Chapter 7
SEVEN
I’d like a strong word with the sadist who thought organising an awards ceremony on a school night was a good idea.
By the time I reach the conference room, I’ve managed to convince myself that last night was just two colleagues enjoying each other’s company. Or, at least, agreed with myself to shove any thoughts to the contrary into a neat little box labelled Do Not Open Until After Publication .
The thumping hangover headache, however, is proving particularly reluctant to be boxed up, and instead plonks itself down on the comfy chair just above my left eye socket, making it clear that it’s in for the long haul, and it would be better for all concerned to just bloody well get used to the idea.
I adjust my glasses, smooth down my jacket, and take a deep breath before stepping inside.
And there he is. Rory Keane. Romance of the Year Award Winner. The man who writes love stories that make grown women weep. If confidence were currency, he’d be a billionaire.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing my tone into something resembling professional neutrality.
“Morning,” Rory replies, his voice warm and smooth, like he’s auditioning for a coffee commercial. “Wasn’t completely sure you’d come back.”
“Well,” I say, setting my laptop on the table and keeping my movements brisk, “truth is, I’m only here because someone’s paying me to be.”
His grin widens, completely unbothered by the jab. Of course he isn’t. Rory Keane probably hasn’t encountered a situation in his life where charm didn’t immediately neutralise any tension.
“Let me guess,” he says, “you’ve already condensed all of yesterday’s notes into a bullet-point list of everything I need to fix, haven’t you?”
I nod.
“And that’s what you want us to focus on today, but a little part of you can’t quite stop thinking about our deal.”
“You’re so very wrong. Well, not about the bullet points. I have lots of them,” I reply, matching his gaze with a steady one of my own. “So, if we’re done with the chit-chat, I suggest we get straight to it.”
“Can’t wait,” he says, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
I sit down, determined to hold on to whatever shred of authority I can muster. This is just another meeting, I tell myself. Another project. Another client. It doesn’t matter that he’s practically oozing charisma, or that more than a little part of me thought what if… It really doesn’t help that Danny’s words about thrones and kings, and to be honest, polished turds, are still rattling around in my head. What matters is maintaining professionalism. Control. Distance.
“Shall we get started?” I ask, opening my laptop and pointedly not looking at his annoyingly perfect smile.
“Absolutely,” Rory says, his tone as irreverent as ever. “Here’s the thing, Lara. I have a proposal.”
The way he says “proposal” makes me want to roll my eyes so far back that I would be able to see my own brain. Instead, I adjust my glasses and give him the kind of blank stare that has sent lesser authors scrambling to rewrite entire chapters.
“A proposal,” I repeat flatly. “How ominous.”
“Not ominous. Inspired.” He sits up, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. “I need your help with some research.”
“For what? A new book? Or are you planning to pivot into investigative journalism now?”
“Funny,” he says, flashing me another megawatt smile. “No, it’s for this book. The one you’re currently editing with all the enthusiasm of someone being forced to assemble IKEA furniture without instructions.”
“Editing is my job,” I reply coolly, ignoring the jab. “And I happen to be very good at it.”
“Of course you are,” he says, “but this isn’t about editing. It’s about authenticity. About elevating the story. The characters. The romance.”
“Right, because God knows what this book is currently lacking is authenticity.”
“Exactly!” He snaps his fingers. “Which is why I need you to go on a date with me.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“A date,” he repeats, as though this is the most reasonable suggestion in the world. “You know—for research.”
“Research?”
“Yes. Research.” He leans forward again, so close I catch the faint scent of his cologne—something warm, woodsy, and maddeningly distracting. “If I’m going to write convincingly about falling in love, I need to experience it. Or at least… fake it. And who better to fake it with than my brilliant, brutally honest editor? You’ll keep me grounded, tell me when I’m being ridiculous, and—bonus—you already know how to pick apart every single one of my flaws. It’s perfect.”
“Perfect,” I repeat, my voice laced with scepticism. “Except for the part where it’s not happening.”
“Why not?” he asks, utterly unfazed by my response. “You don’t even have to call it a date if that makes you feel better. We can call it… a field trip.”
