Chapter 12
TWELVE
I wake to the kind of silence that feels too loud. The bright morning light filters through the blinds, harsh and unforgiving, illuminating the chaos in my head far more effectively than I’d like. My body stirs before my mind catches up—muscle memory pulling me upright, legs swinging over the side of the bed, feet searching for my slippers, which I’d thoughtfully left out next to my bed… in the room across the hall. Shit, I spent the night in his room.
He’s there in the bed, fast asleep. I can smell him. Warm skin, cedar soap, and whatever reckless decision-making smells like. Casual, I remind myself. We agreed. Two adults making questionable choices but keeping it uncomplicated.
“Uncomplicated” is a lie I told myself at 10:37 PM when I kissed him in the kitchen and all the way up the stairs, and another I told myself when his hands slid down my back in a way that felt anything but casual.
I stand and locate my blouse draped over the back of a chair—thank God for small mercies. At least I’m not hunting for missing underwear or gathering up pieces of my dignity from the floor. Slipping into the crisp fabric, I straighten the collar and give myself a quick once-over in the mirror. Hair: messy but salvageable. Makeup: non-existent, but at least my glasses are where they should be, perched on the nightstand. Professional demeanour: intact, even if the person wearing it feels like she’s been hit by emotional shrapnel.
“Keep it together,” I say as I tug my hair into a low ponytail. It’s a mantra now, as reliable as coffee or deadlines.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table, which is a welcome distraction. Grabbing it before it can wake sleeping beauty, I scroll through emails, news alerts, and a staff group text asking who’s up for a mid-week drink tonight (spoiler: not me). Work is there too, waiting as always, steady and dependable in its demands. An email from marketing about Rory’s book, subject line: Urgent - Need Feedback ASAP .
“Of course you do.” I sigh, opening it. Feedback is my comfort zone. It’s black-and-white, actionable, devoid of all things messy and grey—unlike whatever this thing is with Rory.
Casual . I repeat the word like it’s a magic spell that’ll keep my brain from short-circuiting. There’s no room for complications here, no space for personal feelings to spill into professional waters. I’ve worked too hard, carved out too much of myself to build this career, to let it unravel because of one… okay, two nights of bad decisions wrapped in good intentions.
I try to focus, thumbing through the email. Marketing jargon, revised sales numbers, questions about appeal demographics—it’s safe territory, blessedly impersonal. My chest loosens slightly, the familiar rhythm of work pushing everything else to the edges.
Work first, feelings later , I tell myself, even though I know damn well “later” isn’t on my calendar. Not now, not ever.
I cross the room, skirt dangling from one hand, jacket draped over the other. My blouse buttoned— Well, mostly. The last two buttons are still AWOL, but I’m not about to go crawling around looking for them. Casual hookups don’t come with a lost-and-found.
I reach the door, hand hovering over the knob, and pause just long enough to take a breath. Inhale, exhale. Reset. This is fine. This is fine. Last night was… fun. Reckless, sure, but also contained. A neat little box of great sex tied up with a bow of mutual understanding: no strings, no complications, no messy emotions.
A one-time thing. No big deal.
Then, because this is my life, I hear his voice behind me.
“Leaving already? What, no coffee? No goodbye kiss?” Rory’s tone is light, laced with amusement, like this is all some charming morning-after routine we’ve rehearsed a hundred times.
“That’s presumptuous,” I say, turning just enough to glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning against the headboard, sheets pooled around his waist like he’s starring in an ad campaign for “smug bastard.” His hair is a mess, dark strands falling across his forehead in a way that should not look as good as it does at— What time is it? Seven in the morning? Nine? Who knows? Time loses meaning when you’re trying to escape unnoticed.
“Presumptuous?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Lara, you snuck out of bed like someone fleeing the scene of a crime. Forgive me if I thought offering you caffeine might be the neighbourly thing to do.”
“I’m running late. Work, remember? That thing where people pay me to keep you on deadline?”
“Ah, yes. Work. Where we’ll pretend you didn’t just refer to last night as ‘that thing.’”
“Last night was exactly what it needed to be,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Right.” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m a particularly complicated plot twist he hasn’t decided whether to love or hate. “And here I thought editors were supposed to be brutally honest.”
“Brutal honesty doesn’t require elaboration,” I shoot back, hand back on the doorknob. “It’s efficient. Like leaving before breakfast.”
