The Things We Leave Unfinished

by Yarros, Rebecca

  “Looks like you lost that five dollars, Howard, because we’re all wide awake.” Jameson killed the engine and threw open the door. She was already in a relationship and about to be engaged. While he’d been falling in love with her, she’d been using him for what? A little entertainment? He glanced to the runway at his left, ready to launch, to leave the ground behind for a few hours.

  …

  Jameson slammed the door, and the sound jarred Scarlett from her shock. She flew out of the car, but he was halfway down the pavement to the hangar by the time she caught up with him. “Jameson! Wait!”

  How could they do this? How could they inform the Daily that she and Henry were going to be engaged when she’d firmly told her mother she wouldn’t do it? It was them behind this, not just George. This reeked of her parents’ interference, and she’d be damned if it cost her Jameson.

  “Wait for what, Scarlett?” he snapped as he strode away, those warm, dark eyes of his going cold and taking her heart with them. “Wait for you to marry some rich society-type? Was that why you wanted to know why I hadn’t kissed you yet? Were you worried about running out of time to pull one over on me?” He never broke stride, those long legs carrying him farther away from her with every step.

  “That’s not what’s going on! I’m not engaged!” she argued, racing to get ahead of him. “Listen to me!” She put her hands on his chest and stopped, forcing him to pause or run her over.

  He halted, but the look he gave crushed her all the same.

  “Are you getting engaged?”

  “No!” She shook her head emphatically. “My parents want me to marry Henry, but I won’t do it. They’re trying to force my hand.” She would never forgive them for this. Not ever.

  “Force your hand?” His jaw ticked, and her mind scrambled for a way to make him understand.

  “Yes!” She didn’t bother to check if they were being overheard or where the others from the car were. She didn’t care who heard what she said as long as he did. “It’s not true.”

  “It’s in the paper!” He stepped back from her and laced his fingers over his hat.

  “Because they think publishing it as fact will force me to agree out of embarrassment or duty!” she fired back.

  “Will it?” he challenged.

  “No!” Her chest tightened, facing the possibility that he might not believe her.

  He looked away, clearly torn, and she couldn’t blame him. Her parents and the Wadsworths had dumped her in a damnable mess.

  “Jameson, please. I swear I’m not marrying Henry Wadsworth.” Death was preferable.

  “But your parents want you to?”

  She nodded.

  “And this Wadsworth guy wants you to?”

  “Henry’s father believes the title—and the seat in the House of Lords—will fall to Henry if we marry, and if not Henry, then our firstborn son, which it won’t because—”

  “Your firstborn son?” His eyes narrowed. “Now you’re having future kids with this guy?”

  Apparently, that was not the thing to say to get him to understand.

  “Of course not! None of it matters, because I’m not going to marry him!” A dull buzzing sounded in her head, as though her own mind were shutting down to spare her what felt like impending heartbreak. “If you believe this stunt, you let them win. I will not.”

  “It’s easy to lose a fight you don’t know you’re in.” At least he was looking at her again, but the accusation in his eyes nearly brought tears to hers. He looked as though he’d been betrayed, and in a way, he had.

  “I should have told you,” she whispered.

  “Yes, you should have,” he agreed. “What kind of parents try to force their daughter into a marriage she doesn’t want?” His hands slid to the back of his neck, as if he needed to keep those hands busy.

  “The kind who have sold off nearly all the land and spent themselves into financial ruin.” Her arms fell to her sides as Jameson’s eyes widened. “Titles don’t necessarily mean lavish bank accounts.” The buzzing grew louder.

  “Stanton! Reed! We have to go!” someone shouted from behind them.

  “Financial ruin.” Jameson shook his head. “You mean to tell me that your parents are what? Selling you off?”

  “Trying to, yes.” There was the ugly truth of it, and his face showed it. She bristled. “Don’t look at me like that. You Americans think you’ve escaped the system of inherited wealth, but instead of the king and the peerage, you have the Astors and the Rockefellers.”