“Rory,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “This is ridiculous, even for you.”
“Is it?” he counters, his expression suddenly serious in a way that catches me off guard. “Think about it, Lara. How can I write about love—real, messy, complicated love—if I don’t immerse myself in it? If I don’t take risks? Isn’t that what we’re always telling writers? Write what you know?”
“Yes, but generally speaking, we don’t mean, ‘Go harass your editor into role-playing date night for fun and profit.’”
“Come on,” he presses, his grin returning as he senses the tiniest crack in my resolve. “It’ll be a professional outing. Just like last night. Nothing more. Just two colleagues having dinner—or coffee, or whatever you want—and talking about love. For research purposes only.”
“Are you listening to yourself right now? Do you even hear how absurd this sounds?”
“Maybe. But so is love, don’t you think? And isn’t that exactly what we’re trying to capture? The absurdity. The unpredictability. The… chemistry.”
“Chemistry,” I scoff, though the word lingers somewhere in the back of my mind longer than it should.
“Exactly,” he says, lowering his voice just enough to make it feel like a secret meant only for me. “So, what do you say?”
“I say you need to rethink your approach to creative inspiration,” I reply. My answers feel oddly flimsy under the weight of his gaze, and I hate it. I hate the way he somehow manages to make even the most ludicrous ideas sound almost plausible. Almost.
“Just think about it,” he says. “No pressure. No expectations. Just an experiment. For the sake of great storytelling.”
“Fine. One drink,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I’ve fully processed the betrayal of my own voice. “But purely professional. For the sake of the book and that’s all. It’s most certainly not a date, so no funny business.”
Rory’s grin spreads, slow and smug, like he’s just won a bet no one else knew about. “Funny business? Me?”
“I mean it, Rory,” I snap, jabbing a finger in his direction for emphasis. “This is for research. Your research. Don’t think for a second that this—whatever this is—means anything beyond that.”
“Strictly professional. Like two colleagues sharing… an immersive creative experience.”
“You sound like a pretentious art school brochure.”
“Hey, I don’t make the rules,” he says with a shrug, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair. “I just follow where inspiration leads. Come on, it’s Friday night. We start immediately.”
* * *
The bar he picks is maddeningly charming, all warm lighting and vintage wood accents. It’s the kind of place that feels both intimate and casual, with jazz humming softly in the background and candles flickering on every table. Of course, Rory would choose a setting ripped straight out of a Nicholas Sparks adaptation.
“Let me guess,” I say as we slide into a corner booth, “you bring all your ‘research projects’ here?”
“Only the special ones,” he replies smoothly.
“How lucky for me,” I say flatly, picking up the menu. I scan it, focusing on the tiny font as if it holds the key to surviving this night with my dignity intact.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I promise not to bite. Unless, of course, it’s for authenticity.”
I lower the menu just enough to glare at him over the top of it. “Do you always talk like this, or is it just when you’re trying to irritate me?”
“Wouldn’t dream of irritating you,” he says, his tone dripping with faux sincerity. “You’re my editor. My creative partner. My muse.”
“Stop,” I groan, setting the menu down entirely now because clearly, reading is impossible with him sitting there, looking so damn pleased with himself. “If you call me your ‘muse’ one more time, I’m walking out of here, and you’ll be writing your book without any editorial support.”
“Alright, no more ‘muse.’ How about collaborator? Co-conspirator? Partner in crime?”
“How about, ‘person who regrets being here already’?” I shoot back, folding my arms across my chest.
“Now, now,” he says, holding up his glass of whiskey—the one he somehow managed to order while I was busy fuming. “Let’s toast to new experiences. To great storytelling. And to you, Lara Yates, for taking a chance on a crazy idea.”
“Don’t push your luck,” I warn, though I reluctantly lift my water glass to meet his. Our glasses clink softly, and for a moment, there’s something almost… sincere in the way he looks at me. Almost.
“To us,” he says, his voice lower now, softer, like he’s peeling back a layer of that charm just enough to reveal something more genuine underneath.
“To the book,” I correct quickly, breaking whatever strange spell has settled between us. I take another sip of water, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck as I remind myself—again—that this is strictly business.