“If you say so.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I open the door and step through, letting it click shut behind me with a finality I don’t quite feel.
My hand lingers on the knob for a second longer than it should, like my body hasn’t quite caught up to my brain’s carefully crafted exit plan.
But his voice— And here I thought editors were supposed to be brutally honest —sticks to me like a Post-it Note with half a sentence scribbled on it. Unfinished. Incomplete.
“Efficient” doesn’t explain why my chest feels tight, or why I have to consciously unclench my jaw before heading to the sanctuary of my own room.
By the time I shower and make it downstairs to officially begin the day, the scent of coffee has already infiltrated the air, courtesy of Rory’s foray into domesticity. The man can charm a crowd, draft a bestseller, and apparently brew a decent pot of coffee. Add that to the list of reasons I shouldn’t let him get to me. Too much charm is dangerous; everyone knows that.
I sit down at the head of the table, where stacks of manuscript pages stare back at me like an accusation. Perfect. Something tangible. Something real. Not… last night. Or his teasing. Or the way he looked at me like I was both a puzzle and the solution. Just work.
Work is safe. Work is predictable. Work doesn’t leave you?—
“Good morning,” he says, sliding into the seat across from me. He’s holding two mugs, one of which he pushes in my direction. The coffee smells rich, dark, and entirely too tempting—sort of like its deliverer, if I were inclined to make that kind of comparison. Which, obviously, I’m not.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice clipped, though my hand betrays me by reaching for the mug immediately. I take a sip and let the warmth seep through me, keeping my eyes locked on the manuscript in front of me. Don’t engage. Don’t encourage. Just… edit.
“Where should we begin?”
“I’ve got a list,” I say, tapping my pen against the margin of page forty-seven.
“Why does that not surprise me?”
“Starting with this adjective cluster here. Did you really need three different ways to describe her smile? We get it. She’s radiant, luminous, and dazzling.”
“She’s the love interest,” he says, shrugging. “I thought you’d appreciate some variety.”
“Variety is overrated,” I shoot back, circling the offending words. “Pick one. Otherwise, it reads like you can’t make up your mind.”
“Okay. What else?”
“In the break into Act Three, Oliver’s motivations still aren’t clear,” I explain, keeping my tone professional. Detached. “You’ve got all this buildup with his internal conflict, but then he just… forgives her? No hesitation? No fallout? It feels unearned.”
“Alright, fair point,” Rory says, nodding slowly. “So what if… What if we add a scene where he confronts her first? Like, really lays everything out before deciding whether or not to forgive her?”
“That could work,” I admit, begrudgingly impressed by how quickly he pivots. “But it needs more than just confrontation. There has to be a moment where he questions himself too—whether he’s ready to trust again. Make it messy.”
“Got it.”
“Also, lose the rooftop cliché,” I add, pointing to the note I’d scrawled in red ink at the bottom of the page. “No one actually has heartfelt revelations while standing on a skyline at sunset. It’s been done to death.”
“Hey, I like rooftops,” Rory protests, but there’s a playful glint in his eye. “They’re romantic.”
“They’re lazy,” I counter. “And you’re better than lazy.”
“Wow,” he nods. “A compliment and an insult in the same sentence. Ambassador, you really do spoil me.”
“Don’t get used to it,”
We dive deeper into Act Three, throwing ideas back and forth like a game of verbal ping-pong. And somewhere between debating the merits of a grand gesture versus a quiet reconciliation, I realise something strange. He’s… listening. Really listening. And not in the performative, nod-and-smile way most authors do when I’m tearing apart their darlings. He’s engaged, energised, feeding off the momentum of our conversation, like it’s the act of collaboration itself that’s sparking something in him. He genuinely wants Fully, Forever to be the best book it can be. He’s willingly rewriting entire chapters if it improves the storytelling.
And, annoyingly, it’s sparking something in me too.
“Wait,” he says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “What if the big turning point isn’t about her apologising to him? What if it’s about him realising he doesn’t need her apology to move on? Like, his closure comes from within, not from her.”
I blink, caught off guard by the shift in perspective. It’s… good. Really good. Better than anything I’ve suggested. My pen hovers over the manuscript as I try to process the unfamiliar sensation curling in my chest. Pride? Admiration? No. Definitely hunger.
“That… could work,” I say carefully, not trusting myself to say more. Because the truth is, it doesn’t just work—it’s brilliant. And the fact that I might’ve played even a small role in helping him get there is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.
