Chapter 9
NINE
I close the door to my flat and immediately sag against it, hyperventilating like I’ve just sprinted up ten flights of stairs instead of making the five-minute walk from the tube station. My fingers hover over the lock for a beat before I twist it, like that extra barrier will somehow keep the reality of the last few hours from creeping in after me, making me sit on the naughty chair, and asking me to have a think about my behaviour.
Because, that kiss? That ridiculous , reckless, completely unprofessional kiss?
I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.
I toe off my shoes, crossing the room on autopilot, ignoring the mess of half-read manuscripts and stray red pens littering my coffee table. My laptop sits open, screen glowing, a blinking cursor waiting for me to get back to work. Instead, I grab a glass from the kitchen shelf and fill it from the tap, gulping down water like it might flush out the heat still simmering under my skin.
But nothing washes away the feeling of his hands on me, the way he kissed me back like he meant it, like I was something he wanted.
I shake my head, setting the glass down too hard. Get a grip .
It was just a kiss. A moment of… what? Weakness? Impulse? Poor decision-making?
I press my palms against the cool edge of the counter, forcing myself to breathe, to be rational—but the problem is, I wasn’t rational back there. I was reckless, and I don’t do reckless. I don’t get swept up in the moment. I don’t initiate anything without thinking it through. And yet, there I was, tangling my fingers in Rory Keane’s hair and pulling him closer like some romance heroine in a third-act confession scene.
I squeeze my eyes shut. This is a disaster.
I should never have let myself be alone with him like that. Should never have let my guard down—not even for a second, not even for a kiss. Because now? Now I’m in trouble.
My phone buzzes on the table, and my stomach lurches as I glance at the screen. Not Rory. Just Danny.
Relief floods through me, which is stupid—why would Rory be texting me? He probably hasn’t given that kiss half the thought I have.
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?
Because if I say something now—if I bring it up, if I admit that it meant something to me—I’ll be the fool. The hopeless one. And I refuse to be the one who confuses a moment of attraction for something more.
Not again. Not after James. Not after standing in a kitchen three years ago, holding a wedding invitation and wondering how the hell I let myself believe in something that never existed.
I let out a breath, slow and controlled. Whatever this is—whatever that was—it doesn’t matter.
Because Rory Keane is just a job, and I am a professional.
I pick up my phone and text Danny back:
Hey, just off to bed. Catch up over the weekend. All good xx
I’m not ready to share details. I haven’t fully processed the implications, and the last thing I need is I told you so vibes from Danny, even via text message. To ensure a communications blackout, I shove my phone deep into the sofa cushions and collapse on top of it all.
But it’s impossible to relax. I replay the evening over and over again, hoping I can both alter the outcome and feel the sensations all over again.
It’s just lust. That’s all it ever is. That’s all it ever remains.
Because, love? Love is something else entirely. Something that promises forever but always finds a way to fall apart.
I learned that lesson the hard way.
* * *
The last time I let myself believe in forever, I was in a flat just like this one, an engagement ring on my finger, my voice raw from words that changed nothing.
Standing in the kitchen, James just across from me, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor like he was already halfway out the door.
And maybe he was. Maybe he had been leaving for months. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he says finally, voice clipped.
I grip the counter to keep from shaking. “You could start with the truth.”
He lets out a hollow laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The truth? The truth is, you’ve already decided how this conversation ends, Lara.”
I flinch—not at his words, but at how right they sound. Like he knows me better than I know myself.
“I just don’t understand how we got here,” I say, hating the way my voice wavers. Hating that I’m pleading .
James exhales pointedly, stepping back like he’s trying to physically remove himself from the weight of this conversation. “Lara, we’ve been here for a while.”
The words land like a slap.
“No, you’ve been here,” I snap. “You’ve been pulling away, making excuses, treating me like I’m just— just here ?—”
“You are just here!” he cuts in, frustration spilling over. “You’re always here. Sitting at your desk, buried in your work, fixing everyone else’s words but never saying a damn thing about what you actually want .”
I stagger back, his words hitting a little too close, a little too true.
“That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” His voice softens, but not in a way that soothes. In a way that makes me realise this moment—this end —has already been decided.
I press my lips together, swallowing the lump in my throat.
“James,” I say, quietly now. “If you don’t want to be here, just say so.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and I know—I know—what’s coming.
“Lara, I think we’re done.”
I nod, even though it feels like the floor has been yanked from beneath me.
“Right.” My voice is even, cool, like I knew this was inevitable. “So, that’s it?”