  “We don’t sell off our daughters.” His eyebrows shot high.

  “I could name at least three American heiresses who have married into the peerage in the last decade alone.” Scarlett folded her arms across her chest.

  “So now you’re defending this?” Jameson shot back as Howard ran by, turning to jog in reverse.

  “Stanton! Now!” Howard shouted, waving his arm.

  “No, that’s not what I mean!” Scarlett sputtered. The buzzing noise shifted, the tone deepening. Approaching aircraft. The patrol before Jameson’s was returning, which meant she had precious seconds. “Jameson, I’m not marrying Henry. I swear it.”

  “Why not?” he questioned, then snapped his gaze skyward, his eyes narrowing before she could even answer.

  “Among other reasons, because I want you, you daft Yank!” God, she’d really lost it, arguing in public like this, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop, and the man wasn’t even listening anymore.

  “Are those ours?” Howard pointed in the same direction Jameson’s attention was already focused.

  The squadron broke through the low-hanging clouds, and her stomach curdled. Those were not Spitfires.

  The air-raid sirens wailed out the warning, but it was too late.

  The end of the runway blew apart with a deafening blast she felt throughout her body. Smoke and debris filled the air as the next one hit within a heartbeat, louder and closer.

  “Get down!” Jameson tugged her into the curve of his body, turning his back on the blasts and pulling her to the ground. Her knees collided with the pavement.

  The hanger fifty yards in front of them exploded.

  Chapter Seven

  Noah

  Dear Scarlett,

  I miss you, my love. The sound of your voice over the telephone doesn’t compare to holding you in my arms. It’s only been a few weeks, yet it feels like forever since I was reposted. Good news, I think I’ve been able to secure us a house close by. I know the moving has been hell on you, and if you decide you’d rather stay near Constance, then we can adjust our plans. You’ve given up so much for me already, and yet here I am, asking you to do it all over again. I promise when this war is over, I will make it up to you. I swear I’ll never put you in the position to sacrifice for me again.

  God, I miss the feel of your skin against mine in the morning and the sight of that beautiful smile when I walk through the door at night. Right now, it’s only Howard welcoming me, though he’s not here much since meeting a local girl. Before you ask, no, there are no local girls for me. There’s only a blue-eyed beauty who holds my heart and my future, and I’d hardly call her local, since she’s hours away.

  I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again.

  Love,

  Jameson

  The rhythm pounding through my earbuds matched the beat of my feet against the pathways through Central Park as I wove in and out of the meandering tourists. Friday of Labor Day weekend had them out in full force, fanny packs and all. It was humid today, the air sticky and thick, but at least it was full of sea-level oxygen.

  My mile time had sucked the entire week I’d been in Colorado. I’d mostly stayed around seven thousand feet while researching in Peru, minus the times I’d gone climbing, but Poplar Grove’s elevation had been twenty-five hundred feet higher. Had to admit,
though, despite the brutal lack of oxygen, the Rocky Mountain air had felt lighter, easier to move in, too. Not that Colorado beat New York in any other department. Sure, the mountains were beautiful, but so was the Manhattan skyline, and besides, nothing could compare to living in the very heartbeat of the world. This was home.

  Only problem was, my head wasn’t here, and hadn’t been since I’d flown back more than two weeks ago. It was split down the middle between World War II Britain and modern-day Poplar Grove, Colorado, even sans oxygen. The manuscript ended at a crucial turning point in the plot, where the story could either descend into cataclysmic heartbreak or rally back from the depths of doubt to reach a love-conquers-all climax that would turn even the surliest bastard into a romantic.

  And while I was normally content to play the surly part, Georgia had stepped in and stolen my role, leaving me the uncharacteristic romantic. And damn, did this story demand it. The letters between Scarlett and Jameson did, too. In the middle of a war, they’d found the real thing. They couldn’t even bear to be separated for longer than a few weeks. I wasn’t sure I’d ever been with a woman for more than a few weeks at a time. I liked my space.

