Chapter 8
EIGHT
The cool night air hits me as we step out of the bar, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. The street is alive—headlights reflecting off wet pavement, the low hum of conversation blending with the occasional beep of a car horn. My heels click against the pavement, a steady rhythm that keeps my focus forward and away from the man at my side.
“Careful!” Rory’s voice cuts through the din just as his hand wraps around my wrist, firm and startling.
The jolt—both his touch and the sudden yank—sends my heart skittering as I stumble back a step, barely processing the blur of motion in front of me. A cyclist shoots past, tyres hissing on the damp pavement, close enough that I catch a flash of fluorescent yellow.
“Are you trying to get run over, or is this some sort of dramatic exit strategy?”
“Let go,” I snap, more out of reflex than actual indignation. Except he doesn’t. Not immediately, anyway.
His fingers stay locked around my wrist, warm and solid, holding me in place as if I might dart into traffic again without supervision. I’m far too aware of the pulse in my wrist thudding rapidly under his grip.
“Relax,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly against my skin in a way that feels… deliberate. “I’m not about to let you get run over. You’re far too valuable to the publishing world.”
“Valuable?” I arch a brow, yanking my arm back with more force than necessary. His hand falls away, but the ghost of his touch lingers like static electricity. “You’ve clearly had too much to drink if you’re throwing compliments around now.”
“Just calling it like I see it,” he says, his smirk lazy, infuriatingly self-assured.
“Well, next time, try doing it without grabbing me,”
I take a step back, but the moment clings to me—his touch, his voice, that damn infuriating smirk. My arm feels bare, exposed without his hand there. It’s ridiculous. I’ve shaken hands with authors before, hugged colleagues at office parties, even endured the occasional awkward cheek kisses from overzealous freelancers. And yet, Rory Keane grabs my wrist for half a second, and suddenly my brain decides it’s hosting its own fireworks display.
“Hey.” His voice is softer now, pulling my attention back to him whether I want it or not. He’s watching me, his head tilted slightly, amused but… waiting. For what? My spontaneous combustion? An apology?
His gaze is steady, too steady, and I hate how aware of it I am. Aware of him. The way his dark hair has fallen just slightly out of place, as if he’s been running his hands through it all night. The way another button on his shirt has opened, giving him this careless, end-of-the-day charm that’s entirely too easy on the eyes. And those eyes—piercing, intent, like he can see every thought I’m trying so hard to suppress.
“Thanks for saving me. I wasn’t paying attention.”
He doesn’t say anything. He just keeps looking at me, unhurried, like he’s letting the silence do the talking. It’s unnerving. No—it’s dangerous .
Because here’s the thing: I know better. I know better than to let myself get caught up in this moment that should mean nothing, that has to mean nothing. Rory Keane is a client. A bestselling, untouchable, pain-in-my-arse client, whose current draft is riddled with plot holes and he doesn’t seem to be in any great rush to fix it. We need to deliver a completed manuscript in a matter of weeks, and nothing, nothing whatsoever, can get in the way. Certainly not a complication of my own making.
I should be annoyed. I am annoyed. And yet… Part of me is screaming, what if ? Why does this have to mean nothing? Can I not wrangle a publishable novel out of the man and explore… this , if I want? Are the two things really mutually exclusive?
Just as empathically, the other part of me—the sensible, safe, risk-averse Lara— is pleading not to go there. Not again. Not in thought, and certainly not in action, unless I want a repeat of James all over again.
The street noise fades, muffled under the thrum of my pulse as I catch the faintest flicker of something behind his expression. Something careful, expectant. Like he’s daring me to close the distance between us, but won’t make the first move. My throat tightens, heat pooling low in my stomach as my mind scrambles to find solid ground.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Except it is, because I’m standing here, rooted to the spot, staring at him like an idiot, ignoring my own cautionary tale, while the air between us grows thicker, heavier, electric. My heart hammers louder than it should, drowning out every rational thought I’ve ever had about boundaries and professionalism and common sense.
“Rory—” I start, but my voice catches. His name comes out softer than intended, brushing between us like an admission.
And then, before I can talk myself out of it—or maybe because I can’t—I move.