James hesitates. “I didn’t want it to end like this.”
“Then why did it?”
He doesn’t answer. Maybe he doesn’t have one.
Maybe he does, and I just don’t want to hear it.
The silence stretches between us. It’s the most honest conversation we’ve had in months.
Finally, James sighs. He grabs his coat from the chair, slings it over his arm, and lingers for half a second too long. Like he’s waiting for me to change my mind. Like he’s waiting for me to stop him.
I don’t.
Because love is not enough.
Because no matter how much you want someone to stay, sometimes… they don’t.
Sometimes, they never planned to in the first place.
The door closes behind him, and I let out a breath.
And just like that, I stop believing in love.
Because it’s not real. Not in the way books make it out to be.
It’s lust, attraction, chemistry—whatever you want to call it. But real love? The kind that lasts? The kind that doesn’t just fizzle out or fall apart the moment life gets inconvenient?
That’s fiction.
And I, for one, prefer to keep my expectations realistic .
* * *
The memory still lingers like the smell of burnt toast in a kitchen long after the charred remains have been tossed in the wheelie bin outside.
I’m curled up on my sofa, glass of wine in one hand, trying not to recover my phone from under the cushion, resisting the ridiculous temptation to text Rory. Not to say anything meaningful, of course. Just something flippant. Casual.
Something that wouldn’t make it obvious I’ve spent the last hour replaying the way he kissed me.
What the hell am I doing?
I tip my head back against the cushions and groan. I can’t believe I let that happen. I kissed him. I started it. It wasn’t some moment of romantic serendipity where we were swept up by forces beyond our control. No. I knew exactly what I was doing. And I did it anyway.
I bring my knees up to my chest, trying to fold myself into something smaller, something that takes up less space. As if I can physically shrink my feelings into something manageable.
Because, this? This isn’t manageable. This is a problem.
I know how this story ends.
I learned it with James. I saw it with my parents, who still orbit each other like housemates rather than partners. Love—real love— doesn’t last . It starts with passion, with chemistry, with an unbearable need to be around each other, and then… it fades. It cools. It turns into something stale, or worse, something bitter.
And the idea of letting that happen again—of letting someone get close enough to hurt me like that again? No. Absolutely not.
I bet Rory isn’t sitting around analysing our kiss, questioning what it means. That he’s perfectly fine, typing away at his manuscript, not thinking about me at all .
And why should he be?
This isn’t that kind of thing, I remind myself. He’s not that kind of guy. Rory Keane is fun. He’s a flirt. He’s temporary.
And that’s perfect. That’s exactly what I need.
Not the complicated, falling-too-hard-too-fast kind of thing I swore I’d never do again.
I take another sip of wine and push the memory of James—of that final conversation, of the years I spent convincing myself we were forever—out of my mind.
This time, I won’t make the same mistake.
This time, I’ll be smarter .
I won’t let feelings get involved.
I can’t.
I set my wineglass down with more force than necessary, the sound of it meeting the coffee table with a loud clink.
Enough.
This spiral ends now.
I stand, stretching out my limbs as if shaking off the weight of memory. The room is dimly lit, the hum of the city outside a constant, steady presence. I exhale, slow and controlled, and head straight for my desk. If my brain insists on obsessing over Rory, then I’ll channel that energy into something productive.
The manuscript. The thing I should have been focusing on in the first place.
I flip through my notes, scanning the latest pages Rory sent over, ignoring the way my stomach clenches slightly at the thought of him.
Because that’s all this is. A physical response. A fleeting attraction.
And I know how to compartmentalise.
I pause at a passage—a romantic confession from Oliver to Sophie.
“I don’t know when it happened, but it did. One day, you were just there. And now I can’t imagine a life where you’re not.”
I swallow, pressing my lips together. Too sentimental. The kind of thing that makes people believe love is inevitable.
I replace it with something safer, something more logical.
“I like being around you. That’s enough for me.”
Much better.
I keep going, pushing aside the thoughts clawing at the edges of my mind. This is what I do. I fix things. I make them cleaner, smoother, less dangerous.
And that’s exactly how I’m going to handle Rory Keane.
We kissed. That’s all it was. It doesn’t need to mean anything.
Tomorrow, I’ll see him. We’ll talk about the book.
I’ll draw a line between us and make damn sure neither of us crosses it again.
I close the manuscript’s folder, stacking it neatly on my desk. Everything is in its place. The book. My thoughts. My resolve.