“Right, the book.”
“Exactly,” I reply firmly, forcing my focus back to the task at hand. “And since this is for the book, let’s cut to the chase. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish with this little experiment?”
“I told you. Authenticity,” he answers immediately. “I want to write characters who feel real. Who speak to people right here”—he taps his chest—“and not just here”—he taps his temple.
“That’s great,” I say, nodding slowly. “But you realise I’m an editor, not a method actor, right? You don’t need me for this.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “Because you, Lara, are the most honest person I know. Brutally so, in fact. If I can convince you, I can convince anyone.”
“Convince me of what?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“That love, in all its absurdity, is worth believing in.”
For a moment, I don’t answer. Because for all his bravado and clever wordplay, there’s something startlingly earnest in his expression. Something that makes it hard to dismiss him outright.
“Good luck with that,” I say finally, refusing to let my guard down any further. “You’ve got a lot of convincing to do.”
“Challenge accepted,” he replies, his grin returning full force. “Now, tell me, are you a fan of live music? Because I hear they have a pretty fantastic band starting up soon…”
And just like that, the moment shifts again—back to banter, back to the safety of our usual dynamic.
The band is louder than I expected. Not overwhelmingly so, but just enough to make it harder to focus. The cosy bar Rory chose— perfect ambience for research , as he described it—has all the hallmarks of a place that prides itself on charm: exposed brick walls, dim lighting, and the faint aroma of vanilla wafting from candles scattered on every table. It’s designed to disarm, to seduce, and I’m starting to think Rory knew exactly what he was doing when he picked it.
“Okay, we’ve been here for two hours, and I still don’t understand how this qualifies as ‘research.’”
“You’re having fun. Admit it.”
“Fun isn’t exactly the word I’d use.”
“What would you call this? Pure agony? Mild irritation? Or”—that grin deepens—“a reluctant good time?”
“Somewhere between mild irritation and a reluctant good time,” I say dryly. “Heavy on the irritation.”
He raises his glass. “To being mildly irritating, then.”
I roll my eyes but lift my glass—gin and tonic now, because I need something crisp and distracting—to clink lightly against his. “To your unparalleled ability to test my patience.”
“ Sláinte ,” he says with a laugh, his gaze lingering a beat too long before he takes another sip.
And there it is again—that shift. Subtle but undeniable, like the moment you realise the tide has turned and you’re no longer standing on solid ground. I glance away, pretending to be fascinated by the candle flickering between us, but my thoughts are suddenly tangled, uncooperative.
The band begins a new song, a slow, soulful melody that fills the space between us. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Rory shifts slightly closer, his arm brushing against mine as he props his elbow on the edge of the table.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks, his voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for me.
“Depends,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “Is it going to involve another sales pitch for why I should believe in love?”
“Maybe,” he says, his lips curving into that maddening half-smile. “Or maybe it’s just an observation.”
“Go on, then,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure I want him to.
“You underestimate yourself,” he says simply.
The words catch me off guard—not because they’re particularly profound, but because of the way he says them, like they’re an indisputable fact.
“Rory…” I start, but whatever deflection I was about to throw his way dies on my tongue.
“Just something to think about,” he says, his gaze steady and unflinching.
The distance between us feels impossibly small now, the lines between professional and personal blurring in ways that leave me breathless. I should pull back, reestablish the boundaries I’ve worked so hard to maintain, but for some reason, I don’t.
“Careful,” I say, forcing a smirk to mask the sudden vulnerability threatening to surface. “You’re starting to sound sincere.”
“Who says I’m not?” His smile softens, and for once, there’s no trace of teasing in his expression. Just quiet, unguarded intensity.
The song shifts to something livelier, breaking the spell, and I seize the opportunity to lean back, creating a sliver of space between us.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. “If this is what you consider research, I think you might need to reevaluate your methods.”
“Only if you promise to help me,” he says, his tone light again, though his eyes haven’t lost that unsettling focus.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I reply, refusing to let my guard slip any further. But even as I redirect the conversation back to safer topics, I can’t quite shake the feeling that something unspoken has shifted between us—something I’m not ready to face just yet.