It’s not calculated or graceful or anything remotely resembling good judgment. It’s pure impulse, driven by a cocktail of frustration, adrenaline, and something I don’t have the courage to name. I lean in, closing the gap in one swift, reckless motion, and press my lips to his.
His lips are warm and softer than I expect, but the kiss is anything but gentle. It’s fast, reckless—like a match striking against flint—and for one dizzying second, all I can focus on is the way he tastes. A mix of whiskey and something inherently him , something that makes my stomach freefall in a way I’m not ready to deal with.
The world tips sideways. My fingers curl instinctively into the front of his jacket, anchoring me as heat crashes through my body like a wave. Rory doesn’t hesitate—not even for a heartbeat. His hand slides up, firm and sure, until his palm cradles my jaw, his thumb brushing just below my cheekbone. The sensation sends sparks skittering down my spine, and I swear my knees threaten mutiny.
He angles closer, deepening the kiss, and I feel it everywhere—radiating through my chest, coiling low in my belly, making the rest of the bustling street dissolve into static. His grip tightens just enough to keep me grounded, to keep me from floating away entirely, and for a fleeting, maddening moment, I forget why this is a terrible idea.
The city blurs at the edges, dimming under the sheer intensity of him. There’s no traffic noise, no faint chatter from passersby—just the rush of blood in my ears and the pressure of his mouth moving against mine. Every nerve feels alive, hyper-aware of where we’re connected, where his fingers skim the edge of my jawline or dip slightly into my hair.
I don’t know when I stopped breathing—maybe somewhere between the first stolen second and now—but every part of me aches with the need to pull him closer, to chase the spark before reality catches up.
I pull back, abruptly, like I’ve just remembered how to breathe and it’s the most urgent thing in the world. My lips tingle with the ghost of his, my pulse hammering away as if I’ve just sprinted up twenty flights of stairs. What the hell did I just do?
“Okay,” I blurt, though I have no idea what I’m trying to convey with that single, useless word. My voice sounds breathless—traitorous—and I hate how it hangs between us, exposed and raw.
Rory doesn’t move right away. His hand lingers near my face for a fraction longer, as though he hasn’t fully caught up with the fact that I ended things. Slowly, his fingers drop, brushing against my shoulder before they retreat entirely. And then he grins.
Not a small grin. Not polite or bashful. No, this is the full Rory Keane Special: wide, wolfish, and so unbearably smug I want to smack it off his face. Or kiss it again. God, no. Not that.
“Okay,” he mirrors, his voice low and maddeningly smooth. “That was unexpected.”
“Don’t.” The word shoots out, sharp and defensive, my last-ditch effort to salvage some semblance of dignity. I take a step back, putting precious inches of space between us, but it doesn’t help. He’s still looking at me like I’ve just become his favourite plot twist.
“Don’t… what?” he drawls, his head tilting like he genuinely wants clarification, but the sparkle in his eyes says different. He knows exactly what I mean.
“Don’t make this a thing.” My hands are restless now, smoothing down the front of my jacket, adjusting my glasses—anything to avoid meeting his gaze directly. “It’s not a thing.”
“Right. Not a thing,” he echoes, clearly amused. He crosses his arms over his chest, his weight shifting to one leg in that effortless way he has, all casual confidence. “Just a totally spontaneous, completely unprovoked kiss in the middle of the street. Happens all the time.”
“Exactly.” I nod once, curt and decisive, as if agreeing with him will somehow make this less mortifying. “A momentary lapse in judgment. Nothing more.”
“Momentary, huh?” He lets the word hang there, rolling it around like it’s delicious on his tongue. Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds, “You sure about that?”
“Rory.” I finally meet his eyes, and it’s a mistake. They’re soft now—still teasing, yes, but there’s something else there too. Warmth. Curiosity. A quiet sort of delight that makes me feel like I’m standing under a spotlight.
“Relax, Lara,” he says gently. “I’m not complaining.”
“Right. Well. I should—” My voice comes out strangled, the syllables tripping over each other like they’re trying to flee the scene before I can. Relatable.
