Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
All weekend, I resist the urge to call, text, or in any way contact Rory before our agreed-upon editorial catch-up tomorrow. I want to give him the space to write and he—well, he hasn’t called me either—which proves my point.
So, when the text comes in, just as I’m settling onto the couch with a cup of tea and my latest guilty pleasure—an absurdly dramatic historical romance that has both bodice-ripping and pirates—I’m genuinely not expecting it. My phone buzzes against the armrest, and my immediate reaction is annoyance.
Drinks tonight? Let’s talk book. Rory x
Curiosity gnaws at me; if his most recent draft was anything to go by, then I’m genuinely excited to read the latest iteration to see how he’s incorporated my notes and made the story his own. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. On one hand, it’s probably nothing—just Rory being Rory, all charm and spontaneity. On the other hand… No, there is no other hand.
Still, I hesitate. But the truth is, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his book. Over the past weeks, it’s transformed from mediocre to good, which is no small feat given where we started. Although it’s still a long way from being the finished article, it also feels rawer than his usual polished fare, like he’s peeled back some hidden part of himself and he’s really trying to grow as a writer.
Fine.
I request the details before I can second-guess myself.
Where and when?
The response is immediate, as if he’d been waiting for me to cave.
8 PM. Flanaghan’s, Piccadilly. First round’s on me.
* * *
By the time I push open the heavy wooden door of Flanaghan’s, I’m already regretting this. The bar is dimly lit, all dark wood and warm amber lights, with the low hum of voices and clinking glasses filling the air. It’s cosy but crowded, the kind of place where people come to unwind after long days at jobs they secretly hate.
My editor brain kicks in almost instantly, scanning all the little details. The framed vintage posters on the walls. The worn leather booths that look like they’ve been there for decades. The bartender expertly pouring a cascade of blue liquid into a glass without spilling a drop.
And then I see him. Rory. Sitting at a small corner table, half-hidden by the shadow of a hanging Edison bulb. My traitorous stomach flips at the sight of him, but I push that feeling aside, forcing my hormones to obey.
I weave through the crowd, dodging a man gesturing wildly with his pint glass and a couple arguing softly but intensely. The closer I get to Rory’s table, the more apparent it becomes that he’s… dressed up. Not in an over-the-top way, but enough to make me hesitate mid-step.
He’s wearing a dark shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows just so. The top two buttons are undone, leaving just enough room to imply casual effortlessness while still looking annoyingly put together. His hair—always slightly tousled in that “oh, I did this by accident” kind of way—is suspiciously perfect tonight, like he might’ve actually spent time on it.
“Really?” I ask as I approach. “Just a casual drink?”
I tell myself it’s just who Rory Keane is. This isn’t about me. He’s definitely not trying to impress me.
…Right?
“Well,” I say as I slide into the seat across from him, setting my bag down deliberately, “don’t you look like you just walked off the set of some GQ photo shoot?” I let my gaze flick pointedly from his shirt to his neatly cuffed sleeves. “Did I miss the memo? Was there a dress code for tonight?”
Rory’s lips twitch into a grin, one corner pulling higher than the other. It’s maddeningly self-assured, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Because of course he does.
“Can’t a fella put in a little effort?” He leans back in his chair, fingers brushing the side of his glass. “Besides, everything else is in the laundry basket.”
“Mm.” I cross my arms, tilting my head. “And what, pray tell, would you have done if this were an actual manuscript discussion? Brought a velvet smoking jacket? A monocle?”
“Tempting,” he says smoothly, eyes sparkling under the dim lighting. “But I figured it’d be hard to take notes squinting.”
“Ah, practicality wins out,”
“Always.” He lifts his glass to take a sip. Then, lowering it just enough to meet my gaze, he adds, “Though, I’ll admit, it’s nice to see I caught your attention.”
“I’m an editor. Observing details is literally my job.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
Whatever game he’s playing, I’m determined not to let him win. Even if part of me—a very small, very stupid part—wonders if maybe, just maybe, he is trying to impress me after all.
“Alright,” I say, taking the glass of stout that Rory promises is the best outside of Ireland. My fingers brush against the condensation on my glass as I eye him with what I hope passes for detached professionalism. “Please tell me you’ve made the changes.”
