Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
We’ve been back in London for nearly a week before I suggest to Rory that we meet up again in person. The moment we step off the bustling pavement and into the second-hand bookshop, it’s like someone hit a mute button on London. The city’s chaos dissolves behind us, replaced by the quiet hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead and the soft rustle of pages being turned somewhere in the back. The air smells like old paper, wood polish, and just a hint of dust—like stepping into a memory you didn’t know you had. My chest tightens, but not unpleasantly; it feels like coming home.
“Wow,” Rory exhales beside me, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper, as if he’s walked into a church instead of a cramped bookshop sandwiched between a café and a dry cleaner’s. “This is… something.”
“Something good?” I glance at him, noting how his usually cocky smile has softened into something quieter. Genuine. It throws me for a second before I recover with a shrug. “I mean, it’s not Foyles, but it does the job.”
“Are you kidding? This place looks like the kind of spot where books come alive after closing time.” He grins like a schoolboy.
“Careful,” I say dryly, heading toward the nearest aisle. “If you romanticise this place too much, I might think you’re one of those people who buys books for the aesthetic and never reads them.”
“Who says I don’t?” He follows me, close enough that I can feel his presence without having to look, which is… distracting.
“Well, I’ll know soon enough,” I counter, letting my fingers trail lightly along the spines of hardcovers. “If you start misquoting Austen or calling Hemingway ‘underrated,’ I’m leaving you here to fend for yourself.”
“I’ll take that on board,” Rory promises, but there’s laughter under his breath.
We weave through the narrow aisles, past leaning towers of fiction and precariously balanced piles of memoirs. I stop abruptly at a shelf near the back, tilting my head to examine a familiar title.
“This one,” I say, pulling out a worn paperback and holding it up for him to see. The cover is faded, the corners dog-eared. “ Rebecca . First read it when I was fourteen. Stayed up all night because I couldn’t put it down.”
“Du Maurier,” Rory says immediately. “The creepy house, obsessive jealousy, sinister undertones. Sounds about right for fourteen-year-old you.”
“Excuse me?” I raise an eyebrow, though I’m secretly pleased he knows it. “Are you implying I was a moody teenager?”
“Implying? No. Stating outright? Absolutely.”
“Fine,” I admit, sliding the book back onto the shelf. “Maybe I did have some… angsty tendencies. But I also appreciated the craftsmanship. The pacing, the tension, the way she builds dread without spelling everything out. That was the first time I realised stories could do that.”
“That makes sense,” he says, his tone softer now. “You edit like someone who learned from authors like her—precise, unrelenting, but… elegant.”
I blink at him, caught off guard by the compliment. It leaves me flustered enough that I quickly move on, leading him to another section.
“Over here,” I say briskly, gesturing toward a collection of poetry anthologies. “My favourite escape route when novels felt too big. Poetry always felt… manageable. Like a single scene distilled into its purest form.”
“Let me guess,” Rory says, scanning the spines. “Sylvia Plath for the darker days, Mary Oliver for the lighter ones?”
“Not bad. Though, if you must know, I went through a serious Pablo Neruda phase, too. Something about yearning in Spanish just hits harder.”
“Yearning, huh?” His voice dips, teasing. “So, you do have a soft side.”
“Don’t get used to it,”
“Too late.”
Rory falls into step beside me. His arm brushes mine briefly, a light touch that lingers in my mind longer than it should.
It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Just two colleagues browsing books together. Nothing earth-shattering about that.
Except, of course, that it feels like a lot more than that.
The garden is tucked behind the shop, hidden in plain sight. A narrow iron gate creaks as I push it open, its hinges protesting against years of disregard. The scent of blooming jasmine and damp earth greets us like an old friend, softening the edges of the cool evening air. It’s quieter here, the distant hum of London traffic reduced to a faint whisper on the breeze. For a moment, it’s as if we’ve stepped into some alternate reality—one where the city doesn’t press down on your chest quite so hard.
“Did you know this was back here?” Rory asks, his voice low, almost reverent. He trails a hand along the ivy-covered brick wall, his fingers brushing leaves like he’s afraid they might crumble under his touch.
“Of course,” I say, leading him further in. “It’s not exactly a secret, but most people don’t bother looking for quiet when noise is so readily available.”
“Sounds like something you’d write in one of your editor’s notes. ‘Find the quiet. Let the story breathe.’” He glances at me, but there’s no malice in it—just recognition.
“Careful, Keane,” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes. “Remember my note about bad metaphors.”
He smirks, but for once, there’s no pithy reply.
I point to a weathered bench beneath a tree in the corner, its wood bleached grey by time and rain. “Let’s sit before you start composing poetry about the ‘hidden oasis’ or whatever nonsense is brewing in that head of yours.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he says, following me as I sink onto the bench. The wood creaks beneath us, groaning under the weight of two people.
We sit in silence for a beat, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. My shoulders relax despite myself, and I let my gaze wander over the flickering tea lights strung haphazardly through the branches. It’s… peaceful. And annoyingly intimate in a way I hadn’t prepared for.
