Chapter 10
TEN
The gravel crunches underfoot as I wrestle my suitcase up the narrow garden path, my laptop bag bouncing against my hip with every awkward step. The cottage looms ahead—quaint, picturesque, and thoroughly irritating. Of course Fiona would think this was a good idea. Nothing says “professional collaboration” like isolating two people in a countryside retreat with questionable Wi-Fi and a history of bad decisions.
Obviously, Fiona doesn’t know about last week’s kiss.
Obviously, I couldn’t tell her the real reason I didn’t want to go to Somerset.
So, now I’m here. Obviously.
“Charming, isn’t it?” Rory’s voice floats over my shoulder, far too amused for my liking. He’s trailing behind me, his suitcase rolling effortlessly along, because of course it is.
“Charming,” I echo flatly, gripping the handle of my bag like it might sprout wings and fly off if I let go. “If you’re into twee aesthetics and forced proximity.”
“Forced proximity can be fun,” he says, breezing past me up the steps to the front door. “Depends on the company.”
I swallow the scathing reply bubbling at the back of my throat and follow him inside, determined not to engage. The air smells faintly of lavender and aged wood, the kind of scent that belongs in overpriced candles marketed to women who’ve never experienced stress. It’s annoyingly soothing, which only irritates me further.
Rory is already surveying the space, hands in his pockets, a relaxed confidence radiating off him like sunlight. I hate how comfortable he looks here, like he belongs, like this whole ridiculous setup is a big joke he intends to enjoy to its fullest. Meanwhile, I’m standing in the entryway clutching my things like a deranged pack mule, trying not to trip over the uneven flagstone floor.
“Cosy,” he declares, turning toward me. “What do you think?”
“That I’ll be billing Fiona for emotional damages,” I grouse, brushing past him to claim the nearest available surface as my workspace. The dining table will do—solid, functional, and conveniently far from the fireplace where Rory has already draped himself across an armchair like some sort of literary lounge lizard.
As I pull out my laptop and arrange my notebooks with clinical precision, I can feel him watching me. There’s a weight to his gaze, a heat that makes my skin prickle beneath my jacket. I keep my eyes fixed on the table, pretending not to notice.
“Need help setting up?” he offers, his tone light but laced with something that feels like a dare.
“I think I can manage plugging in a laptop without assistance, thanks,” I reply, adjusting my glasses and keeping my focus firmly on my screen. My fingers hover over the keyboard, though I’m not typing anything yet. I just need to look busy. Distracted. Uninterested.
“Suit yourself.” There’s a rustling sound as he shifts in his seat, followed by a low chuckle that sets my teeth on edge. “You always get this serious when you collaborate, or is this just for me?”
“Some of us take our jobs seriously,” I say, finally glancing up just long enough to shoot him a pointed look.
“Ah, so I’m special.”
“Special is one word for it,” I mumble, focusing again on aligning the edges of my notebook with military precision. If I keep my hands busy, maybe I can distract myself from the memory of his lips on mine, from the way my heart had stumbled over itself in that split second before logic swooped in and ruined everything.
“Come on, Lara,” he says after a beat, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “This isn’t so bad, is it? A little trip to the countryside, fresh air, some creative collaboration…”
“Let’s just stick to the collaboration,” I cut in. His eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t push, and for that I’m grateful.
Rory ambles over and joins me at the dining table. He looks maddeningly unbothered, like we’re here for a casual chat rather than surgery on his disaster of a second act.
“Okay,” I say, finally breaking the silence. “Let’s start with the obvious problem.”
“By all means,” he replies smoothly, gesturing with his free hand as if inviting me to destroy him. His confidence, I swear, is both exhausting and… No, it’s just exhausting.
“Your protagonist, Oliver”—I emphasise the name like it’s a personal affront—“spends half of Act Two, when he’s not dealing with car chases and explosions, sulking about being dumped, but we’re supposed to believe he’s falling in love with someone new. It’s emotionally inconsistent. You can’t have depth if you’re skimming the surface.”
“Ah, yes,” Rory says, nodding solemnly. “Depth. The sworn enemy of a good sulk.”