“Straight to business,” he says. “Not even going to ask how my day was? Maybe ease me into it with some light conversation?”
“Your day is irrelevant to whether or not we’ll be ready to send something to the proofreaders.”
“You’ll hopefully find the changes to your satisfaction. It’s waiting for you in your inbox. Sent it across before I left, ready for you to rip it apart.
“I don’t rip apart,” I correct as I check my phone and see that there is indeed an email from Rory, with an attachment. “More like… gently dismantle it in the name of improvement.”
“Ah.” He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The movement draws my attention—unfortunately—to the way his rolled-up sleeves reveal just enough forearm to be distracting. “Gentle dismantling. That’s what you call the fifty-three comments you left on the first two chapters alone?”
“Fifty-two,” I shoot back, levelling him with a pointed look. “One of those wasn’t a comment. It was a question.”
“Right. My mistake.”
I should look away. I don’t. Instead, my eyes catch on the tiny dimple that appears at the edge of his smile—a trait I’ve noticed exactly twice before but refuse to admit I find charming. My grip tightens around my glass, and I force myself to focus on something, anything else.
The lighting in the bar shifts without fanfare, a quiet dimming that softens the edges of everything. The overhead fixtures, so bright and clinical just an hour ago, now glow with a warm amber hue, like someone draped the room in honey. Even the chatter around us seems to have dialled down, the once boisterous hum reduced to low murmurs and occasional bursts of laughter from distant corners. It’s as if the universe itself has decided to conspire against me, wrapping Rory and me in this unintentional cocoon of intimacy.
“Everything alright? You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Rory says, his voice breaking through my thoughts. “Not running out of notes for me already, are you?”
“Hardly,” I shoot back, swirling the last bit of dark liquid in my glass for something to do. “Just trying to decide which flaw to eviscerate next. There are so many options.”
His laugh is low and rich, the sound curling in the small space between us like smoke.
“You wound me, Yates. Truly.”
“Good. Keep bleeding—it builds character.” I lift my glass as if to toast him.
“Admit it,” he says, his voice low enough that it dips beneath the hum of conversations around us. “This could pass for a date.”
“Could it?” I counter, arching a brow. My tone is breezy—practised—but the question lands heavier than I intended. The word date lingers in the air between us, weightier than it should be.
“Well, let’s see.” He tilts his head, his grin edging toward wolfish. “There’s a bar, drinks, questionable lighting. All classic markers, wouldn’t you say?”
“Missing one key element,” I point out, forcing myself to sound unaffected.
“Which is?” His gaze is direct—too direct—and I have to look away before I drown in it.
“Romance,” I say flatly.
“You’re right. Not an ounce of the stuff. Not a smidgen.” His denial only reinforces the fact that Rory Keane—a man who gets paid to write about grand gestures and stolen kisses—is sitting next to me, looking at me like I’m the plot twist he didn’t see coming. And worse? I don’t hate it.
“Okay,” he says after a moment, turning slightly so he’s facing me more fully. There’s something different in his expression now—a shift I can’t quite place. “Can I ask you something?”
“Since when do you ask permission?”
“Fair point,” he admits. “But this one’s important.”
“Go on, then,” I say, bracing myself for… What, exactly? I’m not sure. A question about edits, maybe. Or a thinly veiled attempt to say something salacious. What I don’t expect is?—
“Why don’t you write your own books?”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Rory…” I laugh nervously, setting my drink down. “Where is this coming from?”
“From the manuscript on the pen drive you gave me.” His voice is calm, steady, like he hasn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of our conversation. “The one you probably forgot was still saved on there.”
My stomach drops. “What are you talking about?”
“An old file,” he says, watching me carefully now, like he’s gauging whether I’m about to bolt. “It wasn’t labelled or anything. Well, it was called doc.doc, so I almost didn’t open it. But curiosity got the better of me, and… well…” He shrugs, as if the rest of the sentence isn’t monumental. “Let’s just say I didn’t stop reading.”
I stare at him, words failing me for the first time tonight. Maybe for the first time ever.
