Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
Day three. The novelty of countryside isolation has officially worn off, and routine has settled in—if you can call the delicate balance of writing, editing, and avoiding underlying sexual tension a routine.
We’ve talked through the major changes, agreed on the direction, and now Rory is buried in his manuscript, brow furrowed, fingers flying over the keyboard in that feverish, trance-like state that suggests he might actually be making progress. I’d revel in the victory, but I’ve learned the hard way not to celebrate too soon.
While he works, I take the opportunity to look at one of my other author’s manuscripts that landed in my inbox. I don’t generally like to switch between projects because it takes time to get in, and out, of the right headspace. I’m making an exception because I’ve been looking forward to reading Rebecca’s latest book since Scott & Drake announced she’d signed a two-book deal, following her wonderful debut.
But it was a bad call. I’ve read the sentence three times now, and for the life of me, I can’t tell if it’s brilliant or insufferable.
“You’re glaring at that screen like you want to ask it to go outside with you and have a fight in the car park,” Rory’s voice cuts through the silence, smooth and just a touch amused. He leans back against the opposite end of the table, arms crossed over his chest, one brow arched in mock concern.
“Maybe I do,” I say. “If nothing else, I could do with stretching my legs.”
“Ah, well, in that case…” He tilts his head toward the window, where the late afternoon sun is streaming through the curtains. “How about we call it quits for now? Go for a walk. Get some air before your eyes permanently cross.”
“Quits?” I glance up, incredulous. “You’re on a deadline, Keane. Deadlines don’t take walks.”
“True,” he says, pushing off the table with a lazy grace that only someone annoyingly tall can manage. “But editors do. And writers. Or so I’m told.” His grin is disarming, but I refuse to let it work on me. I’ve built an entire career on being immune to charm—especially his.
“Don’t you have a chapter to rewrite?” I counter, crossing my arms and giving him my best you’re-not-getting-out-of-this glare.
“All the experts say you shouldn’t sit in front of a computer for longer than forty-five minutes at a time,” he shoots back, already heading for the door. “Come on, it’s lovely out.”
I hesitate, glancing down at the same page on my screen and the half-empty mug of tea beside it. Fresh air sounds nice, sure, but fresh air with Rory? That’s… complicated.
“Fine,” I grumble, standing and smoothing the wrinkles out of my blouse. “But if this turns into some kind of inspirational nature walk where you start doing David Attenborough impressions, I’m leaving you in the woods.”
“Deal,” he says, holding the door open with an exaggerated flourish. “But only because I’d probably get lost without you.”
* * *
The trail is soft beneath our feet, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves overhead. Birds chirp somewhere in the distance, and the scent of pine hangs heavy in the air. It’s idyllic. Picturesque. Like something out of one of his novels.
And yet, all I can focus on is the quiet between us. Not awkward, exactly—more like the kind of silence that feels full, loaded with something unspoken. Part of me wants to fill it, to say anything that will break the spell, while another part clings to the stillness like a lifeline.
Rory walks a step ahead of me, hands shoved casually into his pockets. There’s an ease to him out here, his usual restless energy subdued by the rhythm of the trail. I wonder if he can feel it too—the strange weight of last night pressing down on us. The way everything shifted, almost imperceptibly, like a tectonic plate sliding beneath the surface.
Not that I’m thinking about last night. Much.
“You’re fierce quiet,” Rory says suddenly, glancing back at me with a teasing smile. “Should I be worried?”
“Just enjoying the peace,” I reply, keeping my tone light. “It’s rare for you to be this silent. I should savour it while I can.”
“Right, but seriously, are you okay? You seem… different.”
“Different how?”
“Not sure,” he says, turning his gaze back to the trail ahead. “Guess I’ll have to keep walking to figure it out.”
There it is again—that shift, subtle but undeniable. I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to press him, to ask what he means. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us once more, each step carrying us deeper into the woods and further from whatever safe distance we’d managed to keep before.
“Careful,” I say as Rory steps over a root with all the grace of a newborn deer. “Wouldn’t want the great romance novelist to twist an ankle in the wilderness. Imagine the headlines.”
“Imagine the book sales,” he shoots back, glancing over his shoulder at me. “Writer survives harrowing ordeal in the woods. Finds inspiration. Pens masterpiece. Millions weep.”
“I’d pay good money to see you try to survive out here. Pretty sure your idea of ‘roughing it’ involves lukewarm room service.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know I once camped for an entire weekend.” He flexes his biceps. “No Wi-Fi. No minibar. Raw-dogging. Just me, the stars, and a very angry cow, who wasn’t best pleased I’d decided to set up a tent in her ‘hood.’”
