Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
It’s our final day at the cottage, and the soft tapping of rain against the windowpane is oddly soothing as I stare at Rory’s latest chapters. There’s a rhythm to his words now, a depth that wasn’t there before. It’s like watching someone finally find the right piece to complete a puzzle they’ve been fumbling with for ages.
“About time,” I say under my breath, enjoying reading the story for the first time. Not that I’d ever admit it to him, but he’s made real progress. The pacing is tighter, the dialogue sharper. And the emotional beats—God, the man can write longing in a way that makes me feel like I’m intruding on something private.
Fiona was right about this trip. As much as I grumbled about being dragged out to the middle of nowhere with one of our star authors—one who, let’s be honest, has an ego the size of London—she knew what she was doing. Rory needed focus, and apparently, I needed… well, whatever this is. A change of scenery? A reminder that editing isn’t just triage but sometimes involves actual collaboration? Whatever it is, it’s working. For both of us.
The door swings open behind me, and a gust of damp air announces Rory’s return. I glance up as he strides in, enormous supermarket bags-for-life dangling from both shoulders, looking far too chipper for someone who has written about forty-thousand words in a week. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and there’s a smattering of raindrops on his jacket that he shrugs off with a casual shake.
“I stocked up,” he declares, his voice bright and annoyingly self-assured. He drops the bags onto the counter and starts unpacking without so much as a glance my way. “I’ve had enough of microwave meals and carry-outs. We’re having a home-cooked dinner for our last night.”
“Really? Shame, there’s two microwave lasagnes in the fridge that are going to go to waste now.”
“Take them home with you if you want, but tonight, Yates, we shall dine like gods. My treat.”
“By all means, knock yourself out. I hope whatever you’ve got planned is edible.”
“Not just edible.” He pulls out a bundle of fresh herbs and sets it down with a dramatic flourish. “Memorable. You’re going to tell your friends you’ve never eaten better in your life.”
“High bar,” I warn. Though, truth be told, my curiosity is piqued.
Rory doesn’t strike me as someone who spends much time in the kitchen—too busy brooding over love stories and charming the members of online book clubs. But there’s a confidence in the way he moves now, pulling ingredients from the bags with a practised ease that’s almost… unsettling.
“Don’t look so sceptical,” he says without turning around, as if he can hear the raised eyebrow in my silence. “I’ve got this.”
“Famous last words.” I stand, stretching and feeling the ache in my shoulders from sitting hunched over my laptop for hours. Crossing the room, I lean against the doorway to the kitchen, arms folded. “What exactly is ‘this,’ anyway?”
“Patience, Yates.” He flashes me a grin over his shoulder, the kind that probably makes half the women in Britain swoon. “You’ll see soon enough.”
“Terrifying,” I say, but I stay where I am, watching as he unpacks a carton of cherry tomatoes, a bulb of garlic, and a loaf of freshly baked bread. There’s a flow to his movements I wasn’t expecting, something almost rhythmic as he rinses the vegetables and lines up the ingredients on the counter. He’s already shrugged off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, revealing those forearms that are far too distracting for someone who claims to make a living from words.
“You’re oddly confident about this,” I note, quirking an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you have something against good food,” he quips, pulling out a block of Parmesan and setting it down with a flourish. “Trust me, I’ve got this.”
“You’re building this up now. Expectations are being set.” I tilt my head, watching him as he pulls out a bottle of virgin olive oil. “You do realise I’ve survived this long without trusting anyone who says, ‘trust me’ unironically, right?”
“Ah, but I’m not just anyone,” Rory says, not missing a beat. His hands work quickly, retrieving a knife from the drawer and setting it down beside a cutting board. “I’m the man whose manuscript you said had potential. That has to count for something.”
“Potential is a relative term. I tend to use it for all new authors regardless of ability,” I tease.
“See? That’s practically a glowing endorsement from you,” he says, smirking as he cuts off the woody stalks from a bunch of asparagus. “Maybe you’re softening.”
“Not likely,” I reply, though I don’t move from the doorway. There’s something oddly compelling about watching him like this—so at ease, so… purposeful.
