Chapter 20
TWENTY
“Sixty’s a big deal, isn’t it?” Rory asks, not looking up from his laptop. His voice is casual, a throwaway comment as if he’s asking me to pass the salt instead of inviting me to meet his family . “Mum’s doing this whole thing tonight—cake, cousins, chaos. The world and his friend are all over from Ireland. You should come, meet the lot of them in one fell swoop.”
I freeze mid-reach for my mug of tea, my fingers tightening around the ceramic handle. I glance at him over my glasses, trying to gauge how serious he is. His tone might be flippant, but I know Rory. He hides real things in offhand remarks, like slipping a secret into a joke and hoping no one notices.
“Come… to your mum’s birthday party?” I repeat slowly, as though the syllables are alien on my tongue. “ With you ?”
“That’s usually how these things work, yeah.” He leans back in his chair, stretching until his shirt pulls taut against his chest. The picture of nonchalance. “She’d love you. And you’ve already survived me, so the rest of the Keane clan will be easy.”
“Rory—” I start, but I have no idea where that sentence is going. My mind is stuck on she’d love you and the way he said it so effortlessly, like it’s a fact carved into stone. Like the thought of introducing me to his family isn’t sending me into full cardiac arrest.
“Look,” he interrupts, flashing me that disarming grin that’s gotten him out of more trouble than it should. “You can think of it as research. Authors and their tragic backstories. I’m giving you material here, Yates.”
“Research,” I echo, hating how weak my voice sounds. Meeting his mum ? That isn’t casual. That’s… significant.
“Don’t overthink it,” he adds, like he knows exactly what I’m doing. His eyes flicker to mine, softening just a fraction. “It’s just a party. No pressure.”
No pressure. Right. Like there’s no weight behind this invitation. Like stepping into his world won’t mean something bigger than either of us is ready to admit. But all I can manage is an awkward nod before saying something about not having anything to wear, while my heart is thudding too loud in my ears.
* * *
The car hums steadily beneath us as we leave the urban sprawl of London and everything seems a lot more green and lush, the skyline shrinking in the rearview mirror. Rory taps the steering wheel in time to a song playing faintly on the radio—a folksy melody I don’t recognise. He looks so at ease, one hand draped lazily over the wheel, like we’re just heading to the grocery store instead of the lion’s den masquerading as his childhood home.
Meanwhile, I’m clutching my handbag like it contains state secrets, staring out the passenger window as if the darkness beyond has answers to the questions I can’t stop asking myself. What does this mean? Why now? Are we… something?
“You’re unusually quiet,” Rory says, glancing sideways at me. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”
“Who, me? Nervous?” I scoff, though I suspect it comes out less convincing than I’d intended. “Just mentally preparing myself for whatever familial circus you’re about to drop me into.”
“Ah, the Keane clan’s not so bad.” He grins, his voice warm, teasing. “A bit loud, maybe. But you’ll manage. You’re tougher than you look.”
“Right. Because nothing screams ‘tough’ like pencil skirts and colour-coded calendars,” I deadpan, earning a low chuckle from him. It’s unfair how good that sound is at diffusing tension.
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’ve got claws under all that polish.”
“Claws or not, I don’t do well with crowds. Or small talk. Or…” I catch myself. Admitting that meeting his family feels impossibly intimate—that it scares me—isn’t something I’m ready to say out loud. Not yet.
“Relax,” Rory says, his voice softer now. “I told you already, they’re going to love you.”
“Love me? Based on what, exactly?”
“Based on the fact that I do,” he replies easily, then immediately winces, like the words slipped out without permission. He clears his throat, focusing a little too intently on the road ahead. “I mean—they’ll love you because you’re… uh, great. Obviously.”
My heart stumbles over itself, tripping on the implications. He loves me? No, surely not. He couldn’t have meant it like that . Could he?
“Obviously,” I say, staring straight ahead, my pulse racing. The silence that follows is thick, charged with everything we’re not saying.
And suddenly, the drive feels far longer than it is.
The car rolls to a stop in front of a white pebble-dashed semi-detached house that practically radiates warmth. Fairy lights are strung along the porch railing, flickering cheerfully against the twilight, and the muffled sound of laughter spills out through an open window somewhere above. There’s already a cluster of parked cars, many with Irish registration plates, lining the driveway and spilling onto the street, hinting at the number of people crammed inside.
“Here we are,” Rory announces, like we’ve just pulled up to a branch of Pizza Express instead of the epicentre of my social anxiety for the evening.
He cuts the engine, leaning back in his seat with easy confidence. Meanwhile, I’m frozen, gripping my bag like it’s a life jacket.
“Great.” My voice is flat, betraying none of the chaos currently rioting in my chest. “Looks… lively.”
“Don’t worry,” he says, glancing over at me with a grin so disarming it should come with a warning label. “They don’t bite. Often.”
“Good to know,” I say, only half-joking as I look at the house again. The distant clink of dishes and bursts of conversation carry on the breeze, underscored by what sounds suspiciously like someone belting out a tune slightly off-key. “Unless the singing counts as assault.”
