Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
The Southbank hums with life, a chaotic symphony of buskers, chatter, and the occasional shriek from an overzealous toddler. I try to focus on Danny’s voice as he weaves through the crowd beside me, hands shoved casually into his jacket pockets.
“Is it just me,” he says, dodging an errant skateboarder with the grace of someone used to city chaos, “or does this place always feel like everyone decided collectively to forget the concept of personal space?”
“That’s London for you,” I reply, sidestepping a couple taking selfies with a living statue. “A masterclass in proximity management.”
“Proximity mismanagement, more like.”
We walk a few more paces before Danny’s head swivels toward something ahead. His expression lights up like a kid spotting Santa Claus, which immediately puts me on edge. That look means trouble.
“Ah, now that’s what I’m talking about,” he announces, steering slightly to the right without waiting for my response. My gaze follows his, landing on—of course—an ice cream stand. Never mind that we just had lunch barely twenty minutes ago.
“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, though my tone lacks any real bite. He’s already scanning the menu board like it’s the Rosetta Stone.
“Come on, Lara,” he says, dragging my name out in that melodramatic way he knows will irritate me. “Life’s too short to walk past soft-serve without acknowledging its existence.”
I raise an eyebrow. “We literally just ate. Like, just .”
“Details,” he waves me off, stepping closer to inspect the options. “Besides, dessert isn’t about hunger. It’s about spirit. And my spirit says I need a double scoop of salted caramel with sprinkles.”
“Sprinkles?” I repeat, incredulous, because of course he’d be the kind of person who orders sprinkles like he’s eight years old. “You do realise you’re a grown man, right?”
“Sure,” he says breezily, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “But what’s the point of being a grown man if you can’t occasionally act like a child? You should try it sometime. Might loosen you up.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass.” There’s something almost contagious about his enthusiasm, even when it’s aimed at something as ridiculous as ice cream.
“Suit yourself,” he replies with an exaggerated shrug. “But don’t come crying to me later when you’re struck with dessert envy. You’re not having a lick.”
“Yeah, I’ll survive,” I say, crossing my arms as I watch him step up to place his order. The vendor hands him a cone piled precariously high with golden swirls and—yep—an absurd amount of rainbow sprinkles and raspberry sauce. Danny takes one triumphant bite, then turns back to me with the kind of satisfied expression that belongs in a commercial.
“See? Happiness in edible form.” He holds the cone out toward me in offering. “One bite. Just one. I promise it won’t compromise your stern editor facade.”
“Hard pass,” I say. He knows me too well to take anything I say at face value, and the truth is, I’m not really annoyed. Amused, maybe. Begrudgingly charmed, definitely.
“Your loss,” he singsongs, strolling back to my side like a man with nowhere to be and all the time in the world. The sun catches in his wavy hair, the breeze ruffling his jacket as he licks another dollop of caramel off the top of his cone. He looks so utterly at ease, so completely unbothered by the frenetic energy buzzing around us, that I almost envy him. Almost.
“Okay, but hypothetical question,” I say as we fall back into step together. “What happens if you drop that thing? Do I have to pretend I don’t know you?”
“Bold of you to assume I’d ever let such a tragedy occur,” he retorts, holding the cone aloft like it’s some sacred artefact. “This is a bond forged in trust, Lara. A man and his ice cream.”
“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And here I thought you reserved your loyalty for humans.”
“Humans are overrated,” he states, then flashes me a quick grin. “Present company excluded, obviously.”
Danny veers suddenly to the left, nearly colliding with a man holding an entire bouquet of sunflowers. I halt mid-step, watching as he zeroes in on one of the second-hand bookstalls like it’s some hidden treasure chest. His ice cream cone—miraculously intact—dangles precariously from his hand, but his other is already reaching for a worn paperback propped up at an angle.
“Ah,” he says, turning the book over dramatically as though inspecting the Holy Grail. “Here it is. The crown jewel I’ve been searching for: Rory Keane’s Definitive Guide to Pretentious Literary Fame.” He flashes me a devilish grin, tapping the dusty cover with his index finger.
“Very funny,” I say, stepping closer despite myself. The book isn’t even Rory’s—it’s some ancient self-help manual—but Danny’s performance has drawn a small smirk out of me before I can stop it. He notices, of course. He always notices.
“Come on, admit it,” he says, waving the book at me like it’s proof of my guilt. “You’re secretly hoping I’ll find a bootleg copy of his next big hit before the official launch. Maybe something titled How Not To Be A Knob .”
“First of all, that would require Rory actually finishing his drafts without me holding his hand,” I shoot back, though my stomach twists uncomfortably at the mention of the launch. I glance down at the spines of books lined neatly on the stall, feigning interest in a battered Agatha Christie. “Second of all, you’re not funny.”
“Really?” Danny arches a brow and leans in conspiratorially. “Because that little groan-slash-eye-roll combo just now felt like a laugh trying to escape. Don’t fight it, Lara, give in to the laughter. Free the titters.”
“Trust me, it’s not laughter. It’s despair.” I know what’s coming next. I can feel it brewing in the way Danny looks at me, his teasing shifting gears into something far more deliberate.
“Despair? About the book launch, you mean?” His tone is deceptively casual, but there’s no mistaking the intent behind his words. He slots the random book back onto the shelf without looking, his full attention landing squarely on me. “You’ve been avoiding talking about it all day. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“Maybe I just don’t want to bore you with publishing drama.”
“Nice try.” Danny steps closer, blocking my view of the books entirely. Not that I was really reading them. “But we both know that’s not it. So what’s the deal? Scared of the spotlight? Or is it just Rory himself that’s making you want to fake your own death and flee the country?”
