Chapter 19
NINETEEN
It’s been years since the last crisis meeting was called at Scott she never needs to. Authority radiates off her in waves, from the deliberate cadence of her words to the resounding click of her pen as she caps it. “Let’s get straight to business. We’ve got eight days to get this manuscript to the printers—or we don’t have a book at all.”
The room stiffens collectively, the weight of her words settling over us like lead. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye as she leans forward slightly, palms flat on the table. Fiona Scott in no-nonsense professional mode is a sight to behold: poised, implacable, and just intimidating enough to keep everyone on edge.
“This isn’t just about hitting a deadline,” she continues, her tone clipped, each word landing like a perfectly aimed dart. “This is about credibility. Our reputation. Rory, your last two books topped every chart imaginable. If we fumble this one, we look incompetent. You look incompetent. And incompetence, ladies and gentlemen, does not sell books.”
I nod faintly, pretending to jot something down while my stomach twists itself into increasingly creative knots. No pressure, then. Just the future of our most profitable author and the publishing house dangling precariously over a cliff. Perfect.
“Now,” Fiona says, her gaze narrowing, “we need solutions. Not excuses, not delays—solutions. This manuscript is slipping through our fingers, and if someone doesn’t grab hold of it soon, we’ll lose it entirely.” She lets the words hang there for a moment.
“Questions? Comments?” Her eyes sweep the room again, daring anyone to speak. I keep my mouth shut, but my mind is racing. Solutions. What Fiona really means is that we need to figure out how to fix Rory’s mess without stepping on his ego—or mine, apparently, since I’m the editor responsible for shepherding this disaster to publication. No big deal. Just another Thursday at Scott & Drake.
Rory, with his arms crossed tightly over his chest—the picture of a man who doesn’t want to be here and is certainly not used to being spoken about, rather than to. His jaw is set, and he’s glaring at the manuscript in front of him like it insulted his mother. I can’t tell if he’s about to argue with her or spontaneously combust, but either option feels likely.
“Well,” he finally says, voice clipped, “I’m glad we’ve gathered here today to dissect my soul in front of a live studio audience.”
“Your soul?” I counter, arching an eyebrow. “Funny, I didn’t realise your soul came with a subplot that still goes absolutely nowhere.”
His eyes snap up to meet mine. Oh, good. We’re doing this now.
“Taking some time out to reassess is essential for Sophie,” he fires back. “It ties into the main theme?—”
“Of what? Overindulgent navel-gazing?” I interrupt, keeping my tone even, professional. Mostly. “Rory, when I suggested replacing the car chase with something a bit more grounded, I was talking about the setting. The narrative structure still requires the same emotional drive, just not in a vehicle. Now Oliver’s just wallowing in self-pity for three chapters straight. We’ve been over this, time and again.”
“Forgive me for writing characters with depth,” he snaps, his frustration curling around each syllable. “Not everyone wants cardboard cutouts, Lara. Some of us aim for nuance.”
“ Nuance ,” I repeat, letting the word hang between us, tasting its bitter edge. “Rory, there’s a difference between nuance and indecision. This draft feels like a step backwards. Now Oliver spends an inordinate amount of time staring out of windows and brooding about his past mistakes. That’s not depth—it’s filler.”
“Right, because God forbid a romance novel has actual emotional complexity,” he shoots back, his voice rising just enough to draw side-eyes from the unlucky bystanders at the table.
Fiona doesn’t flinch, which only makes her presence feel more ominous. Like a lion waiting to pounce.
“Emotional complexity isn’t the issue,” I say, keeping my voice low and controlled. “But readers need to care about what happens next. And right now? They won’t, because nothing is happening apart from some witty banter. The pacing is still off after the midpoint, Rory. If you don’t tighten it, they’ll put the book down halfway through.”
“Maybe they’ll notice the pacing issues because the editor didn’t do her job,” he says under his breath, but loud enough that I hear it. Loud enough that everyone hears it.
The room goes still. My cheeks burn, but I keep my composure—or at least, I hope I do. I steal a glance at Fiona, who’s watching us both with the kind of practised neutrality that could double as a death glare. Great.
“Excuse me?” I say, my voice deceptively calm, though my grip on the pen tightens like it’s the only thing tethering me to sanity.