“See?” Rory says, flashing me a triumphant grin. “Told you rooftops are romantic.”
He flips open his laptop and wakes up the screen, scrolling to find the page in the document ready to write the scene. But then he stops and looks across.
“Hey, Lara?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.” His voice is quiet. When I finally look up, his smile is softer, less practised. More real.
“For what?” I ask, my own voice barely above a whisper.
“Helping me make it better,” he says simply.
And damn it, the way he’s looking at me right now—like I’m more than just his editor, more than just some fleeting distraction.
Rory’s hand brushes against mine as he reaches for a pen that isn’t even on his side of the table. The touch is fleeting, casual enough to be dismissible—except it feels anything but. I freeze mid-sentence, words evaporating like steam off of pavement.
“Stop that,” I say, arching an eyebrow.
“Stop what?” His voice dips lower, smoother, the teasing edge softening into something warmer. More dangerous.
“You’re supposed to be brainstorming, not… brooding at me.”
“Brooding?” He chuckles, and the sound is rich, deeper than before. “I don’t brood. I smoulder. There’s a difference.”
“Debatable,” I say, but I want to laugh. Damn him.
“Admit it,” he says, his grin widening. “You’re smiling. You think I’m funny.”
“Well, someone has to,” I shoot back. Because the truth is, he is funny. And quick. And disarmingly good at making me forget why I’m supposed to keep my distance.
The silence stretches, taut and humming. I should look away, I don’t. I look at him instead, and suddenly the table feels too small, the room too warm.
Before I fully realise what I’m doing, I’m standing. The chair scrapes against the floor, loud enough to jar me back to reality, except I don’t stop. I step around the table, closing the space between us in three brisk strides.
“I’m testing a theory,” I say shortly, my voice steadier than I feel.
“Which is?” His expression shifts, surprise flickering across his face, but there’s no mistaking the anticipation in his eyes.
“Whether or not you smoulder,” I reply, and then I’m kissing him.
It’s not tentative or cautious or any of the other things I’ve spent years training myself to be. It’s heat and friction and reckless abandon, and for once in my life, I don’t care about consequences.
Rory reacts instantly, his hands gripping my waist as he pulls me closer, eliminating the last shred of space between us. The kiss deepens, his mouth moving against mine with a hunger that matches my own. One hand slides up my back, fingers tangling in my hair, while the other anchors me firmly in place.
I gasp against his lips, and he uses the opening to his advantage, his tongue sweeping into my mouth in a way that makes my knees threaten to give out. My hands clutch at his shirt.
“Still overthinking?” he says, his breath hot and uneven.
“Shut up,” I manage, yanking him up off the seat to meet me.
The manuscript forgotten, the dining table becomes a battleground—a collision of need and frustration and unspoken truths. His lips trail down my jaw to the sensitive spot just below my ear, and I bite back a moan, my head falling back to give him better access.
“God, Lara,” he whispers, his voice rough and wrecked, like I’m undoing him as much as he’s undoing me. And maybe I am. Maybe we’re both hurtling toward something we can’t control, something that will inevitably shatter us.
But right now, I don’t care. Right now, it’s just him—his touch, his warmth, his everything—and for once, I let myself fall.
* * *
The cool air from the open window brushes against my bare shoulders, and I realise too late that I’m still standing in the middle of the kitchen, dishevelled and utterly undone. My gaze lands on the manuscript pages scattered across the table—forgotten casualties of our… detour—and a pang of guilt twists in my chest. I glance over at Rory.
“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand before he can speak. “Whatever you’re about to say, just don’t.”
“Say what?” He shrugs, far too pleased with himself. “That you look good when you’re slightly unhinged? Because it’s true.”
“Rory.”
“Alright, alright. Not going to say a word.”
“Good.” I snatch up my blouse from the back of a chair, for the second time this morning, and slip it on, buttoning it with more force than necessary. “Because we’re not talking about this. Ever.”
“Really? Not ever?” His tone is light, teasing. “Seems like kind of a shame. I mean, we were making some pretty solid progress on?—”
“No,” I cut him off, louder this time. “This doesn’t change anything. We’re still here to work on your novel, and that’s it. No complications. No distractions.”
“Sure,” he says easily, “if that’s how you want to play it.”
“That’s exactly how I want to play it.”