The Things We Leave Unfinished

by Yarros, Rebecca

  “Constance!”

  “Somewhere over the North Sea.”

  “Of course he is,” she said through gritted teeth. She should have told him to stay, but there’d been no reason to—no reason acceptable to the wing leader, at least.

  “I won’t leave your side,” Constance promised as she helped Scarlett to her feet.

  She didn’t.

  …

  Nine hours later, Scarlett was tucked between newly cleaned sheets, absolutely knackered and happier than she’d ever been as she stared down at a pair of bright blue eyes.

  “I don’t care what those midwives said.” Constance peered over her shoulder. “Those eyes are going to stay just that utterly, perfectly blue.”

  “Even if they don’t, they’ll still be perfect,” Scarlett declared, running her finger across the tip of the smallest nose she’d ever seen.

  “Agreed.”

  “Do you want to hold him?” Scarlett asked.

  “May I?” Constance beamed.

  “It seems only fair, seeing as you were equal parts nurse and maid today. Thank you.” Her voice softened. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” She lifted her son, swaddled in one of the blankets Jameson’s mother had made and shipped to them, into Constance’s arms.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it,” Constance said, adjusting the newborn in her arms. “He’s perfect.”

  “We want you to be his godmother.”

  Constance’s gaze snapped to hers. “Really?”

  Scarlett nodded. “I can’t imagine anyone else. You’ll protect him, won’t you? If anything…should happen.” She was in just as much danger from a bombing raid sleeping in her bed as she was when she’d been in the WAAF. Nothing was certain.

  “With my life.” Constance’s eyes misted over as she looked back at the baby in her arms. “Hello, little one. Hopefully your father will be home soon so we can call you by a real name.” She shot Scarlett a pointed look.

  Scarlett smiled. She’d refused to discuss his name until Jameson held him.

  “I’m your Aunt Constance. I know, I know, I look a lot like your mummy, but she’s at least a half-inch taller than I am, and her feet are a full size bigger. Don’t worry, we’ll come into focus a bit better once you’re a few months older.” She lowered her face. “Want to know a secret? I’m going to be your godmother. That means I’ll love you, and spoil you, and always, always protect you. Even from your mummy’s awful cooking.”

  Scarlett scoffed.

  “Now, I’m going to go make something for her to eat.” She smiled down at the baby one more time, then handed him back to Scarlett. “Do you need anything before I head downstairs?” She eased off the bed as the bedroom door flew open.

  …

  “Are you okay?” Jameson’s strides ate up the distance to the bed as Constance slipped past him out of the bedroom. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since he’d landed, or more specifically, since the clerk ran him down and told him Constance had called that morning.

  That. Morning. No one had radioed—not that he could have gone off mission and flown back, but he would have. Somehow.

  “I’m fine,” Scarlett promised, smiling up at him with a mix of radiance and what he assumed had to be bone-weary exhaustion. She looked unharmed, but there was a lot of her he couldn’t see under all those blankets. “Meet your son.” Her smile widened as she lifted the small, blanketed bundle.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and cradled the tiny, breakable baby in his arms, careful to support his head. His skin was pink, the shock of hair he could see was black, and his eyes were blue. He was gorgeous, and Jameson was instantly head over heels.

  “Our son.” Jameson looked at his wife to find her already watching him, her eyes heavy with unshed tears. “He’s amazing.”

  “He is.” She flashed a smile, and twin tears streaked down her face. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “Me too.” He leaned forward and brushed her tears away, careful to keep his son tucked safely in the crook of his arm. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

  “Only the messy bits,” she countered. “It’s only been an hour or so.”

  “And you’re truly okay? How do you feel?”

  “Tired. Happy. Like I’ve been torn in two. Madly in love.” She leaned in slightly to gaze down at their son.

  “Go back to the torn-in-two part,” he demanded.

  Scarlett laughed. “I’m fine. Really. Nothing abnormal.”