“You heard me.” Rory leans back in his chair, arms still crossed, his expression daring me to challenge him. His confidence is infuriating. His audacity? Even worse.
“Last I checked,” I say, sitting up straighter, “it’s not my job to rewrite your book. It’s my job to make sure your book is worth reading. If you’re unhappy with my notes, maybe you should focus on fixing the manuscript instead of blaming me for pointing out the flaws.”
“Flaws,” he echoes. “You mean the parts of the story you just don’t like? Admit it, Lara. This isn’t about the book—it’s about you wanting everything to fit your neat little boxes.”
“Boxes?” The word tastes acidic coming out of my mouth. “Oh, please. You think I don’t want this book to succeed? That I don’t want you to succeed? Forgive me if I care about putting out something that doesn’t read like one long therapy session disguised as a plot.”
“Maybe if you loosened up once in a while, you’d understand,” he bites back, his words laced with something darker, something personal. Too personal.
“Loosened up?” My voice shakes, more from anger than anything else. “Are you seriously?—”
“Enough!” Fiona’s voice cuts through the tension like a whip, silencing us both instantly. Her expression is unreadable, but her patience is clearly hanging by a thread.
I break eye contact with Rory, focusing instead on the scrawled notes in my notebook that suddenly seem blurry. My heart is pounding, my thoughts racing. I don’t look at him again, but I can feel his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, burning into me like an accusation I don’t know how to defend against.
“I can only work with the material put in front of me, I can’t?—”
“I said, that’s enough.” Fiona’s voice slices through the room with all the grace of a guillotine. The air seems to shudder under its weight, and I nearly flinch. Nearly.
Across from me, Rory leans back in his chair, arms crossed, jaw tight. His defiance radiates like heat off tarmac, but he stays silent for now. Smart.
“Do I have to remind you both what’s at stake here?” Fiona asks, her tone slow and deliberate—like she’s speaking to particularly dense children. She rests her hands flat on the table, her manicured nails clicking against the polished wood, and fixes us both with a stare. “This isn’t just about one book. This is about your reputation, Rory. And about Scott & Drake’s reputation as a publisher that delivers quality work every single time. We’re not in the business of half-baked narratives or personal grudges masquerading as creative differences.”
“Personal—” I start, but the look she fires my way freezes the words in my throat.
“Let me finish,” she snaps, her clipped vowels landing like a gavel. “I don’t care what unresolved… whatever this is”—she gestures vaguely between Rory and me—“you two have brought into this room. What I care about is delivering a manuscript that reflects the level of excellence we’re known for. Your little sparring match”—her gaze narrows—“isn’t helping anyone. Least of all yourselves.”
I catch the faintest twitch of Rory’s mouth, like he’s fighting a smirk.
Oh no, sunshine, we’re not doing that right now. I glare at him, daring him to say something stupid, but he thankfully opts for silence. For once.
“Here’s how this works,” Fiona continues, her voice like a drumbeat of finality. “You’re going to resolve this. Today. I don’t care how you do it, but you will find common ground, and you will do so without wasting any more of my time. Am I clear?”
“Crystal,” Rory says smoothly, though there’s an edge to his voice, a tautness that suggests he’s biting back what he really wants to say.
Of course he sounds charming even when he’s barely holding it together.
Must be nice.
“Good.” Fiona straightens, smoothing the front of her jacket with brisk efficiency. She glances at me, then at Rory, and sighs, the kind of sigh that carries years of dealing with difficult people. “Because if this book goes out looking anything less than perfect, it won’t just be your heads on the chopping block—it’ll be mine. And I don’t intend to let that happen.” With that, she picks up her notebook and strides toward the door without a glance back. The rest of the marketing and publishing team immediately stand, every one of them looking at their phones as they follow her out.
The last one to leave has the presence of mind to shut the door behind her, and the silence left behind is almost suffocating. I tap my pen against my notebook, staring at the messy scrawl of notes that might as well be written in Sanskrit for all the sense they make now. My chest feels tight, but I force myself to breathe evenly, to channel all of my frustration into the rhythmic click-click-click of the pen. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. I’m a professional. I can handle this.
“Well, that was fun,” Rory says, breaking the silence. There’s a bitterness in his voice that’s new—less playful, more jagged. “You okay over there? You look like you’re plotting my murder.”
