplored. Safer. Cleaner. Controlled. Boundaries exist for a reason.
Rory, with that infuriating way he tilts his head when he’s trying to make a point, doesn’t seem to understand this. Or maybe he does, and he just enjoys watching me squirm. Either way, I’m not about to let him bulldoze through the lines I’ve carefully drawn—no matter how attractive he might be—lines that have been securely constructed for some time now and that keep things predictable, orderly. Safe.
My gaze snags on the framed photo on the wall above my desk. It’s an old picture, slightly faded around the edges, but the subjects are still clear: my parents, seated side by side on the couch in our living room. My mother wears her usual polite teacher smile; my father stares straight ahead, expressionless, almost shell-shocked. They look more like coworkers from different departments posing for a company social media post than two people who once exchanged vows.
I pick up the frame and run my thumb along the edge, the cool glass grounding me as memories bubble uninvited to the surface. Their marriage was—and remains—functional, I suppose. Efficient, like a well-oiled machine. They shared the logistics—finances, schedules, shopping lists—but passion? Affection? Desire? Those were foreign concepts, dismissed as frivolities.
“Love isn’t practical, Lara,” my mother used to say whenever I asked why they didn’t laugh much, or touch much, or… feel much. “And practicality is what keeps a house running.”
Practicality. The cornerstone of their relationship. And the slow, silent poison that drained it of colour. I’d scoff, but for the fact that I’m self-aware enough to know that a little bit of that pragmatism has rubbed off on me.
I look away from the photo of my parents. I don’t want that life. I never have. But the alternative—the messiness, the uncertainty, the heartbreak—terrifies me just as much. Maybe more.
This is exactly why emotions can’t be trusted. They cloud judgment. They lead to bad decisions. They…
I trail off from the thought as Rory’s voice echoes in my mind, low and teasing. “You’re too buttoned-up, Yates. Loosen the top button once in a while.”
“Dickhead,” I hiss. But even as I wiggle my mouse to wake up my screen, my fingers tremble. Because part of me knows the truth—the kind of truth I wouldn’t dare admit out loud.
The problem isn’t just Rory. It’s that, for the first time in years, someone made me wonder what it might feel like to loosen the top button. Even just once. Better yet, they might actually loosen it for me.
The last person I loved didn’t have Rory’s reckless grin or his maddening confidence. Another face swims into view. A steadier one. Softer. Predictable.
“James,” I whisper. And just like that, the memory pulls me under.
* * *
The air smells like fresh-cut grass and sunscreen, a summer barbecue humming around us as James flips burgers with the same precision he brings to every task. His shirt is tucked into his khakis—khakis!—and his expression is one of deep concentration, brow furrowed just slightly as he adjusts the spatula in his hand.
“Relax, Gordon Ramsay,” I tease, nudging him playfully with my hip. He glances at me, startled for half a second, before his mouth softens into that familiar smile. Warm. Comfortable. Safe.
“Someone has to make sure these don’t burn,” he says, his tone amused but measured. Always measured. James was nothing if not predictable. The kind of man who never left a text unanswered, never forgot your coffee order, never raised his voice even when he was angry. A man you could build a life with because you always knew exactly where you stood.
And yet… as I watch him carefully flip another burger, I remember the hollow ache that had started growing in those last few months. Like I’d been living in a house with perfectly painted walls, but no furniture. No warmth. Just… space.
“Do you ever want more than this?” I’d asked him once, the question spilling out before I could stop it. We were sitting on his pristine grey couch—of course it was grey—watching reruns of some sitcom neither of us really cared about. He glanced at me then, confused.
“More than what?”
“More than comfort. More than… predictability.”
He frowned, clearly trying to understand. “Comfort’s not a bad thing, Lara. Comfort lasts. Passion burns out.” He paused, then added, almost shyly, “Isn’t this enough?”
* * *
I shake my head, like I’m trying to dislodge the memories clinging to me. James’s lopsided smile dissolves into Rory’s wolfish grin, and suddenly I feel like I’ve been caught in some kind of emotional tug-of-war that I never agreed to play.
Messy .
My monitor’s screensaver continues looping, the manuscript I should be editing, untouched. But it’s not the keyboard catching my eye—it’s my phone. Sitting there, mocking me, daring me.
I pick up the phone without thinking, the smooth weight of it grounding me for half a second, before finding Rory in my contacts. His profile photo—just his initials because I refuse to assign him anything more personal—stares back at me. My thumb hovers over his name, inches away from opening the message or, God forbid, calling him.