“Page one,” he continues softly, leaning closer. “That’s all it took. You hooked me from page one, Lara. And by the time I finished, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe you’d been hiding that talent all this time.”
“Rory,” I manage, though my voice comes out quieter than I intend. “You weren’t supposed to see that. It’s—it’s nothing. Just an old draft I played around with ages ago.”
“Nothing?” His brows pull together, incredulous. “Lara, it’s brilliant . The characters, the pacing, the dialogue—it’s all there. It’s raw, sure, but it’s real. And it’s good. So good.”
“Stop,” I say quickly, shaking my head. My palms feel clammy, and the room seems smaller somehow, like the walls are inching closer. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not?—”
“Not what?” he presses gently. “Not ready? Not perfect? Because news flash: no book ever is. You know that better than anyone.”
“Rory—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Do you know how many writers would kill for your instincts? For your voice? You’ve spent your career making other people’s stories better, hiding behind your red pen, but Lara…” He pauses, his gaze locking onto mine. “You deserve to be seen, too.”
I can’t breathe. Or think. Or speak. All I can do is sit here, reeling, as his words sink in—deeper than they have any right to.
My fingers curl tightly around the edge of the table, anchoring me as the weight of Rory’s words settle on my chest. You deserve to be seen, too . They echo in my head, uninvited and relentless, like a song I didn’t ask to hear but can’t seem to forget.
“Rory,” I say finally, my voice steadier than I expected. “It’s not what you think. That manuscript… It wasn’t meant for anyone else to see. Ever.”
His head tilts with curiosity, those dark eyes still locked on me like he’s trying to figure out how I work.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s old.” My laugh comes out brittle and unconvincing. “And messy. And unfinished. And—” I take a breath, adjusting my glasses even though they don’t need it. “ Personal .”
“Exactly.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s just declared the sky is blue or water is wet. “That’s why it’s so good.”
“Rory.” His name escapes me like a sigh. “You don’t understand. I wrote that—” I pause, searching for the right words, but all I come up with are ones that feel too exposing. “It was a long time ago. I was just messing around. It’s not?—”
“Not worth sharing?” he finishes for me, his tone soft but probing. “Trust me when I say, you’re better than half of the authors on Scott & Drake’s list.”
“Please stop,” I snap. It’s easier to sound irritated than to admit the truth—that his words are hitting something inside me I’ve kept buried for years. Something fragile and foolish and entirely too hopeful.
“I’m being honest.” His mouth curves into a small, knowing smile, but there’s nothing smug about it. If anything, it’s disarming. Damn him. “You’re hiding in plain sight, Lara. Editing other people’s work when you should be publishing your own. You’ve got the talent. The voice. The guts?—”
“Stop,” I interrupt. “I don’t have the—” My voice falters. Courage? Confidence? Stupidity? All of the above?
“Yes, you do,” he counters firmly, cutting through my hesitation like it’s nothing. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
“Why are you doing this?” The question slips out before I can stop it. “Why do you even care?”
“Because I know what it’s like.” His answer is immediate. “To doubt yourself. To second-guess every word you put on the page, wondering if it’s good enough. But it is, Lara. You are.”
The air between us feels impossibly thick now, heavy with things unsaid and things I’m not sure I’m ready to hear. I glance away, focusing on the flickering candle at the centre of the table. Its soft glow seems to mock me, romanticising a moment that shouldn’t feel as significant as it does.
“Look,” Rory says after a beat, his tone forthright. “If you won’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe the fact that I couldn’t put it down. I stayed up until three in the morning reading it—then I read it again the next day—and you’re saying that’s a rough draft? Imagine what it could be if you actually finished it.”
“Rory…” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say anymore. My thoughts are a tangled mess, each one bumping into the next before I can grab hold of it. All I know is that I feel exposed, like he’s seeing a part of me I didn’t even realise I was guarding so fiercely.
“Just think about it,” he says gently. “That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’m not good enough.”
“That’s bullshit,” he says flatly.
I blink again. Did he just?—?
“Excuse me?”
“That’s. Bullshit.” Each word lands with its own little punch, and somehow, it feels less like an insult and more like he’s handing me a mirror I don’t want to look into. “You’re not fooling anyone, least of all me. I think you’re just scared.”
