Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
The quirky falafel restaurant that had somehow become a monthly pilgrimage comes into view just as I round the corner, my heels clicking against the pavement in a staccato rhythm that mirrors my heartbeat. Late. Again. My usual punctuality has been sabotaged by an endless morning of back-to-back meetings, an inbox overflowing with manuscripts, and—oh, let’s not forget—the utterly charming tube delay that left me wedged between a man who bathes once a month and a teenager chewing gum like it owed her money.
I spot Danny immediately. Of course, he’s already here, lounging at our usual table at the back like he owns the place. He’s holding a fork in one hand and his drink in the other, apologising that he’s gone ahead and ordered.
“Look who decided to put in an appearance,” he calls out before I even reach the table, his grin wide and insufferable. “Fashionably late or just regular late? Don’t answer, I already know.”
“Hi, Danny, I’m so sorry,” I huff, sliding into the seat across from him and setting my bag down with more force than necessary. I tug off my jacket—it was a good idea this morning at seven, not so much now—and drape it over the back of my chair. “Nice to see you, too.”
“What was it this time? Conference call from hell? Editor emergency? Or…”—his tone shifts, mock conspiratorial now—“Should I be congratulating you on finally having a life?”
“Work,” I reply curtly, waving a hand as if swatting away a fly. “You know how it is. Deadlines, authors, words on a page. All very glamorous.”
“Right. Because that totally explains why you’re glowing like someone just got serenaded under a balcony by a shirtless poet.”
“Excuse me?” My voice pitches higher than intended, but I grab the menu in front of me and bury my face in it, pretending I don’t know its contents by heart. Anything to avoid his gaze—and that knowing smile.
I pick up the glass of mint tea Danny ordered for me—bless him, he at least knows my priorities—and take a long sip. Or I try to. The second the rim touches my lips, his voice drifts over, dripping with that trademark sarcasm.
“Ah, there it is,” Danny says, leaning back in his chair with an air of theatrical satisfaction. He folds his arms across his chest like some all-knowing oracle. “The unmistakable glow of someone who’s been thoroughly… appreciated.”
The sip I was planning? Abandoned. Instead, I inhale suddenly, and the tea decides it would rather make its grand debut through my windpipe than my stomach. I cough violently, nearly slamming the glass down on the table as I try to catch my breath.
“Jesus, Danny!” My voice comes out strangled, eyes watering from both the assault on my throat and the mortification clawing at me. “Could you not?”
“Sorry,” he drawls, not looking sorry in the slightest. In fact, he’s grinning wider now, clearly delighted by my near-death experience. “But you walked right into this one. Glowing skin, extra sparkle in your eye, showing up late? If that’s not post-good-sex vibes, then I don’t know what is.”
“You’re insufferable,” I sputter, grabbing a napkin to dab at the tea I managed to spill on my hand.
“Admit it,” he presses, tilting his head and studying me like I’m some kind of curious art piece he’s trying to decipher. “Someone’s putting a little spring in your step these days. Who is he? Or she? Or they? Spill, woman.”
“There’s no one,” I say firmly, finally regaining enough composure to glare at him. It’s a weak glare, though—it’s hard to summon proper indignation when you’re caught in a lie.
“Mm-hmm.” His eyebrows lift, and he gestures vaguely toward me with one hand. “Then explain the blush, darling. And don’t give me that ‘it’s warm in here’ nonsense. It’s England, and it’s permanently cold and wet.”
“You’re imagining things,” I say, lifting my chin in what I hope looks like casual disinterest, but probably just makes me look constipated. “It’s called makeup, Danny. I know you’re unfamiliar with the concept, but sometimes women wear it.”
“Nice try,” he shoots back immediately. “But unless Boots started selling ‘Just Rolled Out of Bed After a Night of Passion’ bronzer, I’m sticking with my original theory.”
“You’re ridiculous.” I fill my glass from the silver teapot, determined to salvage some shred of dignity, but my hand betrays me when it trembles ever so slightly. Of course, Danny notices. Because of course he does.
“Ridiculous? Maybe,” he says, his tone light. “But also right.”
“Fine. You win. Are you happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he replies smoothly. “But don’t stop there. Go on, who’s the lucky scamp?”
“Rory,” I say, cutting him off before he can start listing names. The word lands between us like a wayward grenade, and I brace for impact.
For a second, Danny just stares at me, blinking once, twice, like maybe I’ve spoken in tongues. Then his eyebrows shoot up so high they practically disappear into his hairline. “Rory Keane ?” His voice pitches higher, incredulous, and I know I’ll never hear the end of this. “As in Mr. ‘International Romance Heartthrob’? That Rory?”
“Do you know another one?”
“Well, no,” Danny admits. “But I didn’t exactly have him pegged as your type. What happened? Did he seduce you with tragic metaphors and whispered sonnets?”
“Nothing… dramatic. It just… happened. Naturally.”
“Right. Because nothing says, ‘natural progression’ like jumping into bed with a man whose book covers should come with a warning label for spontaneous swooning.”