Rory moves around the tiny kitchen like he’s been the executive chef here for years. The knife in his hand flashes as he chops an onion with a precision I didn’t think possible for someone who referred to smashed avocado on toast our second morning here as “his signature dish.”
The rhythmic sound of blade meeting wooden cutting board fills the space, and I begin to feel a little self-conscious that I’m not doing anything to help.
He tosses the chopped onion into a waiting pan with a practised flick of his wrist, then reaches for a red pepper.
“Did you learn to cook, take classes, or?—?”
“Mum taught me.”
“Smart woman.”
“She is,” he says, slicing into the pepper with the same swift precision. “It was more of an ultimatum, really. I decided I wanted to go vegetarian when I was fifteen—figured it’d make me edgy or something. She took one look at me and said, ‘Fine, but I’m not making two dinners every night.’” He grins, clearly amused by the memory. “So, it was either learn to cook, or survive on carrot sticks and hummus forever.”
“Let me guess,” I say, arching an eyebrow. “You went through a phase where everything you made involved tofu.”
“How’d you know?” He laughs, gently laying two salmon steaks into the pan with a satisfying sizzle. “It was all stir-fries and sad lentil stews for a while. But then I got hooked on cooking shows and started experimenting. Turns out, it’s kind of fun when you realise that a recipe is just a prompt, a suggestion, and the magic happens when you find the confidence to just chuck stuff in.”
“Fun,” I scoff. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Come on. You’ve never cooked something just for the hell of it?” His expression caught somewhere between teasing and genuine curiosity.
“Does microwaving popcorn count?”
“You’re a tragic woman, Lara Yates,” he says, shaking his head. “We need to work on that.”
“Hard pass, thanks.”
“Anyway,” he continues, stirring the contents of the pan as the scent of garlic and onions fills the air, “my mum always said, knowing how to cook would be useful if I ever wanted to impress someone.”
“Is that what this is?” I ask, gesturing toward the stove. “An elaborate attempt to dazzle me with your culinary prowess?”
“Who says I need to impress you?” His eyes meet mine, dark and mischievous. Then he shrugs, utterly casual. “But if I can, why not?”
“Confident, aren’t we?”
“Confident enough.” He sprinkles something green and fragrant over the pan—parsley, maybe. Coriander?—and gives it a final stir. “You’ll see. Dinner’s almost ready, and I promise it’ll be better than instant noodles.”
The cottage smells incredible. It’s the kind of smell that makes your stomach forget it was ever full—fragrant pepper, earthy herbs blooming in the heat, and something rich and tangy I can’t quite place.
“Alright, moment of truth,” he announces, breaking my train of thought.
He turns, holding two plates dressed to perfection. To accompany the salmon, there is roasted asparagus and garlic green beans. It’s vibrant and fresh, flecks of red chilli flakes popping against caramelised green asparagus spears. It’s almost too pretty to eat.
“Don’t let the presentation fool you,” he warns. “There’s about ten seconds’ grace between salmon being under or overdone.”
“It looks amazing,” I say as I lean over the plate to take in the wonderful aromas.
“It does, doesn’t it? I won’t take it personally when you beg for seconds.”
“There are always those lasagnes in the fridge if we need a Plan B.” I pick up my fork, aiming for some asparagus with deliberate slowness while he watches, arms crossed, the picture of infuriating confidence.
Fine. Here goes nothing.
The first bite hits me like a revelation. The flavours are bright and layered—the sweetness of roasted tomatoes, the zing of lemon, the subtle kick of chilli lingering on the back of my tongue. It’s the kind of meal that demands savouring, but I just want to be left alone to wolf it down.
“Well?” he prompts, cutting his salmon. He’s waiting, really waiting, and for a second, I forget how to speak.
“Okay,” I manage finally, swallowing. “It’s… edible.”
“Edible?” He raises an eyebrow, but I see the relief in his eyes, the way his shoulders loosen just a fraction.
“Fine,” I admit, setting my fork down with exaggerated reluctance. “It’s incredible. Absolutely delicious.”
“Ha! And here I thought you’d be harder to win over.”