“I’m fine,” I say dryly, though my hands grip the pen a little tighter than necessary. I keep my gaze firmly on the page in front of me, refusing to meet his eyes, because I know—I know —that if I do, I’ll see that damnable mix of arrogance and vulnerability that always makes me feel like I’m standing on a ledge. “I thought we were getting somewhere, but that last draft?—”
“Right. It’s Lara’s way or the highway, isn’t it? A box-checking exercise.”
“For fuck’s sake, Rory.” My frustration comes out harsher than I intended, and I regret it instantly. But before he can respond, I push back from the table, the legs of my chair scraping loudly against the floor. My skin feels too tight, my thoughts too loud, and I need… space. Air. Something to untangle the knot of emotions twisting inside me.
As I gather my things, I try to focus on Fiona’s words, on the stakes she hammered home. The future of the book, the publishing house, our careers—all of it hangs in the balance. That’s what matters. That’s the only thing that matters, I tell myself firmly. And yet, no matter how many times I repeat it like some desperate mantra, I can’t quite shake the lingering weight of Rory’s gaze or the way his words burrow under my skin like splinters.
Focus, there’s still time to fix this . I gather my things and head to the door. There’s nothing more to be said. Professionalism. Poise. Distance. Those are my pillars. Not… whatever this mess of feelings is. Definitely not that.
I’m halfway down the corridor before I realise I’ve left my favourite pen on the table. But going back isn’t an option.
“Let him deal with it,” I say out loud as I storm toward my office. My pulse is a thunderstorm I can’t silence, rattling through me with every step. And yet, here I am, fleeing the battlefield like an intern who accidentally hit “Reply All” on their first day.
* * *
The Uber drives off, leaving me standing on the pavement outside Rory’s house. It felt like a little win to storm off earlier, but I know it was petty and self-sabotaging. Rory’s on a deadline, which means we’re on a deadline. Thanks to my strop, we’ve lost an afternoon and an evening we could have used to try and fix this mess.
I knock on his door, only now thinking it might have been wise to check first that he was still awake, and more importantly, home.
The door swings open so fast that I jolt back, my fist still half-raised in the air. Rory’s standing there, barefoot, wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans. His hair is a mess, all dark waves pushed in every wrong direction, like he’s been running his hands through it—or tearing it out. He blinks at me, confusion giving way to something darker.
“Lara,” he says, my name a low rasp that feels like it’s scraping against the edges of my resolve. “What?—”
“I needed to talk.” The words come out too fast, clipped and shaky, like they might shatter if I try to hold them in any longer. My throat is dry, and my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it.
He leans one arm against the doorframe, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. “It’s almost midnight. Couldn’t this wait until morning?”
“Probably,” I say, forcing out a laugh that sounds brittle. “But I wanted to apologise.”
His mouth makes a perfect circle of surprise, but he steps aside. “Oh, then you’d better come in.”
I don’t move. Not right away. Instead, I just stand there, staring at him, at the way his t-shirt clings to his shoulders, at the faint shadow of stubble on his jawline, at the flicker of exhaustion and exasperation in his eyes. And for a second, I hate him—for being here, for looking at me like that, for changing his book so drastically without giving me a heads up.
But mostly, I hate myself. For how I behaved. For caring. For coming. For needing him in ways I can’t even begin to unpack without risking everything I’ve built around me.
“Lara,” he says again, quieter this time, and something in his tone snaps whatever fragile thread was holding me back.
I step inside, and before I can second-guess it, before I can give him—or myself—a chance to ask questions or put up walls, I grab the front of his shirt and push him back against the wall by the door. His breath hitches, and his hands instinctively come up to steady himself—or maybe to steady me—but I don’t stop. I don’t think. I just kiss him.
Hard.
It’s not graceful or elegant or even particularly coordinated. It’s desperate, messy, all teeth and heat and frustration bleeding out of me in one reckless, irreversible motion. His lips are warm, soft but firm against mine, and for one terrifyingly perfect moment, he doesn’t move. He just lets me take, lets me pour every ounce of anger and longing and confusion into him.
And then he kisses me back.