“Alright then,” Rory breaks it first, leaning back and stretching an arm along the top of the bench. Casual, like we’re just two friends enjoying the afternoon and not whatever complicated thing we actually are. “Favourite author. Go.”
“That’s impossibly reductive,” I scoff. “You can’t just distil a lifetime of reading into one name.”
“Sure, you can. Watch.” Without missing a beat, he says, “Toni Morrison. Done.”
“Show-off.” But I can’t help the smile tugging at my lips. “Fine. Virginia Woolf. Happy?”
“Admittedly impressed,” he says, tilting his head toward me. “Why Woolf?”
“Her prose feels alive. Fluid. Like she’s writing the space between things instead of the things themselves.” I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. “Plus, she wasn’t afraid of imperfection. Her drafts were messy, chaotic even, but somehow that chaos turned into brilliance.”
“Ah.” He nods slowly, his expression shifting to something softer, more thoughtful. “Chaos into brilliance. Sounds like a good mantra for life.”
“Or what it’s like editing your manuscripts,”
“Fair enough,” he concedes. “And for the record, you’re not wrong about Woolf. But if we’re talking fluid prose, Baldwin gives her a run for her money.”
“James Baldwin?” I ask, needing to confirm we’re talking about the same author. “Interesting choice for someone who writes steamy contemporary romance.”
“Why? Because he doesn’t do happy endings. He doesn’t sugarcoat things. He digs into the mess of it all—love, pain, identity—and still makes it beautiful. That’s what I aim for. Or try to, anyway.”
“Messy but beautiful,” I repeat softly, more to myself than to him. My instinct is to deflect, to slap on another layer of sarcasm to keep the conversation safely superficial. But… I don’t.
“Okay, your turn,” he says, his voice breaking through the knot in my thoughts. “What’s your guilty pleasure read? And don’t tell me you don’t have one. Everyone does.”
“Fine,” I admit with a dramatic sigh. “Mass-market Regency romances. The more ridiculous the titles, the better.”
“‘The Duke Who Dared’?” he guesses, grinning. “‘Her Scandalous Earl’?”
“Try ‘The Viscount’s Secret Vow,’” I say, and he laughs again, the sound warm and easy in the cool night air.
“Now that I’d pay to see. Lara Yates curled up with a bodice-ripper. Glasses askew, furiously annotating margins with red ink.”
“Don’t be absurd,” I counter, fighting a smile. “I would never annotate a paperback. That’s sacrilege.”
“Glad to see you have limits,” he teases, nudging my shoulder lightly with his own.
“Someone has to.” I glance at him, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “Lord knows you don’t.”
“Ow!” His grin tilts crooked, his gaze holding mine for just a second too long.
“Anyway,” I say briskly, straightening my glasses and looking away. “We should get moving. This garden’s nice, but it’s not exactly insulated. I’m freezing.”
“Right,” Rory says, standing and offering me a hand. I hesitate just a fraction before taking it, his grip warm against my chilled fingers. “Wouldn’t want you catching a cold, Yates. Can’t have my editor out of commission.”
“Exactly,” I say, but the excuse feels flimsy even to me. As we step back through the gate into the hum of the city, I risk a glance at him. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a quiet intensity to it that lingers in the back of my mind long after the moment passes.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
Except, of course, it doesn’t feel fine at all.
* * *
The lift dings and Rory strides out first, holding the door with a casual flick of his wrist as I follow. Typical. Always just enough charm to make it look effortless. The rooftop bar is already buzzing softly, though it’s far from crowded. Glass railings encircle the space, offering a breathtaking view of London’s patchwork skyline.
It’s the kind of scenic moment that would make a lesser person sigh wistfully—or worse, pull out their phone for an Instagram post tagged #blessed . But I just stand there, arms crossed, trying not to give Rory the satisfaction of knowing it’s beautiful… and, I have to admit, romantic.
“Nice, isn’t it?” he says from somewhere behind me, his voice low and unhurried. There’s no trace of smugness in it, which is irritating because I was fully prepared to roll my eyes at him.
“Acceptable,” I say instead.
“Coming from someone who edits romance novels for a living,” he counters, stepping closer—close enough that I can feel the faint heat of him even before his shoulder touches mine, “that almost sounds like a compliment.”
We stand there for a beat, watching the lights flicker on in the distance like stars waking up. It’s so annoyingly romantic.
“So, what should we drink to mark the occasion? Something pretentious with a sprig of rosemary in it?”
“Leave it to me.” He tosses the words over his shoulder as he heads to the bar. I’m left standing there, hands shoved into my coat pockets, trying not to feel self-conscious.
It’s not long before he’s back, two glasses in hand. He sets one in front of me with a flourish, the amber liquid reflecting the warm glow of the string lights overhead.
“Old Fashioned,” he says simply, sliding into the seat across from me. “No rosemary, no-nonsense. Just how you like it.”
I blink, surprised. “How do you?—”
“Don’t look so shocked, Yates.” He leans back, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “You mentioned it on your Instagram. At that dreadful industry event, remember? You made some snarky comment about the trend of deconstructed cocktails.”
