Chapter 6
SIX
The champagne is warm, the lighting is aggressively atmospheric, and I’m currently contemplating whether it would be frowned upon to down the entire contents of my flute in one go.
Because I’m at the RNA Awards, the industry’s glitziest exercise in mutual back-patting, where romance authors, editors, and PR teams gather to celebrate the best of the best at the Grosvenor House Hotel. And by “celebrate,” I mean drinking heavily while pretending not to care about who wins.
Scott & Drake has a prime table near the stage, which means we’re technically important. The marketing team is buzzing with anticipation, half watching the other tables to see who’s here, half mentally drafting tomorrow’s “Congratulations to our very own Rory Keane!” social media posts. Because, let’s be honest, he’s going to win.
And speaking of the man himself?—
“Oh, look at you.” Rory slides into the seat next to mine, expression bright with amusement. “Miss Yates, you’re positively glowing tonight . ”
I glance up from my menu—an utterly pointless document, as we all know these events are ninety percent canapés and ten percent crushed dreams.
“You scrub up pretty well yourself,” I reply. “An actual tux. I’m impressed. Did someone wrestle you into that, or did you just lose a bet?”
He smirks, raking a hand through his unruly mop of hair. The mood lighting catches on the sharp angles of his jaw, and for a brief, horrifying second, I realise that if I weren’t so deeply familiar with his infuriating personality, I might—objectively speaking—find him attractive. Very attractive.
Fortunately, I am familiar.
“I managed to dress all by myself, even the bowtie. A real one, I’ll have you know.” He grins.
I fold my arms, surveying him with mock admiration. “Incredible. Truly ground-breaking. Have they called to revoke your ‘hopelessly dishevelled writer’ badge yet, or are they letting you keep it for sentimental reasons?”
“Lifetime member, and they do give out a badge. I have it here somewhere.” Rory pats his pockets, trying to locate it…
“Very good.” I set my glass down and glance around the ballroom. “Do you enjoy these things?”
“Only when I win,” he says easily. “Nothing says objective artistic merit quite like a thousand people in black tie clapping for whichever book made the most money this year.”
I huff a laugh. “Bet you’ve prepared a speech and everything.”
“Well,” he leans in, voice warm with mischief, “we don’t want to let down the fans, do we?”
I roll my eyes, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at me—light amusement mixed with something else I can’t quite place.
Before I can figure it out, Rory straightens, glancing toward the entrance. “Going to do the rounds before things kick off,” he announces, pushing back his chair. “Try not to miss me too much.”
I tilt my head. “I’ll do my best.”
And with that, he vanishes into the crowd.
The second he’s gone, I return my attention to my champagne and attempt to be a normal, functioning adult, exchanging pleasantries with the PR team—all of whom are new to the company, and by the looks of it, about fourteen years old.
Until my gaze snags on him across the ballroom.
More specifically, on who he’s talking to.
At first glance, it’s nothing unusual—just Rory, all charm and ease, making conversation with a young woman at one of the rival publisher tables.
But then?—
Then I see her laugh, all hand-on-arm contact and wide-eyed admiration.
Ah .
I know exactly who she is.
Alice Morgan. The debut dark romance author. A viral sensation. Her book—a filthy, angsty, TikTok darling—is up for Debut Novel of the Year. Every industry exec wants a piece of her. Including, it seems, Rory Keane.
I look away. Because, this? This is none of my business.
He’s a bestselling author. He can flirt with whomever he likes.
And yet?—
There’s a small, annoying flicker in my stomach.
It’s not jealousy. Obviously. It’s just… it’s unprofessional. That’s all.
He should be here, at his own publisher’s table. Not over there, flashing dimples at the competition.
I pointedly turn my attention back to my table. The Scott & Drake PR team are chatting about sales figures, completely oblivious to my sudden and completely unjustified annoyance.
The lights dim, signalling the start of the ceremony. I glance back one last time.
Rory is still over there.
And when the host welcomes us to the Romantic Novelists’ Association Awards, when everyone settles in to watch, when he could have come back to sit next to me?—
He doesn’t.
He stays.
Sitting right next to her.
I sip my champagne and pretend not to care.
The moment Rory’s name is announced as the winner of Romance of the Year, the room erupts into applause.
I clap, of course—because, well, that’s what you do, and this is good for Scott & Drake—but my expression is perfectly neutral.
Rory, meanwhile, flashes his signature grin as he rises from his chair. And wouldn’t you know it? The debut author beside him practically sparkles with admiration, giving him an enthusiastic, lingering hug before he makes his way to the stage.
Of course she does.
I sip my champagne. Not irritated at all.