It’s like striking a match on petrol. His hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer, anchoring me even as everything else—the room, the world, my carefully constructed sense of self-control—falls away. One hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head just enough to deepen the kiss, while the other presses against the small of my back, pinning me against him with a force that makes my knees threaten to buckle.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, my nails catching on the fabric of his shirt as I press harder, needing to feel something solid, something real, even as everything inside me unravels. There’s no space between us now, no room for air or doubt or logic. Just the intense, electric pull of him, of this, of the maddening, undeniable truth I’ve spent months trying to bury.
When we finally break apart, gasping, my forehead rests against his, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself breathe. Really breathe.
“Okay,” Rory says, his voice rough and uneven, his fingers still fisted in my hair. “So… we’re doing this now?”
“Apparently,” I manage to say, though my voice is barely more than a whisper. My lips are still tingling, my heart is still racing, and I can’t bring myself to look at him directly because I know—God, I know —that if I do, I’ll see exactly what I’m feeling reflected at me.
And then I’ll have no choice but to face it.
Rory’s shirt hits the floor. My hands are everywhere, dragging over the hard planes of his chest, the curve of his shoulder blades, like I’m trying to memorise him through touch alone. His skin is warm under my palms, impossibly so, and for one dizzying moment, I wonder if I’ll catch fire from being this close to him.
“You’re sure about this?” Rory asks, the words ghosting across my skin and sending a shiver down my spine.
“Don't talk,” I snap, tugging at the waistband of his jeans with more force than necessary. My fingers fumble with the button, shaking, impatient. “Just—” I say, swallowing hard as my breath catches. “Just… don’t.”
Because if he talks, it will become real, and if it’s real, then I’ll have to deal with everything that comes after. The fallout, the mess, the unbearable truth of what I’ve been denying these past weeks. And right now, I can’t afford to think. I can’t afford to feel anything but this—the heat of his body, the press of his mouth against mine, the raw, aching pull that makes it impossible to stop.
“Okay,” he says softly, his tone threaded with something I don’t want to name. He doesn’t push, doesn’t argue, just lets me take the lead even as his hands find my waist, steadying me, grounding me in a way I desperately need and hate all at once.
My jacket slides from my shoulders, pooling at my feet, followed quickly by my blouse. His fingers skim over the bare skin of my back as he unhooks my bra with practised ease, and I breathe in, my whole body tightening in response. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and God help me, I think I might actually come apart right here in his arms.
“Just—” I bite my lip, frustrated by how unsteady I sound. “Just let me do this.”
“Let you?” His lips quirk into a half-smile, but there’s no humour in it, only a soft, biting sadness I try very hard not to notice. “You’re not exactly giving me much choice here.”
“Good,” I reply, forcing a smirk I don’t feel. “Maybe for once, you’ll listen.”
He huffs out a short laugh, but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, his hands slide lower, gripping my hips as he guides me backwards until my legs hit the edge of the sofa. Before I can overthink it, I pull him down with me, drawing him closer, needing to erase every inch of space between us.
This is fine. This is good. Physical. Simple. A solution, not a problem.
But even as I convince myself of that, there’s a crack somewhere deep inside me, a fine fissure spreading wider with every touch, every kiss, every whispered sigh that escapes my lips before I can catch it. Because this isn’t simple, and it never was, not with him. Not with us.
As my skirt joins the growing pile of clothes on the floor, I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the darkness will drown out the voice in my head screaming at me to stop. To pull back. But it doesn’t work. If anything, the darkness only amplifies the weight of his hands on my skin, the way he whispers my name like it’s some kind of prayer, like I’m something worth worshipping.
* * *
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says, voice lazy and amused, “but I have to admit… this wasn’t exactly how I pictured our next conversation going.”
We’re lying naked on the sofa. His sofa. And it feels good. “Oh, shut up.”
He laughs. “Seriously, though. I had this whole speech planned. Thought I’d have to grovel. I was dreading it, to be honest. Instead, you just turned up, ravished me, and?—”
I throw a cushion at him. He dodges, still smirking. “For the record, this does not mean all is forgiven.”
He rubs my shoulder, fingers sliding over my skin in a way that is far too distracting for a man who still owes me an entire book. “Oh, I’m very aware,” he says, tugging me just a little closer. “But you did just storm in here and have your wicked way with me, so forgive me if I’m struggling to take your outrage seriously.”
I wrench my shoulder away, shaking my head, determined not to let him sidetrack me. “This is why I’m here, actually. To talk about the book. Not to provide you with an ego boost.”