“Neither,” I lie, my voice too quick, too defensive. “I’m totally fine. It’s just… not my scene, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Sure. And I guess the fact that you’re practically vibrating now I’ve mentioned it is just… What? A fun new quirk?”
“Drop it, Danny,” I warn, but my attempt at firmness lands about as well as a soggy paper aeroplane. He doesn’t budge, his expression softening but still insistent.
“Look, I get it,” he says, his voice lowering just enough to make me stop in my tracks. “Big events, schmoozy people, the whole ‘hey, everyone look at me’ vibe—it’s not exactly Lara Yates’ idea of a good time. But avoiding it isn’t going to fix whatever’s rattling around in that overanalytical brain of yours. It’s your night too.”
I turn away as if the view over the river might offer some escape from his line of questioning.
“It’s not the launch itself, okay? It’s… everything around it. Rory, the book, the fact that I—” I swallow hard. My throat feels tight, and my voice dips lower. “The fact that I basically had to drag that book out of him kicking and screaming. And now I have to stand there and act like I’m proud of it. Of him.”
“Wait,” Danny says, pulling up short. He steps slightly ahead, forcing me to slow down too. “You had to drag it out of him? What does that even mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” I reply, waving a hand vaguely. “Do you have any idea how much of that book came from me ? Structuring scenes, fixing dialogue, detailed notes on what needed to be changed…”
“But, correct me if I’m wrong, isn’t that what an editor does?”
“Yes, but somehow, through all the changes and the rewrites, he sort of injected me into the book, injected us. Turned us into the characters and the characters into us.”
“And the result is a great story. You said it yourself.”
“It is. Hands down, it’s the best thing he’s ever written.”
Danny side-eyes me, genuinely confused. “Sorry, and that’s a problem because?”
“Because I don’t want to be a character in someone else’s story. I don’t want others reading snippets of what I say when I’m happy, or sleepy, or infuriated.”
“Don’t all writers borrow from real life?”
“Maybe they do, but—” I hesitate, the words sticking briefly. “But then there’s the other part. The part where I know things about Rory that no one else does. Things that make all this success feel… hollow. Like I helped build a house knowing the foundation was cracked.”
“Okay, stop.” Danny’s voice snaps back at me, and suddenly, he’s in front of me, blocking my path entirely. I nearly crash into him, stumbling back a step.
“Seriously?” I say, glaring up at him. “What are you doing?”
“Making a point.” His tone is light, but his expression isn’t. He plants himself firmly, arms crossed over his chest like he’s daring me to try and get past him. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you convince yourself you’re the villain of everyone else’s story. Like you’re some kind of editorial puppet master pulling the strings, and poor Rory Keane is just your unwitting marionette.” He shakes his head, exasperated. “Lara, come on. You know that’s not true.”
“Do I?” I snap back, crossing my arms to mirror him. “Because it sure feels like I crossed a line somewhere. If people knew how much of that book was my?—”
“Stop,” he says again, firmer this time. His eyes meet mine, steady and unflinching. “You didn’t cross a line. You did your job. Hell, you went above and beyond, like you always do. And yeah, maybe Rory leaned on you more than most authors would, but that’s not on you. That’s on him.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he holds up a hand to cut me off. “Nope. Don’t even start. You’re not at fault, you’re not undermining anyone, and you’re definitely not responsible for whatever existential crisis Rory Keane might be having about his creative process. You’re allowed”—he emphasises the word like it’s a foreign concept—“to take pride in what you contributed without feeling guilty about it. Because guess what? Without you, that book wouldn’t be half as good as it is.”
“That’s a pretty low bar,” I reply, staring down at the pavement.
“Don’t do that,” Danny says gently, stepping closer. His voice softens, but his stance doesn’t budge. “Don’t downplay it. You’re brilliant, Lara. And you deserve to be recognised for everything you bring to the table—even if it makes you uncomfortable, even if it scares the hell out of you. Because hiding behind the scenes forever? That’s not brilliance. That’s fear.”
I cross my arms tightly against my chest, the universal signal for: I’m done with this conversation .
But Danny doesn’t relent. “Rory Keane owes you his soul—okay, maybe half his soul. And this book launch? It’s not about showing up to stroke Rory’s ego; it’s about showing up for something you helped make happen. Big difference.”
“Not to me,” I grumble, my gaze darting down to the river. The water ripples against the banks, and for a second, I wish I could dissolve into it. Just sink into the current and let it carry me somewhere far away. Somewhere where neither Rory Keane nor his stupid, over-hyped literary masterpiece exists—and neither does this conversation.
Danny sighs, the sound exaggerated but not unkind. “How about this: you don’t have to stick around for the whole thing. Turn up, nod sagely during his reading, do the polite mingling thing for twenty minutes tops, then sneak out the back when they start queuing to get their books signed. Hell, I’ll even help you plan the escape route. We’ll time it perfectly so you can disappear while everyone’s distracted by the hors d’oeuvres.”
I glance up at him, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “You’re bribing me with an early exit strategy?”
“Yes,” he replies without missing a beat. “And snacks. Because I know you—you’ll be too stressed to eat beforehand, so we’ll swing by somewhere after and get celebratory dumplings or something. Your pick.”
My arms loosen just a fraction, but I keep my tone frosty. “You’re really determined to make me go to this thing, huh?”
“Make you? No.” He grins, leaning in slightly as if sharing a secret. “Strongly encourage with charm, persuasion, and unwavering logic? Absolutely.”