“Rory,” I snap, “I’m serious. You’re avoiding the emotional work. Oliver needs to actually feel something beyond self-pity. Otherwise, your readers won’t buy the romance.”
“But what if Oliver’s wallowing is part of the point? Maybe he’s afraid to feel something real because it makes him vulnerable. Vulnerability is terrifying, Lara. Don’t you agree?”
“Vulnerability is relatable,” I counter evenly. “But only if it’s earned. Right now, Oliver reads like a mopey teenager who doesn’t know what he wants.”
“Sounds familiar,” Rory says under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” he says innocently. “Seriously, though, you think the lack of emotional depth is the biggest issue?”
“One of them,” I admit, keeping my eyes on the manuscript. “The pacing is also off, and some of the new dialogue feels… unnatural. Like you’re trying too hard to be clever.”
“I think I lost my way a little bit. It’s been weird not meeting up face-to-face last week to work on the edit. I missed this, you know. Working with you.”
“Working with me or arguing with me?” I ask, suspicious.
“Is there a difference?” he quips, but there’s an undercurrent of sincerity in his tone.
“Let’s get back to Oliver,” I say briskly. “He needs a clear emotional arc. Start by asking yourself what he’s afraid of. What’s holding him back?”
“Fear of rejection, maybe.” Rory’s answer comes quickly, but his eyes linger on me a little too long, like he’s testing the waters. “Or fear of getting hurt again. That’s relatable, right?”
“Sure,” I reply. “As long as it doesn’t become an excuse for him to avoid growth. Readers want to see him evolve, not stagnate.”
“Fine,” he concedes. “What if he writes her a letter? Something raw, unpolished. Vulnerable.”
“Finally,” I say, exhaling like I’ve been waiting for him to arrive at this obvious conclusion all along. “Now we’re getting somewhere. But it has to be earned. No clichés about sunsets or comparing her eyes to gemstones.”
“Even sapphires?” he teases.
“Especially sapphires.”
“Right, got it. Although, for the record, I think it’s a killer line.” He pulls out his laptop and starts writing, our earlier rhythm slowly reestablishing itself as we toss ideas back and forth. It’s almost… fun, working like this. When he’s not being insufferably smug, Rory actually listens. And when I’m not being hypercritical, I might even enjoy the way our minds click together. It’s maddeningly productive. Almost dangerous, really.
With Rory deep into re-writing his end of Act One, I take the opportunity to have a nosey upstairs. My initial fears that Fiona didn’t think to check there were two bedrooms were quickly put to rest. There are two and they’re both beautiful. It’s pure cottage-core and I’m an instant convert. I lay claim to the smaller of the two. Not because I’m feeling particularly magnanimous, but because it’s the one with an en suite bathroom. Since I entered my thirties two years ago, I’ve found that my bladder likes to become hyperactive at night, and the last thing I need is being spotted in the early hours running back from the communal bathroom in my pyjamas.
It takes just minutes to unpack my case and the cottage immediately feels like a home away from home. I lay on top of the bedcovers to rest my eyes, and thanks to the ridiculously early start, and the long drive, I fall asleep.
* * *
When I wake, I’m energised and excited, and I bound down the stairs with a craving for herbal tea. Rory’s deep into writing new material so I try not to disturb him, instead I browse through the small but eclectic selection of cookery books lined up next to the kettle.
With a tagine recipe committed to memory along with a solemn promise to try and cook it sometime this week, I sit at the kitchen table and stretch, willing some of the kinks out of my back.
Rory mirrors my movement, except instead of stretching, he tips his chair back on two legs, balancing precariously.
“Don’t do that,” I warn automatically. “You’ll crack your skull open, and I’m not driving you to the hospital.”
“Good to know where I stand with you.” He lets the chair thud back onto all fours, then crosses his arms behind his head. “So… about that kiss.”
The air between us shifts so suddenly, I swear I feel it. My spine stiffens. “ What kiss?”
“Come on, you haven’t forgotten.”
“Of course not, but it’s irrelevant.”
“Is it? Because I don’t think it is.”
“Well, you’d be wrong. We’re here to work, remember? Not rehash some—some lapse in judgment.” My voice falters slightly on the last three words, and I hate myself for it.
“Interesting choice of words.”
