Chapter 5
FIVE
The café smells like roasted coffee beans and freshly baked croissants, but the noise level is just short of deafening—hissing milk steamers, clinking mugs, someone punctuating their conversation with aggressive taps of a spoon on a saucer, and the hum of too many conversations stacked on top of each other. I push through the crowd, dodging a guy with a laptop screen so large it might double as a home entertainment system. My eyes scan the room until they land on Danny at our usual corner table, already grinning like he knows something I don’t.
And, of course, he does.
“Lara,” he calls out, raising his mug like he’s at Oktoberfest. “Looking delightfully… unhinged this morning.”
“Charming,” I say, weaving through a maze of chairs and elbows to reach him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, leaning forward as I drop into the chair across from him, “but you look like you’ve just gone twelve rounds with a malfunctioning printer and lost. Badly.”
“Wow. That’s… inspiring.” I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of my chair. “So nice to know my best friend moonlights as a walking insult generator.”
“Just doing my civic duty,” he quips, gesturing dramatically with his coffee cup. “But seriously—” His gaze flicks to my slightly crooked glasses and the frazzled bun perched precariously on top of my head. “Rory Keane, huh? The man, the myth, the… migraine?”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand, but Danny’s grin only widens.
“How does it feel to be working with the literary equivalent of a human golden retriever?” His voice is teasing, but there’s that trademark sparkle in his eye—the one that says he’s about to go all in.
“Exhausting,” I reply flatly, though I can’t stop the smile from forming. “And for your information, Rory Keane is more of a… hyperactive border collie than a golden retriever. But thanks for the analysis.”
“Anytime,” Danny fires back, folding his hands under his chin like he’s about to offer sage wisdom. “I mean, let’s face it, Lara. You’ve got this whole…” He gestures vaguely at me, taking in everything from my wrinkled blouse to the faint ink smudge on my left wrist. “ Overworked editor chic thing going on. It’s honestly impressive. A little tragic, but impressive.”
“Remind me why I keep you around?” I ask, reaching for the menu even though I already know I’m ordering the same black coffee as always.
“Because I’m your not-gay-best friend,” he says without missing a beat. “And one day I’m hoping when you decide you’re ready to settle down, you’ll pick me.”
“Ewww. No.”
“I’d settle for a casual fling.”
“Double-Ewww.”
“Okay, fine, because deep down, you love it when someone tells you the truth instead of feeding you polite lies. Admit it—I’m your emotional support cynic.”
“More like my emotional support headache,” I retort, but my smile gives me away. Danny knows exactly how far to push, toeing the line between infuriating and oddly comforting with the precision of someone who’s been doing this for years.
“So? Out with it. How bad is Mr. Border Collie?”
I sigh like I’m expelling a decade of frustration in one breath, slumping against the backrest of my chair.
“Catastrophic is putting it lightly. He’s nowhere near finished. Bar a few chapters of genius, what he’s written is not good enough to even call derivative crap, and I don’t think there’s a hope in hell we’re going to meet the deadline. No pressure at all, right?”
“None,” he says brightly, picking up his mug and taking a sip. “Sounds like your usual Tuesday to me.”
“Except this isn’t just any Tuesday,” I counter, leaning forward as if proximity might somehow make him understand the absurdity of my predicament. “This is… Rory Keane Tuesday, which, by the way, is now officially a category of stress in my life. He breezes in with that stupid smile?—”
“Charming smile,” Danny interrupts.
“Stupid,” I insist, glaring at him as he smirks into his coffee. “And he’s all smooth lines and effortless confidence. Meanwhile, everyone upstairs is treating him like he personally invented human emotion or something. And here I am, supposed to, what? Magically fix whatever creative crisis he’s having, while not combusting under the weight of the expectations they’ve dumped on me? Sure. Totally fine. I’ll just casually save the day like some editorial superhero.”
“You’ll manage, you always do.”
“Danny, I’m serious. The guy’s a bestselling author. His books have movie deals. There are fan accounts dedicated to his characters. Tonight he’s up for a Rose Award. And his latest work is… awful.”
“Are we really going to pretend you don’t secretly enjoy the chaos of fixing other people’s messes? Because I seem to recall you getting downright giddy about tearing apart that last thriller.”
“That was different.” I shake my head. “That was for a midlist author who, to be fair, had the foundations in place. This is Rory fucking Keane. He’s practically publishing royalty. And apparently, I’m the lucky peasant who gets to polish the turd he’s submitted so he can keep wearing his crown.”
“Lara, darling,” Danny says, setting his mug down with a theatrical flourish, “you’re looking at this all wrong.”
“Am I?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Look, I get it. Big name, big stakes, blah blah blah. But this? This is your moment. Your spotlight . You get to take Rory Keane , Mr. International Romance King, and remind the world why Lara Yates is the editor everyone wants in their corner.” He taps the table for emphasis. “You don’t just polish turds—you build thrones. This is the project that will send your career to the stratosphere.”
“Wow.” I blink at him, caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. “That might be the most dramatic pep talk you’ve ever given me.”
“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “But seriously, stop selling yourself short. If anyone can handle Rory Keane and his turds, it’s you. Use this. Show them what you’re made of. Hell, show him what you’re made of.”
“That,” I say, waving him off, “was almost inspiring.”
“Almost?” His eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Darling, I don’t do almost . My pep talks are TED Talk worthy. Admit it—you feel empowered already.”
“Empowered to run and hide? Sure.” I retreat with a sip of my coffee, letting its bitter warmth distract me. “Look, I appreciate the whole ‘rah-rah Lara’ routine, but let’s be real. I’m not some creative genius. I don’t have a vision or a voice. I’m just an editor—a glorified spellchecker who occasionally tells people their plot twists suck.”
“Ah, yes, the modesty act.” Danny rolls his eyes. “First of all, you’re not ‘just’ anything. And second”—he leans in, lowering his voice like we’re conspiring on something illegal—“you’ve got more vision than half the writers you babysit. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten those story ideas you spout after one too many glasses of prosecco.”
“Those aren’t… They’re nothing. Just… ideas. Word doodles, really. Not enough to sustain a novel.”
“Suuure,” he says, dragging the word out like he doesn’t believe a single syllable coming out of my mouth.
“Stop,” I snap, though there’s no real bite behind it. Mostly because he’s hit too close to home.
“Fine, fine,” he says, holding the menu up like a shield. “But one day, mark my words, you’re going to stop editing other people’s happily-ever-afters and start writing your own.”
“Not likely,” I say, though my voice wavers enough to make me cringe.
I glance at my phone and sigh. “I should head back to the office. I’ve got a few things to finish before the RNA Awards tonight. Not that I want to go.”
Danny perks up. “No? Free wine and overenthusiastic romance authors aren’t enough of a draw?”
I shake my head. “I’d rather be working. We’re running out of time. And Rory should be buried in his manuscript, not parading around Bookstagrammers.”
Danny hums thoughtfully and then grins. “Funny. You keep talking about focus, and yet, somehow, he’s all you’re thinking about.”
I huff, standing up and grabbing my coat. “Goodbye, Danny.”
He throws his hands up in surrender, laughing. “Enjoy your evening! Or at least pretend to.”