And yet…
My fingers hover over the file, hesitating. My heartbeat is steady, controlled—but there’s something underneath it. A flicker of something I don’t want to name.
Because when I kissed Rory, it felt different .
Not just reckless, not just heat or attraction or a moment of bad judgment.
Something deeper. Something dangerous.
And that makes it ten times more terrifying.
I need to go to bed, to put today, and especially tonight, behind me. I won’t go down that road again. I can’t.
I get up off the sofa and reach for the light switch, flipping it off with more force than necessary.
This isn’t love. It’s lust.
And as long as I remember that, I’ll be fine.
* * *
Saturday afternoon and the rhythmic hum of my keyboard is the only sound in my living room, save for the occasional annoyed sigh I let escape when a sentence refuses to cooperate. My fingers hover over the keys, motionless now, as I stare at the blinking cursor on the new chapters Rory has sent through.
“Just work,” I grumble under my breath, trying to convince myself. My glasses slide down my nose, and I push them back up, a ritual that seems to happen more often when I’m editing his material. Coincidence? Unlikely.
I scroll through the document again, scanning the scene he’d been so insistent on “researching” together. The fictional couple—thinly veiled versions of us, much to my mortification—are mid-banter, their dialogue crackling with flirtation framed as rivalry. It’s annoyingly good. Worse, it’s dizzyingly familiar. I can hear Rory’s voice in every line, see the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s particularly pleased with himself. The memory of his lopsided grin from last tonight nudges at me like an elbow in the ribs.
“Stop it,” I command myself, shaking my head hard enough to make my ponytail swish. “This isn’t about him. It’s about the work.”
But the problem is, it’s not just the work. Not anymore. We kissed. We actually kissed, and I was the one who’d initiated it. Rory Keane has managed to wedge himself into my brain like a splinter that I can’t seem to tweeze out. And maybe I don’t want to.
The thought shocks me so much I nearly knock my coffee mug off the desk. I grab it just in time, my fingers curling around the ceramic as if holding onto it will stabilise me. Coffee is safe. Predictable. Rory is neither.
“Focus,” I whisper, staring hard at the screen. The cursor blinks back at me, unhelpful as ever.
My phone buzzes next to the keyboard, jolting me. I glance at the notification. A text from Danny:
How’s the border collie’s manuscript coming along? Still resisting his obvious charms, or should I start planning your wedding hashtag?
“Ugh,” I groan, but I can’t help the laughter that bubbles up. Of course, Danny would feel a disturbance in the force . I’m still not ready to tell him anything and I type back quickly:
It’s fine. Everything is fine. Zero charm resistance required.
A blatant lie, but one day he’ll forgive me.
As soon as I hit send, another message pops up. This one isn’t from Danny. It’s from Rory:
Still thinking about last night? Don’t worry—I’ll start planning our next research outing. You’re welcome in advance.
I stare at the screen, heat creeping up my neck. The audacity of this man. But also… the absolute nerve of my stupid heart to skip a beat at the sight of his name lighting up my phone.
I should ignore him. Pretend I didn’t see it. Better yet, respond with some scathing remark that makes it clear that what happened yesterday was most certainly a one-off. But instead, my thumb hovers over the keyboard, indecisive.
“Don’t engage,” I tell myself firmly. “Do not engage.”
And yet, against my better judgment—or perhaps because of it—I find myself typing back.
Professional curiosity. That’s all it was. Don’t flatter yourself, Keane.
I hit send before I can second-guess it, instantly regretting how flirty it sounds. Flirting wasn’t the goal. Professional boundaries were the goal. Right?
The dots indicating he’s typing appear immediately. I set the phone facedown on the desk, determined not to let him get any more space in my head today. Except, of course, I pick it back up thirty seconds later.
Flattered anyway
Enjoy the new chapters, Lara. Your research methodology really helped.
“Damn you.” Though, I catch myself smiling. Damn him.
I close the laptop with a decisive snap, leaning back in my chair and staring at the ceiling. This was supposed to be simple. Edit the book. Keep things professional. Ignore the magnetic pull of Rory Keane’s ridiculous charisma.
I’m failing spectacularly on every single point.
“Just work,” I say aloud one last time, but the words ring hollow now. Because deep down, I know the truth. Nothing about this feels like just work anymore. That kiss wasn’t just a mistake. It was a shift—a tectonic one—and now there’s no going back.
I vow that all future editorial meetings will be conducted online; there’s absolutely no need for us to be in the same room. This is all totally manageable remotely.