I gesture vaguely behind me, as if the direction of my escape is a foregone conclusion and not something I’m currently inventing on the spot. “I just remembered—emails. Agent submissions. Publishing emergencies.” My mouth keeps moving, but none of it makes sense, even to me. “You know how it is.”
“Emails,” Rory echoes. His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t step back, doesn’t do anything helpful like make this easier for me. Instead, he stays exactly where he is, arms still crossed, looking far too entertained for someone who just got ambushed by a kiss in public.
“Yes. Emails.” I nod quickly, as though that single word explains everything: my sudden lack of composure, the way my heart is hammering against my ribs, the fact that I just kissed Rory Keane. And oh God, I kissed Rory Keane.
“Urgent, life-altering emails,” I add, because apparently digging holes is my new hobby. “And probably a fire to put out somewhere. Metaphorically speaking.”
“Suuure,” he replies, dragging the word out, letting it drip with amusement.
“Okay, great talk.” I spin on my heel so fast I nearly twist my ankle, but momentum is key here. If I slow down, I’ll start thinking again, and thinking leads to feeling, and no good can come from that. Not when the feeling in question involves the heat of his hand still ghosting on my wrist, or the way his lips were— Nope. Not going there.
I start to put one foot in front of the other. Each step is a declaration: I am leaving this situation . My jacket flaps slightly in the breeze, and I yank it tighter around me, as if I can shield myself from the lingering awareness prickling along my skin.
“Emails,” I say under my breath, half a mantra, half an alibi. The streetlights blur at the edges of my vision, and I deliberately focus on them, letting their soft glow ground me. Focusing on literally anything but the electricity still buzzing in my veins or the stupid, self-satisfied tilt of Rory’s grin now permanently etched into my memory. Why does he have to look like that all the time? Like he’s perpetually five seconds away from ruining your entire day—and somehow making you grateful for it?
I don’t look back. I don’t dare. Because if I see him now—if I catch even a glimpse of those infuriatingly knowing eyes—I might actually combust. Or worse, I might stop walking. And stopping would be catastrophic. Stopping would mean staying, and staying would mean facing what just happened. What I just did.
So I keep moving. Quick, deliberate steps, each one distancing me from the moment I let my guard slip and everything changed.
A black cab splashes through a puddle, a car horn blasts somewhere down the road, and everything around me feels too loud, too bright, too much . But it’s fine. It’s all fine. All I have to do is get home without looking back.
Naturally, I look back.
It’s a glance, barely half a second, but it lands with the force of a meteor strike. Rory’s standing where I left him, hands shoved casually into his coat pockets like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And that grin—that slow, devastating curve of his mouth—is spreading across his face. His dark eyes catch mine, locking me in place for one traitorous moment too long.
Oh, come on. Who looks like that after being ambushed by a kiss? Content, amused, like he’s already filing this away as some kind of victory. He tilts his head slightly, eyebrow quirking in an unspoken challenge, and I know—just know —he’s waiting for me to turn around and go back to him. Or maybe trip over my own feet again. Either option would probably make his night.
What was I thinking? Seriously, what part of me thought kissing Rory Keane—a man who thrives on chaos and charm like plants thrive on sunlight—was even remotely a good idea?
Spoiler alert: none of me thought it was a good idea. Not my brain, not my heart, and certainly not the tiny, rational editor voice in my head that usually keeps me from doing reckless, career-ending things like this. No, this was pure, unfiltered impulse. The kind of impulse that gets people turned into cautionary tales at office happy hours.
“God, you’re an idiot,” I whisper, my voice swallowed by the city din. My pace picks up, as if I can outrun the memory of Rory’s eyes boring into me. But it doesn’t work. Of course, it doesn’t work. Because the truth is, I’m not running from Rory.
I’m running from the fact that—for one insane, gravity-defying moment—I wanted to kiss him again.
And that scares me more than anything. Because this isn’t just complicated—it’s catastrophic. Rory isn’t just some random guy at a bar. He’s Rory Keane , my client and my company’s biggest asset. This isn’t a fling or a flirtation or whatever other word people use to justify bad decisions. This is work. This is my job. My carefully structured life. And now, thanks to one impulsive kiss, it’s all teetering on the edge of ruin.