“Truly heroic.” His ridiculousness is almost endearing. Almost.
We walk a little farther, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot filling the spaces between us. The banter’s familiar, easy—like slipping on an old sweater. Except this particular sweater has been stretched out of shape, tugged at by thoughts I can’t quite wrangle into neat little boxes anymore.
“Your parents,” Rory says suddenly, his tone shifting just enough to draw my attention. “What do they think about what you do?”
I hesitate, not because I don’t know the answer, but because I’ve rehearsed it so many times before. “They’re… practical people.” I keep my voice even, measured. “Dad’s an accountant at an engineering company, Mum’s a history teacher. They like things they can quantify. Success in numbers, progress in clear steps. My career doesn’t exactly come with a road map they understand.”
“Hard to quantify editing genius?” he asks.
“Something like that,” I say with a shrug, though the words feel heavier than I intend. “I think they always thought I’d go into something more stable. Law, maybe. Finance. Definitely not publishing. But, well, here I am.”
“Here you are,” he echoes, his voice softer now. “And let me guess—they still ask when you’re going to get a ‘real job’?”
“Not in so many words,” I admit, smiling faintly. “But yeah, there’s always this undertone of… disappointment. Like I’m some kind of puzzle piece they can’t make fit.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rory says, frowning. “If anything, they should be bragging about you at every dinner party. You’re brilliant, Lara.”
His words catch me off-guard, a strange warmth creeping up my neck. I deflect, because what else can I do? “You clearly haven’t met them. Compliments are not their love language.”
“Still,” he persists, his expression earnest. “You’re doing something you’re passionate about. That’s worth more than fitting into anyone’s expectations.”
“Spoken like a man who probably never had to worry about expectations.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, sidestepping a low-hanging branch. “But I’ll save that story for when we’ve finished the bottle of water and the packet of custard creams that I accidentally left in the hall when I was putting on my boots.”
“You didn’t?”
“I did. Sorry.”
“You total knob.”
“Yeah. Especially because I could murder a biscuit right now.”
Rory shrugs and continues to walk, the cuffs of his jacket brushing against the denim of his jeans with each step. He’s whistling—of course, he’s whistling—and the tune is maddeningly cheerful, a stark contrast to the crunch of dead leaves underfoot and the occasional snap of a twig.
“Does it ever stop?” I call after him, half-jogging to keep up. “The charm offensive, I mean. Or are you just genetically programmed to be this insufferably upbeat?”
He glances back over his shoulder. “Insufferably? Ow. And here I thought I was being delightful.”
“Delightful would involve letting me set the pace.”
“Not my fault you’ve got legs like a leprechaun,” he fires back, grinning.
“Charming and height-ist. What a catch,” I reply, but I’m smiling now too. Against my better judgment. It’s annoyingly hard not to when he looks at me like that—lopsided grin, eyes crinkled at the corners, like he’s holding back an even better punchline.
“Fine, I’ll slow down.” He matches my stride, his arm brushing mine for the briefest second before falling away. It’s nothing, really, but I feel it anyway, like a tiny electric shock.
“You’re welcome,” he says magnanimously, as if he’s just gifted me the moon.
“Wow,” I deadpan. “A gentleman and a scholar.”
“Scholar?” He laughs, a low, rich sound that seems to ripple through the trees. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”
“Don’t try to deny it,” I say, smirking. “Based on your cheeky grin alone, I’d bet good money you were your parents’ favourite. Always getting away with murder while everyone else had to do the heavy lifting.”
“Okay, first of all”—he holds up a finger—“it’s called being resourceful, not getting away with murder. And second”—another finger joins the first—“I’ll have you know being known for your beauty and not your brains takes its toll. So really, I’m the victim in all of this.”
“Right,” I say, unable to suppress a laugh. “Poor Rory. Must’ve been so hard growing up as the apple of their eye.”
“Look, it’s not my fault I was objectively the cutest,” he says. “Being the youngest just means you get caught in a different kind of spotlight. Everyone else already had their lives figured out—and then there was me, scribbling poems on napkins and saying I wanted to write books for a living.”
“Scandalous,” I say, though my voice is quieter now, less playful. There’s something in the way he phrases it—a flicker of self-deprecation, maybe—that makes me want to tread carefully.