  “You’d tell me if something had gone wrong? If you were hurt?” Jameson studied her carefully, weighing her words with her eyes, her face, and the set of her shoulders.

  “I would,” she promised. “Though he’d be worth it.”

  Jameson’s eyes fell to his son, who looked up at him with quiet expectation. An old soul, then. “What do you want to name him?” They’d been kicking around names for months.

  “I like William.”

  Jameson smiled, glancing up at his wife and nodding. “Hi, William. Welcome to life. The first thing you need to know is that your mother is always right, which you probably already know, since she’s been saying you were a boy for the last six months.”

  Scarlett laughed, but it was softer. Her eyelids were drooping, too.

  “The second thing is I’m your dad, so it’s a good thing you look a lot like your mom.” He lowered his lips to William’s head and pressed a soft kiss at his hairline. “I love you.”

  He leaned forward and brushed a kiss over Scarlett’s mouth. “And I love you. Thank you for him.”

  “I love you, too, and I could say the same.” Her breaths deepened, so Jameson placed their son in the small cradle next to the bed and tucked his wife in.

  “Can I do anything?”

  “Just stay,” she whispered, fading off to sleep.

  That first night was an eye-opener. William was up every few hours, and Jameson did what he could to help, but he couldn’t exactly feed him.

  They were already awake at seven a.m. when there was a knock on their bedroom door.

  “Probably Constance,” Scarlett muttered with William at her shoulder.

  Jameson glanced back to make sure she was covered, then opened the door to find Constance standing in the hallway, blocking Howard.

  “You can wait downstairs,” she snapped.

  “This can’t wait.”

  “What’s going on?” Jameson asked from the doorway.

  Howard raked his hand through his hair and looked at Jameson over the top of Constance’s head. “I figured you hadn’t turned on the news.”

  “No.” His stomach tensed.

  “The Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Thousands are dead. The fleet’s gone,” he said with a slight break in his voice.

  “Holy shit.” Thousands are dead. Jameson sagged against the doorframe. He’d dedicated the past two years of his life to keeping this war from reaching American soil, while another had sucker-punched them.

  “Yeah. You know what that means?” Howard’s jaw flexed.

  Jameson nodded, looking back over his shoulder at Scarlett’s horrified expression before facing his friend again. “We’re on the wrong side of the world.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Noah

  Scarlett,

  How are you, my love? Are you as miserable as I am? I found us a house off-station. Now all that remains are your orders and we’ll be together again. I’ll wait forever for you, Scarlett. Forever…

  My arms and back ached as I rolled my shoulders and neck behind the desk. The storm had dumped three feet of snow over the last two days, and it had taken me the better part of two hours to dig out Georgia’s house. Could I have called the plow company? Absolutely, but winter in Colorado made my favorite workout—climbing—impossible, so I’d seen it as an opportunity. I’d also gravely underes
timated the length of the driveway.

  “Busy?” Georgia popped her head into the open office door, and I forgot every single sore muscle. “I don’t want to interrupt your flow, but I didn’t hear typing so I thought this might be an opportune moment for lunch.” Her smile would have knocked me on my ass if I hadn’t already been sitting.

  “You can have whatever moments you want.” I meant it, too. Whatever she wanted, she could have—including me.

  “Well, it’s not much, but I whipped up some grilled cheese.” She opened the door with her hip, carrying a plate with two sandwiches, and a glass of what I knew was unsweetened iced tea.

  “That sounds amazing, thank you.” I took the coaster from the top drawer and had it on the desk before she reached me. Funny how we’d both adapted so easily to the needs of the other over these last few weeks.

  “You’re very welcome. Thanks for digging us out.” She put the plate to the side of my laptop, and the tea on the coaster as I wheeled the chair back a few inches.

  “My pleasure.” I gripped her hips and pulled her into my lap. God, it felt good to be able to do that—to touch her whenever I wanted. The last two days had cut us off from most of civilization and allowed us to do nothing but indulge in pleasing each other. This was my idea of heaven.