  I hit mile six and was no closer to understanding Georgia’s asinine demand than I was when I’d left her house two weeks ago or understanding the woman herself. Usually, I ran until my thoughts worked themselves out or a plot point came to me, but just like every other day for the past two weeks, I slowed to a walk and ripped out my earbuds in pure frustration.

  “Oh, thank God. I thought you—” Adam gasped. “Were going. For a seventh, and I. Was going to. Have to drop out,” he managed to say between heaving breaths as he caught up beside me.

  “She doesn’t want it to have a happy ending,” I growled, killing the music pumping through my phone.

  “So you’ve said,” Adam noted, lifting his hands to the top of his head. “As a matter of fact, I think you’ve mentioned that almost every day since you got back.”

  “I’m going to keep saying it until I can wrap my head around it.” We reached a bench near a fork in the path and stopped to briefly stretch, as was our routine.

  “Great. I look forward to reading it once you do.” He braced his hands on his knees and leaned over, drawing in gulps of air.

  “I told you we should run more often.” He only joined me once a week.

  “And I told you that you’re not my only writer. Now when are you sending the Stanton portion of the manuscript? This thing is a tight turnaround.”

  “As soon as I finish it.” A corner of my mouth lifted. “Don’t worry, you’ll have it by the deadline.”

  “Really? You’re going to make me wait three months? Cruel. I’m wounded.” He slapped a hand over his heart.

  “I know I sound like a kid, but I want to see if you’re able to tell where Scarlett’s writing leaves off and mine begins.” I hadn’t felt this excited about a book in the last three years, and I’d written six during that time. But this one…I had that feeling, and Georgia was tying one hand behind my back. “She’s wrong, you know.”

  “Georgia?”

  “She doesn’t understand what her great-grandmother’s branding was. Scarlett Stanton is a guaranteed happy ending. Her readers expect it. Georgia isn’t a writer. She doesn’t get it, and she’s wrong.” One thing I’d learned over the last twelve years was not to screw with readers’ expectations.

  “And you’re so certain you’re right because what? You’re infallible?” There was more than a hint of sarcasm there.

  “When it comes to plotting? Yes. I’m comfortable saying I’m pretty fucking infallible, and don’t start on me about my ego. I can back it up, so it’s more like confidence.” I leaned into a stretch and smiled.

  “Hate to check your confidence, but if that was the case, you wouldn’t need your editor, would you? But you do need me, so you’re not.”

  I ignored the obvious truth in his argument. “At least you read my book before suggesting changes. She won’t even let me tell her my idea.”

  “Well, does she have one?”

  I blinked.

  “Did you ask her?” He lifted his brows. “I mean, I’d be happy to offer some suggestions but, since you haven’t even shown me the existing portion yet…”

  “Why would I ask her? I never ask for input before something is finished.” It ruined the process, and my gut instincts hadn’t failed me yet, anyway. “I cannot believe I actually signed a contract giving someone who’s not even in the industry final approval.” And yet I’d do it again just for the challenge.

  “For having dated as much as you have, you really don’t understand women, do you?” He shook his head.

  “I understand women just fine, trust me. And besides, you’ve had what? One relationship in the past decade?”

  “Because I married her, jackass.” He flashed his wedding ring. “Screwing your way through New York isn’t what I’m talking about. The milk in my fridge is older than the length of your average relationship, and it’s not even close to the expiration date. It is harder to truly know and understand one woman than it is to charm your way through a thousand nights of a thousand different women. More rewarding, too.” He checked his watch. “I need to get back to the office.”

  The thought made me shift uncomfortably.

  “That’s not true. The relationship part.” Fine, the longest relationship I’d had was six months, involved a lot of personal space, and had dissolved the way it had begun—with mutual affection and an understanding that we weren’t going the distance. I saw no reason to emotionally entangle myself with someone I couldn’t see a future with.