“Win over?” I scoff. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. It’s just salmon.”
“Yeah,” he says softly, his gaze locking onto mine for just a beat too long. “Just salmon.”
Rory twirls his fork, scooping up some beans. “You know,” he starts, a mischievous glint in his eye that immediately puts me on alert, “this is probably the first time I haven’t completely botched dinner with someone.”
“I find that hard to believe after seeing you in action tonight.”
“Hard to believe or not, it’s true.” He reaches over with the wine bottle and tops up my glass. “There was this one time—first date, very fancy, or at least I thought it was at the time. I decided to make this… What did I call it? Oh! ‘Rustic Mediterranean Feast.’”
“That sounds ambitious.”
“Ambitious doesn’t begin to cover it.” He gestures animatedly, nearly knocking over his wineglass in the process. “Picture it: a feast of undercooked aubergine, burnt couscous, and hummus so garlicky it could’ve warded off vampires for miles.”
“Wow,” I say, setting my fork down to give him my full attention. “And how did your date react to this culinary masterpiece?”
“She tried to be polite at first,” he says, sighing dramatically. “But then she just… couldn’t do it anymore. She spat out a mouthful of couscous mid-sentence. It sort of sprayed everywhere.”
“Everywhere?”
“Everywhere,” he confirms, gesturing vaguely around the room like he’s still haunted by the memory. “The table. The floor. My shirt. Honestly, I think some of it got in her bag. It was carnage.”
“Was there a second date?”
“Sadly not.”
Rory leans back in his chair, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he licks the edge of his fork. It’s nothing—just an absentminded gesture—but for some inexplicable reason, it lands like a jolt to my system. My gaze flicks to his mouth, and I feel the air between us shift, subtle but charged, like the seconds before a summer storm.
“You’re staring,” he says, his voice low and teasing. The words are light, but his eyes—they’re locked onto mine now, dark and intent, and suddenly I can’t breathe.
“Am not.”
“Are too.” His grin widens, smug and infuriating, and I want to wipe it off his face. Or maybe… do something else entirely.
“Fine,” I say, pushing back my chair with more force than necessary. “You’ve got some olive oil or something on your chin.”
“Nice try.” He swipes at his jaw with the back of his hand, still watching me, amused. “But there’s nothing there, is there?”
“Not anymore,” I confirm, standing abruptly. My pulse is racing, my thoughts a jumble, and honestly, I need space. Distance. Perspective. But instead of walking away like a sane person, I take exactly one step toward him.
And then I kiss him.
It’s not planned. Not even remotely. One second I’m glaring at that stupidly self-satisfied face, and the next, my hands are gripping the front of his shirt, yanking him forward as my lips crash against his.
For a heartbeat, he freezes. Just long enough for panic to creep in— Oh God, what am I doing? —and then his hands are on me, firm and insistent, pulling me closer. The kiss deepens, slow at first but quickly spiralling into something hot and urgent and completely out of control.
His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back, and I gasp against his mouth. He takes advantage of the opening, his tongue brushing against mine, and the sensation sends a shiver down my spine. This is madness. Pure, unfiltered madness. But his grip is steady, anchoring me, and I find myself leaning into it, into him.
“Bloody hell, Lara, I didn’t even serve dessert,” he says. There’s a flicker of hesitation, just enough to let me pull back if I want to.
I don’t.
“Shut up, Keane,” I whisper, dragging him down again.
The chair scrapes loudly as he stands, lifting me effortlessly. My arms wrap around his neck instinctively, and before I know it, we’re stumbling toward the sofa, bumping into furniture along the way. He lowers me onto the cushions, his weight pressing me down, solid and warm and utterly overwhelming.
“Wait,” I manage, my voice barely audible over the pounding in my ears. “What about?—”
“Later,” he says firmly, cutting me off with another kiss. His hands slide down my sides, finding the hem of my jumper, and suddenly it’s gone, flung somewhere behind us. I should object—this is reckless, impulsive, absolutely not what I came here for—but when his lips trail down my neck, any coherent thought evaporates.
“God, you’re impossible,” I say, though it comes out more like a moan.