The speech is classic Rory—charming, self-effacing, and just the right amount of heartfelt. He thanks his readers, his agent, his editors (plural, of course, which I pointedly do not overthink), and then ends with some grand remark about how love stories bring us together.
The audience eats it up.
Then, award in hand, he finally makes his way back to our table.
To me.
The team showers him in congratulations as he reaches us, everyone keen to bask in the glow of a win. I don’t move from my seat, arms loosely folded, my glass of champagne still half-full.
“Multi-award-winning author Rory Keane,” he says, tipping his trophy slightly towards me, voice laced with something teasing. “It’s fair to say I am a fan of these events.”
“Of course you are,” I deadpan.
He grins like he’s expecting me to fawn or fuss or—God forbid—look impressed.
Instead, I raise an eyebrow.
“Nice of you to rejoin us,” I say smoothly, gesturing vaguely toward the table he’d occupied for most of the ceremony. “Didn’t realise Scott & Drake was just a pit stop on your social calendar.”
The warmth in his eyes flickers.
Ah. He clocked that. Good.
He recovers quickly, of course—he’s Rory Keane, professional charmer, after all—but I know the difference between his genuine and performative smiles.
This one? A little forced.
“Come on, Yates,” he says lightly, adjusting the trophy in his grip. “I didn’t have you down as the jealous type.”
I blink. “Jealous?”
He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough that only I can hear. “Because if you are, that’s very interesting.”
I scoff. Because scoffing is dignified.
“Rory,” I say, tone clipped. “I don’t care where you sit.”
“Right,” he nods slowly. “Which is why you’re bringing it up.”
“I’m bringing it up,” I say, “because it’s a bad look for an author to ignore his own publisher on the biggest industry night of the year. Not a great PR move.”
He watches me, green eyes unreadable.
Then, just as I think I’ve won whatever battle this is, his lips curve into a knowing smirk.
“You think she was flirting with me,” he says.
I stiffen. The bastard is enjoying this.
“She was flirting with you,” I reply flatly.
He tilts his head. “Was she?”
I shoot him a glare. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Rory. The hand on the arm, the breathy laughter, the doe-eyed lingering looks—textbook.”
His smirk deepens. “And you noticed all of that?”
My jaw tightens. He’s impossible.
“Relax,” he says finally, amusement still thick in his voice. “She’s not into me.”
“Oh, please.”
“She’s married.”
That stops me short.
“To a lovely woman named Jessica, who is, coincidentally, a quantity surveyor.”
I blink.
He leans in again, voice softer now, without the teasing edge. “She’s one of my writers. I started an online romance writing group four years ago, and she was one of my first students. I just wanted to support her tonight.”
Something in my chest tightens.
For a brief, fleeting second, I feel?—
Oh, no. Absolutely not.
I refuse to acknowledge whatever unwelcome feeling is creeping in.
Instead, I force out a casual shrug. “Well. Good for her.”
He watches me for a second longer—like he’s deciding whether or not to press the issue—but then he lets it go, changing gears with infuriating ease.
“You know what this event doesn’t have?” he says, lifting his award slightly. “Decent food.”
I huff. “Agreed. It’s a three-hour ceremony and all they’ve fed us is a sad wafer-thin slice of beef, two roast potatoes the size of radishes and a spoonful of gravy.”
His smirk returns, but this time, it’s softer. “Let’s get something to eat.”
I arch a brow. “Are you asking me out again, Keane?”
“No.” He grins. “Not a date. Just two colleagues, mutually suffering from canape-induced starvation, grabbing a meal.”
I hesitate.
Then, before I can think about it too much, I nod. “Fine.”
Because it’s not a date.
It’s just food.
And I am ravenous.
Rory picks a late-night cafe two streets over, the kind of place that stays open past midnight for cabbies and jetlagged tourists. It’s all fluorescent lights, Formica countertops, and the faint din of house music playing somewhere in the background.
I tell myself the location’s not important.
Because it’s not a date.
The waitress leads us to a quiet booth in the corner, and the moment I sit down, I feel it—the tiniest shift in the air between us. Maybe it’s just the contrast between the noisy, champagne-fuelled chaos of the RNA Awards and the relative calm of the restaurant. Maybe it’s that I’m finally sitting down after hours in too-high heels. Maybe it’s nothing.
But Rory watches me as I pick up my menu, his gaze lingering in a way I can’t quite ignore.
I clear my throat, needing something— anything —to cut the strange tension creeping in. “If you so much as hint at ordering something that contains less than one thousand calories, I’m walking out.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, scanning the menu. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m thinking steak. Fries. Possibly a side order of onion rings. Something that actually qualifies as a meal.”
I nod, approving. “Good choice.”
The waitress comes back, takes our order, and leaves a jug of water and two glasses on the table. I pour for us both, just for something to do.