“That would be Uncle Declan,” Rory says with a chuckle, already stepping out of the car. “And it absolutely does.”
By the time I manage to unclench my fingers from my bag and climb out, he’s waiting for me by the passenger side, one hand extended. I hesitate—because apparently, chivalry still throws me off—but eventually I take it. His palm is warm, grounding me, as he leads me up the path toward the house.
“Relax,” he whispers, his thumb brushing lightly over mine before letting go. “You’re going to be fine.”
A set of keys have been left in the door and before I can turn and flee, he’s already letting himself in.
The noise hits me first—a cacophony of voices, laughter, and music all jumbled together. Then comes the smell: roasted meat, garlic, something sweet and cinnamony in the mix. It’s the kind of aroma that belongs to a home, not a house, and it tugs at something buried deep in my chest. Something I’d prefer stayed buried.
“Rory!” A woman’s voice calls from somewhere in the swarm of people gathered in the living room. A blur of faces turns toward us, and suddenly, I feel like I’ve walked into the middle of a stage play without knowing my lines.
“Hey, Ma! Happy birthday,” Rory replies, slipping effortlessly into the room like he’s done this a thousand times. Which, of course, he has. His hand slides to the small of my back, a subtle pressure urging me forward. It anchors me and sends my heart galloping in equal measure.
“Everyone, this is Lara,” he announces, his tone casual yet deliberate. “Lara, meet… well, everyone.”
“Hi,” I manage, my voice coming out a touch too high. I adjust my glasses reflexively.
“Ah, so this is Lara,” says a man who must be Uncle Declan, judging by the pint in one hand and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Rory’s been very?—”
“Declan,” Rory interrupts smoothly, his smile tight but his grip on my back steady. “Maybe save the stories for later, yeah?”
“Fine, fine.” Declan winks at me. “But don’t think you’re off the hook, Lara.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, my tone dry enough to earn a surprised laugh. Good. Sarcasm is safer than sincerity right now.
“Come sit, love,” Rory’s mum says, bustling over and enveloping him in a quick hug before turning her attention to me. She’s short, round-faced, and exudes an energy that could probably fuel a small city. Her smile is warm, genuine, and entirely overwhelming. “It’s lovely to finally meet you! I’m Rory’s mammy, Evelyn. He’s told us so much about you.”
“Has he?” I shoot Rory a look, but he just shrugs, unapologetic.
“Only good things, I promise,” she insists, taking my hands in hers briefly before pulling me further into the chaos. “Now, let’s get you something to eat. Have you tried Declan’s infamous sausage rolls? Oh, and there’s trifle—or pavlova, if you prefer. Or both!”
“Both sounds great,” I say meekly, not sure how else to respond.
Rory follows close behind, his hand never leaving its place on my back, as if he can sense the exact moment I might bolt.
“And there might be a little sliver of apple pie left if you’re lucky. Oh, and if none of those float your boat, I’ve a tub of Ben Aoife with a breezy sort of curiosity, like she’s just noticed I might be paying attention.
“Ah, so,” she says, laughing lightly. “The dirty little secret of the Keane family empire.” She waggles her fingers dramatically, as though unveiling some grand conspiracy. “Rory writes the words, but I polish the diamonds in the rough.”
“Polish,” Rory echoes, though there’s a tightness to his jaw now that wasn’t there moments ago. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Aoife says, leaning toward me conspiratorially, her curls bouncing as she moves. “He’s brilliant, of course. But sometimes a brother just needs a sister to tell him when his leading lady is acting like a total eejit or when his love scenes are more cringe than swoon.”
“Right,” I say faintly, my lips curving into a polite smile that feels plastered on. My mind is already spinning, trying to piece together what I’ve just heard. Rory’s books—the multi-million copy bestsellers, the Scott & Drake cash cow—have been… what? A group project?
“She’s exaggerating,” Rory interjects, his voice pitched low and careful. “It’s not?—”
“Exaggerating?” Aoife interrupts, raising an eyebrow in mock offence. “What, you don’t remember the nights we stayed up until dawn reworking that god-awful ending for Lakewood Hearts ? Or when I had to rewrite half of Falling for April because your hero sounded like he’d swallowed a thesaurus? How did you fare this time on your own, without my genius to fix everything, huh? You had your work cut out for you there, Lara, I’ve no doubt.”
“Enough, Aoife,” Rory says, his smile faltering entirely now. There’s an edge to his voice that only makes her laugh harder, oblivious—or maybe indifferent—to the tension thickening between us.
“Anyway,” she continues, undeterred, turning back to me with a wink. “You know how he gets—he’s all big ideas and no patience. Someone’s gotta make sure those grand gestures on the page actually land, right?”
“Aoife, please.”
“Don’t worry, Lara. He’s still the genius everyone thinks he is. I’m just the invisible MVP behind the curtain.”