“Complaining?” He smirks, his fingers deftly working the clasps of my bra.
“Don’t get cocky,” I shoot back, though the words lack bite. Especially when his hand slips beneath the fabric, skimming over bare skin, and I arch into him reflexively.
“Too late.”
His mouth finds mine again, and the rest is a blur of heat and motion—his shirt joining my clothes on the floor, his hands mapping every inch of me, my leg hitching over his hip as he settles between us. It’s frantic and messy and so unlike me, but God, it feels right. Like everything else has been gray-scale until now, and this— this —is technicolour.
Rory’s chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his skin still warm and slick from the chaos we just unleashed. My breath hasn’t quite caught up yet either, coming in shallow drags as I focus on the wooden ceiling beams above us. One of them is crooked, I notice, because apparently now is the time for architectural critiques.
“Well,” Rory says, voice low and raspier than usual, breaking the quiet. He shifts slightly beneath me, adjusting so one of my legs—bare, tangled with his—doesn’t dangle awkwardly off the sofa. “If that’s how you react to my cooking, I’m almost afraid to see what happens when I really impress you.”
A laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it. It’s not fair how easily he does this—knocks me off balance, then acts like it was never a big deal to begin with. I prop myself up on one elbow, narrowing my eyes at him even as my lips twitch.
“Don’t let it go to your head. I’ll need a follow-up meal to check you’re not a one-trick-pony.”
I shift slightly, pulling away just enough to sit up, dragging the throw blanket from the back of the couch around my shoulders like armour. My glasses are somewhere across the room, flung aside in the heat of the moment, and the world looks softer without them—blurry edges and muted colours. Fitting, somehow, given the state of my thoughts.
“Hey.” Rory props himself up, his dark hair deliciously rumpled and his gaze fixed firmly on me. There’s no smirk now, no easy banter to hide behind. Just him—open and unguarded in a way I wasn’t expecting. “You alright?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, too quickly. I don’t meet his eyes; instead, I busy myself smoothing the blanket over my lap, pretending there’s some invisible wrinkle that urgently needs addressing. “Just… thinking.”
“Thinking,” he repeats, his tone unreadable. He doesn’t push, though. Doesn’t press for elaboration or try to lighten the mood with a joke. Instead, he sits up fully, his knee brushing mine, and waits. Patient. Steady. Infuriating.
The problem is, I can’t stop thinking. About the way he looked at me earlier, like I was something he’d been searching for without realising it. About how much I’ve enjoyed this week, his company, our arrangement—to lose control, to want him, to take him. About how much worse it’s going to hurt when this inevitably falls apart.
Because it will. It has to. This was supposed to be a bit of fun. A mutually beneficial arrangement. Casual. It wasn’t supposed to be this . Him. Us.
“Do you regret it?” Rory’s voice cuts through my spiral, soft but firm, pulling me back to the present. There’s no accusation in it—just curiosity. Like he’s bracing himself for an answer he doesn’t want to hear.
“Honestly?” I force myself to look at him, taking in the faint crease of his brow, the cautious hope lingering in his expression. My chest tightens painfully, and I hate it—how much I care, how much I wish I didn’t. “I don’t know.”
It’s not a lie. I don’t regret it—not the way his hands felt on me, or the way he made me feel alive in a way I haven’t in years. But I do regret how dangerously close I’m skirting the edge of something I might not survive intact. Something deeper, messier, more real than I ever intended to let it get.
“Fair enough,” he says after a beat, settling back against the cushions, his gaze never leaving mine. There’s no disappointment in his voice, no judgment—just quiet acceptance, like he understands more than I’m willing to admit out loud.
And maybe that’s what scares me most of all.
He reaches for the blanket, tugging it gently until I relent and let him pull me back against him. His arms wrap around me, solid and warm, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I let myself lean into it. Into him. Into the impossible, terrifying idea that maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to face everything alone.
But even as my eyes drift shut, my mind refuses to quiet. Because if tonight proved anything, it’s that I’m already in deeper than I ever meant to go—and there’s no telling how—or if —I’ll find my way back out.