“So,” Rory says, leaning back against the leather booth. “You’re really not going to admit it?”
I glance up. “Admit what ?”
“That you were a tiny bit jealous.”
I make a noise in the back of my throat—somewhere between a scoff and a groan. “Rory.”
“What? It’s a simple question.”
“And a ridiculous one.”
He grins. “You were irritated.”
I sip my water slowly. “I was bored .”
“You were glaring .”
“I was waiting for the ceremony to start.”
He hums, clearly not convinced, but lets it drop.
The waitress brings our food—mercifully fast—and for a while we eat in relative silence. It’s… nice , actually. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was until I took the first bite of my steak, and I don’t bother pretending otherwise.
Rory notices.
“You look very serious about that meal,” he observes, amused.
I point my knife at him. “I’ve just endured three hours of forced industry small talk, whilst our star author was flirting with our biggest competitor. I deserve this meal.”
He chuckles, cutting into his own steak. “Not flirting.”
“So you keep saying.”
His gaze flicks to me again, softer now. “I’d rather talk to you, anyway.”
It’s such a simple statement. Almost casual. But it lands somewhere it shouldn’t, sending a ripple of warmth through me.
I shift slightly in my seat, willing my pulse to slow. “Well. Consider yourself privileged, multi-award-winning author Rory Keane.”
“Oh, I do,” he says easily.
And just like that, the conversation flows.
We talk about the event, about the industry, about the latest publishing gossip. He tells me about the first time he was ever invited, years ago, and how terrified he was to walk into a room full of authors he admired. I share a particularly cringeworthy anecdote about the time I accidentally introduced a debut author to someone as a deceased author.
“In my defence,” I say, “his name sounded very similar to a poet from the 1800s.”
Rory laughs— really laughs—so much that he has to set his fork down, and I find myself smiling before I even realise I’m doing it.
It’s easy.
It’s too easy.
Which is exactly why, when the plates are cleared and the bill arrives, I suddenly feel an itch at the back of my mind. A warning bell, faint but insistent.
Rory leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “So?”
I blink. “So… what?”
“You going to say it?”
I frown. “Say what ?”
“That this felt like a date.”
I wag my finger. “It wasn’t a date.”
“But it felt like one,” he presses.
I roll my eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
He grins. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Not a date , I remind myself. Just food. Just a meal between colleagues .
And yet?—
I can’t quite shake the feeling that something has shifted.
The night air is crisp as we step outside the restaurant, a welcome relief after the warmth of the brasserie. The streets are quieter now, save for the occasional cab zipping past and the faint hum of late-night conversation from nearby bars. I wrap my coat tighter around myself, willing the fresh air to clear my head.
Rory shoves his hands into his pockets, walking beside me at a relaxed pace. For once, he’s not filling the silence with teasing remarks or smug observations, and I don’t know if that makes this moment better or worse.
I steal a glance at him. He’s got that look again—the one that suggests he’s thinking about something. Rory Keane, thinking , is dangerous.
I keep my voice even. “You’re being suspiciously quiet.”
He exhales a soft laugh. “Just enjoying the moment.”
I narrow my eyes. “Liar.”
“Alright.” He tilts his head, considering. “I was thinking about something you said earlier.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “What now?”
He stops walking, turning slightly to face me. “Back at the table, when you said you deserved that meal.”
I frown, caught off guard. “What about it?”
“You said you’d spent the night watching me flirt my way across the room.” He pauses, eyes searching mine. “Did it really bother you?”
“I told you, it gives the wrong message to the industry.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
I shift on my feet, my pulse suddenly too loud in my ears. “I wasn’t bothered , exactly. It was…” I wave a hand vaguely, stalling. “Others might have seen it as a message you’re not happy with your current publisher. Don’t be surprised if you receive a call from your agent tomorrow with a couple of offers from interested parties.”
He hums, unconvinced. “Right. Interested parties .”
I sigh, exasperated. “Rory.”
His lips twitch. “You were annoyed.”
I fold my arms. “You ditched your team to sit with someone else.”
“For five minutes,” he counters, stepping closer. “And let’s be honest—this isn’t about Scott & Drake, is it?”
I don’t answer.
Because I can’t .
Because I don’t know .
He watches me, waiting.
And suddenly, I hate him for this. For always reading between the lines. For always pushing, needling, irritating me until I don’t know which way is up.
I look away, forcing my voice into something breezy, detached. “It doesn’t matter.”
But deep down, it does.
This isn’t just casual banter. It isn’t just friendly teasing.
It’s a slow, dangerous slide into something else entirely.
And suddenly, I’m worried. If he asks me on an actual date… I’m not sure how I’ll answer.