  “This isn’t going to help you get the book done.” She smiled, looping her arms around my neck.

  “No, but it’s going to help me get my hands on you.” I slid one hand up the nape of her neck and into her hair, then kissed her until we were both breathless. My need for her hadn’t been sated; if anything, it had only grown. I was completely and totally out of my depth with her, with everything I wanted to happen between us.

  The first time I’d seen her, I’d known, and every time I kissed her, it only became more apparent—she was it for me. The one. The endgame. It didn’t matter that we lived a thousand miles apart or that she was still healing from her divorce. I’d wait. I’d prove myself. I’d do exactly as I promised and win her over, not just her body, but her heart.

  Her tongue danced with mine, and she groaned softly when I sucked it into my mouth. We weren’t just well-matched in bed, we were combustible, constantly catching fire for the other. For the first time in my life, I knew I was never going to get enough. This was something incapable of burnout.

  “Noah,” she whimpered, and my body was there, ready. I was hers to do with as she pleased, knowing it would sure as hell please me at the same time. “You’re killing me.”

  “It’s a pretty sweet way to go.” I moved my lips down her neck, running my tongue over the sensitive lines and inhaling the scent of bergamot and citrus. She always smelled so damned good.

  She sighed, rolling her head back, and I kissed the hollow of her throat.

  “What are we doing?” she asked, her fingers gripping the back of my neck.

  “Whatever we want,” I answered against her skin.

  “I’m serious,” she whispered.

  That got my attention. I lifted my head and drew back slightly, studying her expression. Half of what Georgia said never came out of her mouth. It was in her eyes, the set of her mouth, the tension in her shoulders. It might have taken me a few months to learn her cues, but I was catching on, and she was worried.

  “We’re doing whatever we want,” I repeated, shifting my hands to her waist, and ignoring the nearly painful throbbing just beneath my belt.

  “You live in New York.”

  “I do.” It wasn’t something I could deny. “You used to.” My tone softened, the hope I usually kept to myself sneaking in that last bit.

  “Never again.” She dropped her gaze. “I went for Damian. I was never happy there. You, on the other hand, love it.”

  “I do. It’s home.” Or was it? Could it be my home if Georgia wasn’t there? If I had to leave her in these mountains she loved?

  “Your family’s there.” She stroked her knuckles down my cheek. It had been over a week since I’d shaved, and my stubble had moved into beard territory.

  “They are.”

  She swallowed, her eyebrows knitting.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking, Georgia. Don’t make me guess.” My grip tightened on her slightly, as if I could keep her from slipping away.

  Still, she stayed silent, her turbulent thoughts manifesting in the subtle tightening of her jaw.

  Maybe she needs you to go first. Right. Time to tell her just how deep I was in this, how willing I was to make it work, and how unwilling I was to let her go.

  “Look, Georgia, I’m wild about—”

  “I think we should just call this what it really is,” she blurted.

  We spoke at the same time, her words halting mine.

  “And what is it?” I asked slowly.

  “A fling.” She nodded.

  My jaw snapped shut, my teeth clicking with the force. A fling? What the hell? I’d had my share of flings. This was not one of them.

  “We’re attracted to each other, working in close quarters… It was bound to happen, and don’t get me wrong. I’m glad it did.” She lifted her brows and her cheeks pinkened. “Really, really glad it did.”

  “Me too…”

  “Good. I’d hate to feel like this was all one-sided,” she muttered.

  “Trust me, it’s not.” And if it was, I was the one on the heavily invested side, which was a first.

  “Okay, then. Let’s keep it simple. I’m not ready for anything big. I can’t just jump from one serious relationship right to the next. That’s not who I want to be.” Her nose crinkled. “Even if I did just dive from Damian’s bed to yours—which is much better, by the way. Everything about you is better.” Her gaze skimmed my face. “So much better it’s scary.”