“Scared?” My laugh is humourless. “Please. I edit writers, remember? I’m perfectly happy staying where I belong—behind the scenes. Not everyone wants to be thrust into the spotlight, Keane. Some of us prefer to avoid the inevitable crash-and-burn.”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Because avoiding failure is totally the same thing as avoiding success.”
“Not everyone needs success either,” I counter, though the words taste bitter even as they leave my mouth.
“Keep telling yourself that,” Rory says.
“Not everyone needs to be seen. Some of us are perfectly fine letting other people hog the spotlight while we do the heavy lifting behind the scenes. You know, the stuff that actually matters.”
“Right.” He doesn’t even blink, doesn’t flinch at the barbed tone I’ve perfected in editorial meetings. No, Rory Keane just sits there, calm as a monk, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Because you’re so selfless, right? Just a humble editor making sure the rest of us get our gold stars.”
Rory pinches his nose and sighs. “Let’s cut the crap, Lara. It’s not about the spotlight, is it? It’s about what happens if someone looks too close. If they really see you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say quickly, but it sounds weak even to my own ears. “Not everything is some deep psychological?—”
“Isn’t it? I think you’re scared, Lara. And I get it. Putting yourself out there? Letting people judge your work? It’s terrifying. But don’t sit here and tell me you’d rather stay invisible when the truth is, you’re just afraid of being seen.”
“Stop.” I’m done. Done with this conversation. Done with him. I need to get out of here.
The realisation hits me like a slap, cold and jarring, and suddenly I’m moving before I’ve fully decided to. My chair scrapes loudly against the floor as I stand, the sound cutting through the charged silence like a knife. My hands fumble for my bag, clumsy and uncoordinated in a way that pisses me off because it’s proof—undeniable proof—that he’s gotten under my skin.
“Lara? Where are you going?” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a note of disbelief that almost makes me stop. Almost.
“Home,” I hear myself say, even though I’m not entirely sure I mean it. My heart is pounding so hard it might break through my ribcage any second now, and I can feel the sting of tears welling up behind my eyes. No. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Don’t,” he starts, but I’m already halfway to the door, my grip on my bag strap white-knuckled. My vision tunnels, locking onto the exit like it’s the only thing keeping me afloat. I don’t trust myself to look back. If I do, I might unravel completely, and I can’t afford that—not here, not now, and definitely not in front of Rory Keane.
I’m halfway to the door when his voice cuts through the air behind me, direct and unrelenting.
“Don’t walk away from this, Lara.”
It’s not loud, but it’s enough to stop me cold. There’s something in his tone—frustration, sure, but also concern, like he thinks I’m about to do something irreversible. Like leaving this room is some kind of line I can’t uncross.
My fingers tighten on the strap of my bag, the leather biting into my palm. My back is to him, but I feel his gaze like a weight pressing between my shoulder blades. For a second—a fraction of a second—I consider turning around. Saying something. Anything. But what would I even say? That he’s wrong, that he doesn’t get it, that I’m not whatever it is he seems so hell-bent on believing I am?
Instead, I stand there, frozen in place, my breath shallow and uneven. The silence stretches, heavy and expectant, daring me to break it. And for one terrifying moment, I almost do. My lips part, but no sound comes out.
“Of course,” Rory says softly, filling the void I leave behind. “You’d rather run than risk being seen.”
The words land like a blow, precise and devastating. I feel them settle inside me, hot and unwelcome, and every nerve in my body screams at me to fight back. To turn around and tell him exactly where he can shove his amateur psychoanalysis. But then what? Prove him right by losing it?
No. Not here. Not with him.
“Just finish your own damn book, and stop worrying about mine.” I shake my head and march towards the door.
The air outside is cooler, the street quieter, but it does nothing to steady the storm raging inside me. My heart is racing, my chest tight, and my thoughts are a chaotic mess of anger, humiliation, and—God help me—something dangerously close to hope.
Hope for what, exactly? That he’s right? That I shouldn’t be afraid? That maybe, just maybe, he sees something in me worth fighting for?