“Will you stop being so—” I search for the right word but come up empty. “So you about this?”
“Never,” he says cheerfully, but then his grin softens into something quieter, more thoughtful. “So, let me get this straight. You’re sleeping with Rory Keane. Your client .” His emphasis on “client” is subtle but pointed, like a gentle nudge with a pointy stick.
“Not my client,” I correct, tapping the rim of my glass. “Scott & Drake’s client. There’s a difference.”
“Sure. Okay.” Danny waves his hand vaguely, but his frown deepens. “And what? This is just some casual, no-strings-attached fling? A bit of fun?”
“Exactly.” My voice comes out firm, confident, like I’ve rehearsed this line in front of a mirror. Which, to be fair, I might have.
“Uh-huh.” Danny doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks downright sceptical now, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Lara, you do know who we’re talking about here, right? Rory Keane? The guy whose reputation could fill an entire Google search page—and not all of it flattering?”
“Yes, I’m aware,” I say. “I know all about his reputation, thank you very much.”
“Then explain to me why you thought mixing business with pleasure was a good idea,” he says, his voice tinged with exasperation now. “Because as your friend—and someone who has witnessed your reaction to even minor workplace drama—I’m struggling to see how this ends well.”
“God, you sound like an HR manual.”
“Maybe,” he says, shrugging. “But I also sound like someone who knows you better than you think, Lara. And I’m telling you—you’re playing with fire here. Rory Keane isn’t exactly known for his… stability.”
“Neither am I,” I quip, trying to lighten the mood, but Danny’s expression doesn’t budge. He’s serious now, his concern etched plainly across his face. It unsettles me more than I want to admit.
“Look,” he says quietly, folding his hands on the table. “I’m not saying you can’t handle yourself. God knows you’re smart. But this? Him? Just… be careful, okay?”
“Always am,” I reply breezily, forcing a smile that feels a little too tight.
Danny doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches me for a long moment, his gaze heavy with something I can’t quite name. Finally, he exhales and runs a hand through his already messy hair.
“Alright,” he says eventually, his tone lighter but still carrying an undercurrent of worry. “But don’t come crying to me when this blows up in your face.”
“I won’t,” I say. “Let me spell this out for you so we can all move on with our lives, yeah?”
Danny raises one eyebrow, tilting his head like a bemused golden retriever. “Oh, this should be good.”
“Rory and I—” I pause briefly, refusing to let the flicker of amusement in his expression throw me off. “We’re two consenting adults who happen to work together and… occasionally enjoy each other’s company in a very casual way. That’s it. No strings. No complications. No emotional investment.”
“Right,” Danny drawls. “Because you are such a bastion of emotional detachment. Tell me more about your newfound ability to compartmentalise feelings, because I must’ve missed that memo.”
“Oh, come on, Danny. It’s not rocket science.”
He snorts. “No, but it’s you . You’re not exactly the ‘no-strings-attached’ poster child. I mean, you’re the same woman who cried when she accidentally killed her Sims character.”
“That was different!” I snap, jabbing my fork in his general direction. “Mortimer Goth deserved better, and you know it!”
“You’re not wired for casual hookups. Believe me, I’d know—I’ve been your sounding board through every single relationship since university. And let’s just say, none of them screamed ‘chill fling vibes.’”
“Well, maybe I’ve changed,” I counter. “People evolve, Danny. Not everyone gets stuck in their ways like you, with your decade-old Spotify playlists and your refusal to try oat milk.”
“Oat milk tastes like regret,” he says seriously, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “You might think you’ve got this under control, Lara, but I’m telling you—you’re playing a dangerous game here. Rory Keane isn’t some harmless experiment. He’s… complicated. And you? You’re not nearly as detached as you think you are.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, bestie .”
“I’m not trying to piss on your chips or whatever, okay? I just… I know you. And I don’t want to see you get hurt because you’re too busy convincing yourself it’s all fun and no feelings. You’re already halfway there, even if you won’t admit it.”
“Okay. Thanks for the concern. Look, we’re having fun. That’s it. Fun. Full stop. End of story.”
“Riiight.” Danny raises an eyebrow. “It’s cute how you think saying ‘fun’ twelve times in one sentence makes it true.”
I laugh then, mostly because if I don’t, I might scream—or worse, actually consider his point. “Oh, my God, Danny. Your concern is noted and filed under ‘Unnecessary.’ Can we move on now?”
“Fine, thus ends my sermon for today,” he shoots back, grinning now. “Will you be ordering the sweet potato fries, by any chance?”
“Are you asking because you want to steal them?”
“Maybe.”
“This is why no one trusts project managers. Always taking liberties.”
“No. They just taste better when they’re off someone else’s plate. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s undeniably true, and I’ll die on this hill.”
We order the fries and a fresh pot of mint tea, and I sit back in my chair, determined to enjoy what’s left of my lunch break. Whatever happens next—whatever mess I might be walking into with Rory—I know Danny will still be there. Smirking. Stealing fries. Calling me out on my nonsense.
And honestly? That’s enough. For now, anyway.