  “You don’t have to be scared.” I didn’t bother pointing out that it had been over a year since she’d been in Ellsworth’s bed, because that wasn’t what this was about, not really. Her mother. She didn’t want to be her mother. “We can keep this as simple as you need.”

  In that second, staring into those crystal blue eyes, I realized I was head over fucking heels in love with Georgia Stanton. Her mind, her compassion, her strength, her grace and grit—I loved everything about her. But I also knew she wasn’t ready for my love.

  “Simple,” she repeated, shifting in my lap but clinging to my shoulders as a tentative smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Simple is good.”

  “Simple it is.” For now. What I needed was time.

  “Okay. Good. Then we agree.” She pressed a quick kiss to my lips, then slid off my lap. “Oh, you were asking about the original manuscript for The Diplomat’s Daughter, right?”

  “Right.” I nodded, feeling more than a little off-balance. We’d agreed that this would be simple? Or was there more inferred?

  “I pulled it out of the upstairs closet,” she said, taking a shirt box from off the office bookshelves and putting it on an empty patch of desk. “She has all her originals up there.”

  “Thank you.” I knew what she was trusting me with, and on any other day I would have been ecstatic to dig further into the oddest literary puzzle I’d ever stumbled onto, but my head wasn’t quite in the game.

  “I have a phone call with the lawyers to finalize Gran’s foundation in a few minutes, so I’ll leave you to it.” She came around the desk and kissed me, quick and hard, before walking toward the door.

  “Georgia?” I called out just before she reached the foyer.

  “Hmm?” She turned and lifted her brows, so damned beautiful that my heart actually ached.

  “What exactly did we just agree to?” I asked. “Between us?”

  “A book-writing fling,” she answered with a smile, like it was obvious. “Simple, no strings, and over when you finish the book.” She shrugged. “Right?”

  Over when the book was finished.
r />   My hands curled into fists over the arms of the chair. “Sure. Right.”

  Her phone rang, and she tugged the device from her back pocket. “See you when you hit your word count.” She flashed me a smile, answered the call, and closed the door all in one smooth motion.

  Now our relationship was on the same deadline as the book, and sure, I’d always planned on leaving after I finished, but being with Georgia had changed things…at least for me.

  Shit. The one thing I needed to win her over was time, and I was closer to finishing than she knew. Closer than I was willing to admit.

  …

  I finished the book—both versions—four weeks later. Then I sat in the office and stared at two files on my desktop.

  My time was up.

  My deadline was the day after tomorrow.

  I’d done it, somehow satisfying both Georgia’s requirement and nailing mine, while keeping my contracted dates, and yet there was no feeling of pride or accomplishment, just sheer terror that I wouldn’t be able to hold on to the woman I’d fallen for.

  I’d only had four weeks, and it wasn’t enough. Georgia was opening up, but the parts of her I needed to trust me were still boarded up tight. We were still a fling to her. Just when I thought she might change her mind, she’d mention making the best of what time we had, and now that time was over.

  My phone rang and I answered it on speakerphone. “Hey, Adrienne.”

  “So you’re not coming home for Christmas?” my sister asked, more than a little judgment in her tone.

  “That is a complicated question.” I closed my laptop and pushed it to the far side of the desk. I’d deal with my existential crisis later.

  “It’s really not. You’re either going to be in New York on December twenty-fifth, or you’re not.”

  “I’m not sure yet.” I stood and arranged four of the shirt boxes I’d borrowed on the desk in front of me, then opened and nestled each of them inside their own lids. I was missing something here. Something right in front of me that was driving me up a wall. The manuscripts were from different points in Scarlett’s career. Her edited, published works were smoother, of course, but I couldn’t help but be fascinated by the stylistic differences between her earlier works and the later ones, couldn’t help but wonder if losing Jameson hadn’t just broken her heart, but changed her fundamentally.