Invisible. The word lands like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. My gaze flickers to Rory, searching for some kind of denial, some reassurance, that this is all just a sibling’s playful exaggeration. But his expression—tight-lipped, guilty, defensive—tells me everything I need to know.
“Interesting,” I say, though my voice comes out thinner than I’d like. My throat feels dry and scratchy, like it’s closing in on itself.
“Isn’t it?” Aoife beams, clearly pleased with herself. “And here I thought you’d be the intimidating one, being a big-deal editor and all. But look at you—” She gestures toward me, her tone warm but distinctly patronising. “Perfectly normal. Lovely, even.”
“Thanks,” I say, though my stomach is knotting tighter by the second. Normal. Lovely. Invisible.
I force a sip of the wine Rory handed me earlier, but it tastes bitter now, like vinegar on my tongue. Across the room, Rory’s mum laughs at something another guest has said, the sound ringing out cheerfully, obliviously. The air feels stifling, the warmth of the house pressing against my skin like a weight I can’t shake.
“Excuse me for a moment,” I say, setting my glass down on a nearby table with careful precision. My voice sounds detached even to my own ears, but I can’t bring myself to care.
“Everything alright?” Rory asks, his brow furrowing, but I don’t look at him as I step past.
“Fine,” I lie, my heels clicking against the hardwood floor as I make my way out of the front room towards the hall.
Because I need space. Air. Something to hold on to while the ground shifts out from under me.
Co-writing. Polishing. Whatever they want to call it. The details hardly matter now. What matters is that the man I’ve spent weeks believing in—the man I’ve… God, the man I’ve started to fall for—isn’t who I thought he was.
And that, somehow, feels worse than any of the lies themselves.
My lungs forget how to work.
I stand just inside the doorway of the living room, gripping the frame like it might stop the world from spinning. My chest feels tight, my heartbeat a frantic battery that drowns out the hum of conversation around me. The heat that prickles at the back of my neck has nothing to do with the crowded house or the wine I’d barely touched. Across the room, Rory is laughing at something his cousin said, his head tilted back in that easy, careless way he does, like the universe itself bends to make him comfortable.
Co-writing , Aoife had said, her voice lilting and amused, as if she hadn’t just detonated a bomb right in front of me.
I swallow hard, the sound loud in my own ears. My fingers twitch against the doorframe. My skin feels too tight, like the betrayal has seeped into my very cells, and now I’m stuck wearing it. Carrying it.
“Hey.”
Rory’s voice cuts through the haze, sudden and far too close. I blink and realise he’s standing in front of me, his smile faltering when he sees whatever must be written across my face. He looks confused for half a second, but then something shifts. His eyes widen, and his expression—God, it’s like watching the mask slip off a magician mid-trick.
“Is it true?” My voice slices through the layers of noise filtering from the front room. I don’t even care who hears. My hands are trembling now, so I shove them into fists at my sides. “What Aoife said? About your books?”
His jaw tightens. It’s the same look he gets when he’s about to bluff his way through a plot hole during one of our editorial meetings. Except this time, there’s no manuscript between us. No professional distance to cushion the blow.
“Lara—” His voice is softer now, almost pleading, but it only makes my stomach lurch harder.
“Don’t.” I take a step back, holding up a hand like it might physically stop him from coming any closer. “Just—don’t.”
His shoulders sag, and for the first time since I’ve met him, Rory Keane looks utterly lost. Vulnerable in a way that doesn’t suit him and maybe never will. The charm, the bravado—it’s all gone. Replaced by a boy who looks like he got caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. But I can’t focus on that, not when my breath is coming in shallow bursts and my brain won’t stop screaming at me to fix this, even though I don’t know how.
“Let me explain,” he says, his voice low and urgent now. “It’s not?—”
“Not what it sounds like?” My laugh is bitter. “Don’t insult both of us by pretending this isn’t exactly what it sounds like, Rory.”
His mouth opens, but no words come out. And for once, his silence speaks louder than anything else could.
I don’t wait for him to try again. My feet move before my brain can catch up, carrying me toward the front door like it’s the only lifeboat on a sinking ship. The house is suddenly too loud and too quiet all at once—the muted hum of conversations dying, the clink of glasses halting mid-toast. It’s a cacophony of stunned silences that chase me as I go.
“Where are you—” Rory’s voice cuts through, hoarse and desperate, but I don’t turn around. If I look at him now—at his stupidly earnest face, at those pleading eyes—I might crumble. And I can’t afford that. Not here. Not in front of his entire family.
My heels click-clack with every step, a hammer driving nails into the coffin of whatever this… thing between us was supposed to be. I make it to the front door, my hand fumbling for the latch. The air feels thick, like I’m wading through syrup, and my fingers won’t cooperate. Of course. Of course, even the door is conspiring against me now.
“Let me help—” Rory again. Closer this time. Too close.
“Don’t you dare.” I finally get the door open, cold night air slapping me in the face like some cosmic attempt at resuscitation, and I step outside without glancing back, letting the door swing shut with a satisfying thunk behind me.