“Tell me about it,” he says with a wry smile. “They didn’t exactly throw parades for the idea. Except Aoife, of course. She was the only one who didn’t look at me like I’d lost the plot.”
“Your sister?” I ask, tilting my head.
“Yeah.” His gaze shifts to the trail ahead, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “She… she just got it, you know? The whole needing-to-create thing. She was always the one pushing me to go bigger, dream louder. She made me believe I could actually do it.”
“Sounds like she was your biggest fan,” I say softly.
“She was,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper now. “Still is, I think. Even if she’s not…” His words hang in the air like mist.
I don’t push. I can sense the weight of whatever he’s not saying, how carefully he’s keeping it locked behind the easy charm and quick deflections. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, offering what little space I could.
“Anyway,” he says eventually, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Enough about me. Let’s talk more about your leprechaun legs.”
“You weren’t complaining last night.”
“And I’m not complaining now. Sure, aren’t they the finest leprechaun legs in the whole of Tír na nóg ?”
“Piss off.”
“Right so.”
Apart from birdsong, the only sound is the crunch of boots on damp leaves and the occasional rustle of wind through the canopy above. It’s… peaceful. Almost disarmingly so. I don’t trust it.
“Alright,” he says suddenly, breaking the quiet. “Your turn.”
“My turn for what?” I ask, even though I know exactly where this is going. He’s been poking around the edges of my carefully guarded personal life all day, peeling back layers with an infuriating mix of charm and persistence.
“To share your origin story.” He tilts his head toward me. “You’ve heard mine—baby of the family, black sheep, golden boy, yadda yadda. Now, I want to know how Lara Yates became the queen of red ink and biting feedback.”
“Queen of red ink?” I snort. “That’s a new one.”
“Come on. Spill. When did you first realise you wanted to crush writers’ dreams for a living?”
“Wow. You really have a way with words,” I deadpan, but he’s not letting this go.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh, adjusting my glasses out of habit. “If you must know, I didn’t start out wanting to be an editor. I wanted to write.”
“Really?” He sounds genuinely surprised, which—okay, fair. I’m not exactly the poster child for whimsical, creative dreams. “What happened?”
“Reality happened,” I say, keeping my tone deliberately breezy. “Turns out, writing is hard. And messy. And requires a level of vulnerability I wasn’t particularly interested in cultivating at the time. Editing on the other hand? That made sense to me. It was clean. Precise. I could take someone else’s chaos and shape it into something coherent. Something… better.”
He doesn’t respond right away, and when I glance at him again, his expression is thoughtful, like he’s turning my words over in his mind, examining them from every angle. It’s unnerving.
“That’s a very diplomatic answer,” he says finally. “But it doesn’t explain why you stopped writing altogether.”
“Who said I stopped?” The lie comes out too quickly, too reflexively, and I immediately regret it. His eyebrows lift in silent challenge, and I sigh again, this time more heavily. “Okay, fine. I stopped. Happy?”
“Not particularly.” His tone is mild, but there’s an edge of something else beneath it. Curiosity, maybe. Or concern. “Why did you stop?”
“Because it wasn’t good enough.” The words hang in the air between us, piercing and raw and much too honest. I clear my throat, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I mean, I wasn’t good enough. At least, not by my own standards. And if I couldn’t meet those, then what was the point?”
“Ah.” He nods slowly, as if that explains everything, which it absolutely does not. “The old perfectionist paradox. If it’s not perfect, it’s not worth doing.”
“Something like that,” I agree, kicking a loose rock off the trail. God, why did I let him drag me out here? Fresh air is overrated.
“That’s ridiculous, you know,” he says, his voice softer now. “No one starts out perfect. Hell, no one ends up perfect, either. Not even you, Queen of Red Ink.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Coach.”
“Anytime,” he says with a faint smile. But he doesn’t press further, and for that, I’m absurdly grateful.
We round a bend in the trail, and suddenly the trees open up, revealing a wide, sloping clearing that overlooks the valley below. The view is staggering—rolling hills bathed in the soft, golden light of late afternoon, fading into a horizon that seems to stretch on forever. For a moment, neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say.
“Wow.”
“Yeah,” Rory says quietly, coming to stand beside me. He doesn’t look at the valley, though. He looks at me.
The sky above us is shifting now, its pale blues deepening into richer shades of amber and rose. It’s hard to believe that this is England. It feels like standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.
The breeze picks up, threading its way through the clearing and brushing cool fingers against my neck. I shiver—just once, a quick, involuntary ripple. Of course, Rory notices. He doesn’t miss anything.