His brows lift. “You came here to talk about the book? Can I say that I wholeheartedly approve of this new editorial approach? Unorthodox, certainly. But you make your points loud and clear.”
“Stop it. We need to agree on the direction of the story and stick to it.”
His grin falters just a little, enough that I know he sees I’m serious. He exhales and scrubs a hand through his hair.
“Alright. What’s the plan?”
I cross my arms, bracing myself. “First off, no more surprises. No more impulsive structural changes because you feel like it. We need to be pushing in the same direction or it’s game over.”
His eyes scan my face, like he’s searching for something, then he nods. “Okay.”
“Okay?” I blink. “That’s it?”
He spreads his hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry I blindsided you. I’ll revert to the last draft.”
I have his agreement and I know I should leave it there. But I don’t. I can’t.
“What happened? Why the drastic shift?”
Rory takes a deep breath. His whole chest rises and then he exhales. “I felt like I was writing a biography rather than a novel. Whether it was your suggestions or my subconscious, it wasn’t Sophie and Oliver’s story anymore. It was Lara and Rory’s.”
I shake my head immediately. “I don’t think that’s true?—”
“Oh, come on.” His gaze lifts to meet mine, serious but not unkind. “It was. The dialogue, the setting, the conflict—it was us. Every scene started feeling like something pulled from my own life. From us. And I—I can’t write that. Not yet.”
His words land like a punch I didn’t see coming. I stare at him, my pulse picking up, not knowing what to say.
“So, what?” I manage, my voice too tight. “You panicked and reverted to type?”
Rory exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “I did what I always do when something gets too close—I pulled away. I stripped it back to something safe, familiar. Something I know works.”
“Formulaic,” I say before I can stop myself.
His mouth twitches. “Exactly.”
“And you think what you submitted is the better version? The one you actually want published?”
A beat of silence. Then?—
“No.” His jaw tightens. “But it’s the one I could finish.”
The words settle between us, heavy, unspoken truths pressing in at the edges.
I want to push him, tell him he should have fought through it, that he should have written the real version, the messy, unpredictable one—but maybe I don’t have the right. Maybe I should be grateful he pulled back. Because if Rory isn’t ready to write that story… maybe I’m not ready to read it.
“Anyway, for the record, I’m nothing like Sophie.”
“Oh really. Why don’t you believe in happy-ever-afters then?” Rory asks, his voice low, almost tentative, like he’s testing the waters and fully prepared for me to bite.
My stomach drops. Not because of the question itself—I’ve been asked it before, though never so directly—but because of the way he’s looking at me now.
“I don’t recall ever saying I don’t believe in happy-ever-afters.”
“Didn’t have to,” he counters, tilting his head slightly, his gaze narrowing like he’s dissecting my every word, every movement. “It’s all over your edits. The way you cut through sentimentality like it’s mould growing on perfectly good bread. The way you strip every romantic scene down to its bare bones, like you’re afraid of letting the characters feel too much.”
“That’s called tightening prose,” I shoot back. “And if you look again at all my comments, instead of cherry-picking what supports your theory, you’d see I left plenty of room for emotional depth. Frankly, if anything, I’m saving you from drowning your readers in overwrought clichés.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let me off the hook.
“Look, Rory, we’re not here to discuss my views on… whatever this is. We’re here to make sure we get this book finished. That’s the job. That’s all that matters right now.”
“Do you think love is real?” he asks, his words careful, deliberate. “Not in books or movies or… whatever. Just—real.”
I freeze. For once, I don’t have a clever retort, or even a deflection. All I have is the truth, which feels like the last thing I want to share with him right now.
“Sometimes,” I say finally, my voice barely audible. “But not for everyone.”
“Why not for you?” His gaze holds mine, steady and patient, like he’s willing to sit here all night waiting for an answer.
“Because…” I hesitate, the word catching in my throat. Because it’s easier not to hope. Because disappointment is far less painful than the alternative. But I don’t say any of that. I can’t.
“Because I’ve seen what happens when it falls apart,” I say instead, my tone clipped, distant. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. It’s the version of the story I’ve rehearsed, the one that keeps people from asking more questions.
“Fair enough,” Rory says after a beat, his voice neutral, though I can see the flicker of something deeper in his eyes. Disappointment? Understanding? Maybe both.