“That was… months ago.” My voice falters slightly. “You’ve read through all of my social media?”
“Of course. When Fiona called to say you were my new editor, I had to know who I was getting into bed with, so to speak.” His tone is light, but there’s something underneath it.
“Well,” I say, grasping the glass and taking a deliberate sip to cover my reaction. The drink burns smooth and sweet, just the way I like it. “Good to know you’re capable of basic character research.”
“I’d argue my research efforts are nothing if not thorough,” he says with a wink.
“Cheers,” I say, clinking his glass lightly. The city stretches out below us, alive and glittering, and for a moment, I let myself sink into the quiet hum of it. But then I feel his gaze on me, steady and unflinching, and it pulls me back like gravity.
“Alright, Yates,” he says. “If you had to choose one book—one single book—to read for the rest of your life, what would it be?”
“That’s an impossible question,” I say immediately, taking another sip of my drink. “No serious reader would answer that. It’s like asking me to pick a favourite child.”
“Do you have children?” he asks, brow quirking.
“Obviously not.” I roll my eyes. “It’s hypothetical.”
“Fine,” he concedes, grinning like a schoolboy. “I’ll narrow it down. You’re stuck on a desert island?—”
“Why am I always stranded in these scenarios?” I cut in, unable to help myself. “Am I shipwrecked? Plane crash? Did I anger Poseidon?”
“Focus, Yates,” he says, smirking. “One book. What is it?”
“Something practical. How to Build a Raft with Minimal Resources ,” I offer, and his laugh is sudden and bright.
“Of course you’d pick a survival guide,” he says. “You’d probably edit it while you’re at it.”
“Only if it needed it. Alright, your turn,” I say, setting my empty glass down with a soft thud. “Desert island. One book.”
“Easy,” he says without hesitation. “ Pride and Prejudice .”
“Seriously?” I’m genuinely surprised. “Mr. Darcy over here?”
“Don’t knock it,” he says, leaning closer, elbows resting on the table. “It’s a masterpiece. Timeless. Plus, I figure if I’m stuck on an island, I could use the inspiration to brood properly.”
“Naturally,” I say, lips twitching. “Would you spend your days walking out of the water in your breeches?”
“Now you’re getting it,” he says, laughing, and I force myself to join him, even as the air between us shifts subtly, almost imperceptibly. His laughter fades, leaving behind a noticeable silence.
“Rory—” I start, but the words tangle in my throat because suddenly, he’s closer. Not much, but enough. Enough that I can see the faint trace of stubble along his jaw, the way his gaze flickers to my lips for half a second before meeting mine again. My breath catches, and for once, I can’t think of a single cutting remark to deflect with.
“Can I—” he begins, voice low, but he doesn’t finish. He just shifts over, closing the remaining distance with a quiet certainty that steals the ground out from under me.
The kiss is warm, soft, and I want it to go on forever. I lean in, just a fraction, and everything else falls away.
The air between us feels brittle, like one wrong move might shatter it completely. My heart is pounding so loudly I’m sure it’s echoing off the rooftop tiles, but Rory doesn’t say a word. Neither do I. We sit there, suspended in this strange, humming stillness, and I stare at his profile as he looks out over the city, his jaw tight, his fingers drumming against his knee.
“Look, Rory…” I trail off, unsure what I really want to say. “Spending the day with you has been… nice,”
“Right,” he says quickly. “ Nice .”
“Okay, it was much nicer than nice, but I’m going home alone tonight.”
I reach into my bag and pull out the flash drive I’ve been carrying all day, the one I had to scramble around the flat to find, loaded with his latest manuscript edits. Handing it over feels strangely transactional after everything that’s just passed between us, but it also feels safe. Like I’m slamming the lid on a box that should never have been opened.
“Here. Your notes. I figured you’d want them sooner rather than later.”
“Work,” he says, taking the flash drive with a small, humourless laugh. “Always back to work with you, huh?”
“Someone has to keep you in line. We’ve got three weeks, Rory. You’ve got to hit that deadline. It’s as simple as that. We’re not meeting up again until you’ve made these changes.”
“Right,” he says again, slipping the drive into his jacket pocket. For a second, it looks like he wants to say more. Instead, he just stands and offers me a hand. “C’mon. I’ll walk you down.”
“Thanks,” I say, letting him pull me to my feet. The warmth of his hand lingers long after he lets go.
We descend the lift in silence, the night abruptly over. Outside, the city hums with its own rhythm, but it feels oddly distant, like I’m watching it through glass. I stop at the curb, turning to face him.
“Goodnight, Rory,” I say softly, adjusting my glasses out of habit.
“Night, Lara,” he replies, his voice equally muted. He hesitates for a moment, then gives me a small wave before walking away, his figure disappearing into the crowd.
I stay rooted in place for another moment, the ghost of that kiss still lingering on my skin. Then I shake my head, square my shoulders, and remind myself to breathe.
It was just a kiss , I tell myself firmly, no different from the many we’ve shared before . But as I start toward the tube station, I can’t help feeling like something fundamental has shifted and I’ve just stepped onto uncharted terrain, and there’s no map to guide me back.