  “Okay, let’s clarify. I don’t think you understand Georgia Stanton.” Adam smirked, leaning into a calf stretch. “Have to admit, it’s fun watching you struggle over a woman who doesn’t automatically fall at your feet.”

  “Women don’t fall at my feet.” I was just lucky that the ones I was interested in usually felt the same way. “And what’s not to get? From where I stand, this is a case of publishing royalty becomes wife of a Hollywood elite only to be thrown over for the younger, newer, pregnant model and goes home with her millions to sign another deal that makes more millions.” Was she mouth-wateringly gorgeous? Absolutely. But it also felt like she was being difficult just for the fun of it. I was starting to see that dealing with Georgia might be more challenging than getting the book actually written.

  “Wow. You’re so far off the mark, it’s almost funny.” He finished stretching and stood, waiting for me to do the same. “You know much about her ex?” he asked with a head tilt and poignant stare.

  “Sure. Damian Ellsworth, the acclaimed director, and resident of Soho, if I’m not mistaken.” I stopped at a food cart and bought us two bottles of water. “Always given me a slimy, creepy vibe.” I was confident, but that guy was a pompous prick.

  “And what’s he most known for?” Adam questioned after he’d thanked me and twisted the top off his.

  “Probably The Wings of Autumn,” I guessed as we continued our trek, freezing as it hit me.

  Adam looked over his shoulder, then paused. “There it is. Come on.” He motioned me forward, and I found my footing.

  “Scarlett never sold her movie rights,” I said slowly. “Not until six years ago.”

  “Bingo. And then she only sold ten books’ worth of rights for almost no money to a brand-new, no-name production company that’s owned by…”

  “Damian Ellsworth. Fuck me.”

  “No thanks, you’re not my type. But do you get it now?” We reached the edge of the park and threw our empty bottles into the recycling before merging onto the crowded sidewalk.

  Ellsworth was more than a decade older than Georgia but had only managed to get his foot through the Hollywood door… Shit. It had been right around the time they’d gotten married.

  “He used his marriage
to Georgia to get to Scarlett.” Asshole.

  “Seems like it.” Adam nodded. “Those rights rolled out the red carpet for him, and he still has five of those movies left to make. He’s set. And once it was clear the trips to the fertility clinic weren’t working out, he found someone else.”

  My head snapped toward Adam as my stomach soured. “They were struggling to have kids and he knocked up someone else?”

  “According to Celebrity Weekly. Don’t look at me like that. Carmen likes to read it, and I get bored when I’m soaking my legs in the bathtub. Legs you continually put through the ringer, I might add.”

  Damn. That was a whole other layer of screwed up. She’d started the man’s career and he hadn’t just cheated; he’d emotionally, publicly annihilated her. “It’s becoming clear why she isn’t about the happy endings right now.”

  “And the worst part was that she was part owner of the production company, but she signed it all over in the divorce,” Adam continued as we crossed the street. “She gave everything to him.”

  My brow furrowed. That was a shit-ton of money. “Everything? But he’s at fault.” How was that fair?

  Adam shrugged. “They were married in Colorado. It’s a no-fault state, and she gave it up willingly, or so I read.”

  “Who does that?”

  “Someone who wants out as quickly as possible,” he noted. We crossed the final street, bringing us to the block my publisher’s building was on, but Adam stopped in front of the one next door. “And, since all but a sliver of Scarlett’s estate goes into a literary trust earmarked for charity work, those millions you mentioned aren’t exactly Georgia’s. I know you like your research trips, but you should Google more often.”

  “Holy shit.” My stomach dropped at just how wrong my assumption had been.

  He clapped my back. “Feel like an ass now, don’t you?” he asked with a grin.

  “Maybe,” I admitted.

  “Wait until you realize that the book you’re finishing isn’t listed in the literary trust—”