“Drop it, Rory,”
“Alright. If you insist. Back to work, then?”
“Back to work,” I echo, forcing my focus back to the page. But the tension lingers, electric and unresolved, humming in the air between us.
“Chemistry,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence like a pebble tossed into still water.
I glance up, frowning. “What about it?”
“In the book,” he clarifies, though the way his gaze flicks toward me suggests he’s not just talking about the book. “You said earlier that the romance lacks chemistry. That it feels… flat.”
“Yes, because it does,” I reply, my editor voice kicking in automatically. “The interactions between your leads are still too surface-level. There’s no real spark, none of the emotional depth of your other books. They’re just—” I pause, searching for the right word. “Going through the motions.”
“Then riddle me this. Do you think chemistry can be manufactured? Or is it something that has to already exist?”
“Are we really doing this?”
“Why not? It’s relevant.” He stands and begins to pace. “If the issue with Sophie and Oliver is a lack of believable chemistry, maybe we should examine what makes chemistry believable.”
“Good luck with that. Chemistry, ironically, isn’t a science experiment, Rory. You can’t just”—I wave my pen vaguely—“engineer it.”
“I agree, it’s not science. It’s human connection. Messy, complicated, unpredictable. Isn’t that what you’re saying I need to capture on the page?”
The second act of his manuscript does fall flat. The romance lacks life, it lacks spontaneity. It reads too practised, too rehearsed—as if the characters are playing their parts rather than living them. And if I’m being honest with myself (a big if ), I’ve spent more nights than I care to admit staring at my ceiling, wondering why I care so much about fixing it. Wondering why his failure feels so personal.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making sense.”
Rory laughs, gets up, and pours his own drink.
I narrow my eyes. “You’ve got that look.”
Rory leans against the counter opposite me, all lazy confidence, stirring sugar into his tea like he’s not about to say something ridiculous. “What look?”
“The one that usually comes before a terrible idea.”
He grins, lifting his mug to his lips. “What if it’s a great idea?”
“Highly unlikely.”
He studies me for a moment, like he’s weighing his approach, then sets his mug down with a decisive clink. “There’s obviously something here.”
I arch a brow. “Something?”
“You know.” He waves a hand between us, casual as anything. “Chemistry. Tension. The whole ‘will-they-won’t-they’ thing we’ve been dancing around since we kissed the other night.”
I scoff, ignoring the heat that pricks my skin at the memory. “I wasn’t aware we were dancing around anything.”
“Oh, we are.” He tilts his head like he’s enjoying this far too much. “And instead of fighting it, I propose we… lean in.”
I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Lean in?”
He grins. “Friends with benefits.”
I blink at him. “You’re joking.”
“Completely serious.” He crosses his arms, mirroring my stance. “We’re stuck with each other for the next four weeks, working on this book. You’re my editor. I’m your reluctant manuscript disaster. There’s attraction—we both know it. So why not have a little fun along the way? No commitment, no complications.”
I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
“You think sleeping together will help you finish your book?”
He winces. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“How would you put it?”
“I’d say we both get something out of this arrangement.”
I let out a dry laugh. “You’re actually using writing as an excuse for sex?”
“Not an excuse,” he says, smirking. “More of an incentive.”
I shake my head, sipping the last dregs of my tea, needing to buy time before I do something ridiculous, like actually consider it.
“And when this inevitably blows up in our faces?” I ask.
He shrugs, entirely unbothered. “It won’t. We’re both adults. No expectations, no pressure. Just… an experiment in chemistry.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re an actual menace.”
“You say that, but you’re thinking about it.”
Damn him, I am.
“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s a bad habit. Comes with the territory, I guess.” He gestures vaguely, as if his whole existence is one long exercise in effortless persuasion. “But seriously, what’s holding you back? Afraid you’ll lose control?”
“Control isn’t the problem,” I lie, folding my arms. “This is about professionalism. About boundaries.”
“Boundaries can be flexible,” he counters, voice low, smooth. “Especially when they lead to better art.”
“Rory, you’re unbelievable.”
“Thank you,” he says, grinning like I just paid him a compliment. “Look, I get it—you’re cautious. Careful. But sometimes, Lara, taking risks is the only way to create something extraordinary.”