“Someone walk over your grave?” he asks, already shrugging off his coat. His tone is casual, but there’s something about the way he moves, deliberate but unassuming, that I adore.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, even though I’m not. The evening air has teeth now, cold and biting, and my jumper is laughably inadequate against it. But admitting that feels like losing some unspoken battle I can’t quite name.
“Ah, come on,” he says wryly, stepping closer. Before I can think of another excuse, his coat is draped around my shoulders, warm and heavy and smelling faintly of him. It’s absurdly cliché—the gallant hero lending his coat to the damsel in distress—but instead of scoffing, I find myself gripping the lapels, tugging it tighter around me.
“Chivalry isn’t dead after all,” I say, mostly because sarcasm feels safer.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says with a smirk. “If the temperature drops another two or three degrees, I’ll be prising it off your back without apology.”
“Leaving me to die forgotten in a ditch of hypothermia?”
“Forgotten, no! You’ll probably get a nod in the acknowledgements, along with my parents, my agent, and God. The finest of company.”
I glance at him sideways, trying to read his expression without being obvious about it. There’s no teasing glint in his eyes now, no trace of his usual cocky charm. Instead, there’s an openness—a quiet, steady kind of warmth—that disarms me completely.
“Anyway, I think we’ll make it back to the cottage before we have to make any difficult decisions about who is going to eat who.”
“Good to know.”
We stand there in silence, the clearing stretching wide and empty around us, the horizon painted in soft, dusky hues. It should feel awkward, standing this close, saying nothing. But it doesn’t. Instead, it feels… easy. Like we’ve somehow stumbled into a rhythm neither of us knew we were looking for.
“Do you ever…” I start, then stop, shaking my head.
“Do I ever what?” he prompts, his gaze steady on my profile.
“Nothing. Forget it.” I wave a hand dismissively, but he doesn’t let it go.
“No, go on. What?” he asks again, more gently this time.
“Do you ever just… wish you could turn off your brain? Stop second-guessing everything for five minutes and just be ?” The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and unpolished, and I immediately regret letting them escape.
“All the time,” Rory says quietly, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And somehow, that simple admission hits harder than any grand declaration ever could.
I turn to look at him, and for a moment, the rest of the world falls away. It’s just him and me, standing on the edge of something I don’t have a name for yet. Something that feels terrifying and inevitable all at once.
“Guess we’re both a bit of a mess, huh?” I say, attempting a weak smile.
“Speak for yourself. I’m a delight,” he shoots back, his smirk returning, but his eyes stay soft.
And just like that, the tension eases, slipping into something lighter, easier. But it doesn’t disappear entirely. It lingers, humming just beneath the surface, a quiet reminder of everything we’re not saying.
Rory steps in front of me, blocking the trail like a smug, six-foot roadblock. His arms cross over his chest, and there’s a challenge written all over his face, clear as day.
“Alright then,” he says, his voice laced with mischief. “How about we up the stakes? First one back to the cottage wins.”
“Wins what , exactly?” I ask. It’s an automatic response—stalling, really—because there’s no way I’m agreeing to whatever nonsense he’s cooking up.
“Bragging rights, obviously,” he says, shrugging. Then, with a wink, he adds, “Unless you’re scared, I’ll leave you in the dust.”
“Scared? Of you?” I gesture at him in exaggerated disbelief. “You write romance novels for a living, Rory. Let’s not pretend you moonlight as an Irish Olympian.”
“Big talk from someone who probably hasn’t run since secondary school.” As I say it, I’m already shifting my weight, sizing up the uneven trail ahead of us. There are roots everywhere, patches of mud, and I’m not entirely convinced I won’t twist an ankle within the first ten seconds.
“Fine,” I add after a beat, because apparently, I have zero self-preservation instincts when it comes to competitive banter. “But don’t cry when you lose.”
“Don’t worry, Yates. I’ll be gracious in victory.” And before I can respond, he’s gone—bolting down the path like a man possessed, all long legs and reckless confidence.
“Cheater!” I shout after him, already scrambling into motion. The trail blurs underfoot as I take off, the snap of twigs and the rush of cool air filling my ears. Somewhere ahead, Rory’s laugh carries back to me, infuriatingly carefree.
“Watch out for the mud!” he calls over his shoulder.
I don’t even care that I’m panting as I yell back, “ You watch out for the mud!”
And just like that, the tension between us breaks wide open, replaced by a wild, breathless energy that feels a lot like freedom.