“Don’t do it, Lara,” I whisper, my voice barely audible but firm. “Nothing good comes from impulsive decisions. You know this.”
And yet, I feel the pull. The same magnetic, infuriating draw I felt when he smirked across the conference room table today and said, “ You’re too wound up, Yates. When’s the last time you did something just for fun? ”
“ Editing is fun ,” I’d shot back, defensive, before I could stop myself. He’d only laughed, low and rich and entirely too self-assured, as though he already knew how this story ended.
Now here I am, holding my phone like it’s a grenade with the pin half-pulled. My thumb dips closer to the screen, brushing the edge of his name. One tap, and I could hear that lazy, teasing drawl again. One tap, and…
“Nope.” I drop the phone onto the desk like it burned me, rolling my chair back from the desk for good measure. “Not happening.”
It takes a full minute for my pulse to settle, though I’m still acutely aware of the phone sitting there, still glowing faintly. I know I won’t delete his number—I’m not that dramatic—but I also know I’m not ready to open that door. Not today. Maybe never.
My gaze flickers to the framed photo of my parents again. Their stiff and unconvincing smiles, a reminder of everything I promised myself I wouldn’t settle for. Or risk.
I don’t do complicated.
Rory’s name lingers in the air, unspoken but impossible to ignore.
And I hate the part of me that is already wondering what he’ll say next.
“Tea,” I announce to the empty room, because apparently saying it aloud makes it official. “Tea fixes everything.” Lies, obviously, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve picking up that damn phone again.
I focus on the mundane motions—the weight of the kettle, the steady stream filling it to just the right level, the satisfying roar as I turn it on. Rituals are good. Practical. Rational. Not at all like the ridiculous proposition I keep replaying in my mind, no matter how hard I’ve tried to drown it out.
While the kettle begins its slow climb to a boil, I lean back against the counter. My gaze lands on the chipped mug sitting next to the sink, the one I never got around to replacing. A secret Santa gift received during my first Christmas at Scott & Drake. It reads Keep Calm and Edit On , the lettering faded from years of overuse. Fitting, really. If only calming down were as easy as slapping the words on ceramic.
“Letting loose,” I scoff under my breath. Letting loose is what people like Rory do effortlessly—he probably came out of the womb with that twinkle in his eye and a perfectly tousled head of hair. Meanwhile, I’ve spent my entire adult life building walls taller than any fairytale castle, complete with a moat and dragon for good measure.
The kettle clicks off, snapping me out of my thoughts. I lunge for it like it’s a lifeline, pouring the steaming water over the tea bag waiting in my mug. The scent of chamomile rises, soft and familiar, grounding me and helping to clarify why this is wrong on so many levels.
Point one: Rory Keane is a client.
Point two: His proposition—that ludicrous, audacious proposition —would require spending even more time with him beyond what is contractually required to get his book completed.
Point three: He has a face that looks like it belongs on a movie poster for some brooding indie film. That face alone spells trouble. No doubt he’d use that mouth to toss out lines about “creative synergy” while I resist the urge to throttle him with his own scarf. Does he even wear scarves? Cravats probably. He seems like the type.
Point four: Casual arrangements—I don’t do casual. Not well, anyway. Not without getting caught in the weeds of feelings and expectations and all the things I’ve spent half my life avoiding.
And point five: This isn’t about feelings. This is about control. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s losing control.
But as much as I try to convince myself, there’s a niggling little whisper at the back of my mind—a suggestion, barely audible but persistent. What if letting go doesn’t mean losing control? What if it means… freedom?
God help me, despite all the evidence to the contrary, there’s something about the idea that’s tempting. Just for a moment. Just to see what it’s like to stop thinking, to stop second-guessing, to stop dissecting every interaction for hidden subtext and ulterior motives. To feel wanted—not for my ability to fix plot holes and tighten dialogue, but for me .
“Brilliant,” I groan, sinking back into my chair. “I’m arguing with myself now. Fantastic. This is fine. Totally fine.”
The mug of tea is still sitting on the desk, untouched and lukewarm. I pick it up anyway, cradling it in my hands as if it might help me navigate tonight. It doesn’t, of course. Chamomile has its limits.
Tomorrow .
I tell myself firmly, though the word tastes bitter on my tongue. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”