“Risks,” I echo, my mind flashing through the thousand ways this could go spectacularly wrong. My reputation tarnished, my emotions tangled in a mess, and one of us— namely me — left heartbroken, a mistake I swore I’d never make again after James. But then there’s another thought, quieter, harder to ignore: What if he’s right?
“Think about it,” he says, his posture deceptively relaxed while his gaze stays locked on mine. “You push me, I push you. We keep it professional during work hours, and after…” He trails off, letting the sentence dangle provocatively.
“And after, what?”
“After, we see what happens,” he finishes, his grin widening. “No strings. Just— For the sake of the book, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I echo faintly, though nothing about this feels obvious. Or safe. Or sane.
“Come on, Yates.” His voice softens, teasing, but not unkind. “You’re the best editor I’ve ever worked with. Let me prove I can rise to the occasion. Literally.” He smirks, and I groan, burying my face in my hands.
God help me , I think, though whether it’s a prayer or a curse, I couldn’t say.
“Fine,” I say, the word scraped out of me like it’s been pried loose with a crowbar. My arms are crossed so tightly across my chest that I’m surprised I haven’t dislocated something. “I will consider it.”
“Consider?” Rory repeats, his brows lifting in mock disbelief, his grin doing that infuriating thing where it makes him look both boyish and entirely too self-assured. “Lara Yates, did you just agree to be… mutually beneficial?”
“Don’t push your luck.” I shoot him a glare that would make most men flinch. Rory, of course, just looks more amused.
“Not luck. Just chemistry.” His voice drops slightly, and there’s something about the way he says it—soft, teasing, but also deliberate—that sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
“Boundaries,” I announce, ignoring whatever that was. I snap my fingers for emphasis, like I’m calling this ridiculous meeting to order. “ If —and this is hypothetical—if we do this, there will be rules.”
“Rules.” He nods solemnly, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away. “I love rules.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” I adjust my glasses, mostly so I don’t have to look directly into his eyes when I say the next part. “This stays separate from work. Completely. The manuscript comes first. If this”—I wave vaguely between us, as though gesturing to some invisible, idiotic agreement floating in the air—“gets in the way, it ends. Immediately.”
“Understood.” He sips his drink, watching me too intently now. It’s unsettling, the way Rory has of looking at me like I’m not just a collection of editorial rules and professional boundaries, but an actual person. I prefer when people stick to the former.
“Also,” I continue, clearing my throat, “no public displays. Discretion is non-negotiable.”
“Discretion.” Rory looks up, pretending to mull it over. “So no writing ‘Rory + Lara’ on any bathroom stalls? No shouting ‘You complete me’ from the rooftops?”
“Exactly.” I level him with a pointed stare. “And if you call me babe or sweetheart even once, you and your book will be well and truly on your own.”
“Noted.” He smirks, but his expression softens, just barely. “Anything else, or am I officially allowed to consider this the best idea I’ve ever had?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say, dropping my gaze to the notebook in front of me. I flip it open and start scribbling nonsense, anything to avoid looking at the man who’s just managed to talk me into— What, exactly? An arrangement? A disaster waiting to happen? Both?
“Hey,” Rory says after a beat, his tone quieter now, less playful. “Thanks for trusting me on this. I know it’s… complicated.”
Complicated doesn’t begin to cover it, but I don’t correct him. Instead, I glance up and catch an expression on his face that I don’t recognise. Not the cocky grin, not the charming smirk. Something closer to sincerity, tinged with uncertainty. It throws me off balance enough that all I can manage is a curt nod before looking back down.
“Well then,” he says, taking his seat at the dining table. “Time to get back to saving my literary masterpiece, yeah?”
“Finally, something sensible comes out of your mouth.” I latch onto the shift in subject like a lifeline, flipping back to my notes with far more enthusiasm than anyone should ever feel toward structural edits. “Chapter twelve still needs a complete overhaul, by the way. That whole scene with Sophie accepting his apology so quickly? Incredibly cliché.”
“Ah, yes. The make-up sex scene.” He grins, reaching for his laptop. “What you fail to see, Yates, is that it’s romantic . You know, like us.”