Red. Blue. Yellow.
Red. Blue. Yellow.
Red. Blue. Yellow.
She kept her mind on task, knowing if she let herself wander, she couldn’t fulfill her duty. Without her and the women around her, the control officers couldn’t relay coordinates to the pilots in the air.
Without her, Jameson was flying blind. She’d tried to watch for the 609 yellow flags on top of the raid markers, signaling which raids they’d engaged, but there was no time for any section of the board but her own.
On hour four, she should have taken a break, but her replacement hadn’t arrived. She tried to not think of possible reasons why.
On hour eight, that break would have been over. Four hours on, four hours off—that was the rule.
On hour nine, Constance took over the section to her right.
At hour ten, Constance pushed a marker into Scarlett’s section, as she’d done countless times before as flights moved across the map. But this time she took the scant seconds to make eye contact with her sister.
The marker had a 609 flag.
Jameson.
Scarlett’s heart lurched. She hadn’t spoken to him since the hangar. She’d hoped like hell that he’d flown and returned and might have been resting, but the pit in her stomach told her he was with his squadron, engaged against an estimated thirty German aircraft.
Every five minutes, she returned to that marker, moving it across the coastline and swapping out the arrow for the next color. Every five minutes, she allowed herself one fervent prayer that he would make it through the night.
Even if he chose not to believe her about Henry.
Even if she never saw him again.
She needed to know that he was all right.
Thank God she hadn’t been assigned with the control officer, where she could hear the voices of the pilots come through the radio. It would have driven her mad to hear the losses reported.
By hour twelve, her arms trembled with exhaustion. The 609 flag had disappeared from her section as the board slowed. No doubt it would fill again by nightfall. The raids came in waves, each one taking a little more than they could afford to lose.
Two more Radio Direction Finding stations had been lost.
She’d lost count of how many RAF bases they’d bombed.
How many more hits could the airfields sustain? How many more fighters could they lose? How many more pilots—
“You ready?” Constance asked as they passed through the doorway of the operations room.
“Yes,” she answered, her voice thick with lack of use.
“Your poor knees.” Constance’s brows knit.
Scarlett glanced down at the clean skirt her Section Officer had insisted she change into, since hers had been ruined by rips and blood, and glimpsed her scabbed-over knees. “It’s nothing.”
“Let’s get you into a bath.” Constance offered her a shaky smile and linked their elbows. “Christine, would you mind driving?”
“Not at all.”
“Assistant Section Officer Wright?” a high, feminine voice called across the small lobby.
Both women turned to see their section officer stride forward.
“Scarlett,” she clarified, beckoning her with a hand.
Scarlett gave her sister a pat on the shoulder, then met Section Officer Gibson in the middle of the small lobby. “Ma’am?”
“I wanted to commend you for keeping your wits about you tonight. There aren’t many girls who could perform for twelve straight hours, and even fewer who could do so after…experiencing a raid.” Her lips were tight, but the older woman’s eyes were soft.
“Just doing my job, ma’am,” Scarlett answered. There were men doing far more than she was in far worse circumstances. Doing her best was the least she owed them.
“Indeed.” She dismissed her with a nod, but there was a hint of a smile before she turned to walk away.
She joined Constance at the door, and then the pair walked into the morning sunlight. Scarlett blinked, the light stinging her eyes despite her hat. Eight in the morning had never felt quite so brutal.
Her breath caught, and she gasped at the tall figure standing in the middle of the pavement in service uniform.
“Jameson,” she whispered, her knees nearly giving out in relief.
…
He covered the distance between them, eating her alive with his eyes. She was okay. He’d flown two missions last night, breaking only to refuel and eat before launching again, and he’d worried about her the entire time.
“The thing about you working Special Duties is there’s no one who will confirm that you made it to work.” His voice came out sandpaper rough, and he didn’t care.
“Right. They wouldn’t.” Her gaze raked over him, as if she needed the same reassurance he did—they were both alive.
Her sister glanced between them. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”
“I’ll take her home,” Jameson offered, unable to look away from Scarlett. “That is, if you’d like me to.”
Scarlett nodded, and Constance slipped away.
Only feet separated them, and he knew his next words would either narrow or widen that gap, so he chose them carefully. He took her hand and led her from the sidewalk, through the short grass, until they were hidden from view and shaded by the heavy limbs of a giant oak tree.
There was worry in those blue eyes as she looked up at him. Worry, and relief, and the same longing he felt every time he looked at her.
Maybe the right words weren’t words.
He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her.
…
Finally. She felt as though she’d been waiting a lifetime for this man, this kiss, this moment, and it was finally here. There was no hesitation on her part, no gasp of surprise as he stroked his lips across hers, kissing her softly.
She slid her hands up his chest, resting them just above his heart. Then she kissed him back, rising on her toes to press her mouth to his. It was as though he’d set a match to a pile of tinder—she went up in flames.
He deepened the kiss, gliding his tongue across her lower lip before drawing it between his. Yes. She wanted more of that. When she opened to him, his tongue swept inside, stroking hers as he learned the curves of her mouth.
He was good at this.
Heat licked its way down her spine, igniting her skin and singeing her common sense into a hasty retreat. Her hands fisted in his uniform, and she threw herself into the kiss, yanking him closer even as she felt them moving backward. Her back hit the tree, and she barely blinked. He tasted like apples and something deeper, darker. More. She wanted more.
She wanted to kiss Jameson every day for the rest of her life.
She felt his groan throughout her body when she explored his mouth the way he had hers, finally drawing his lower lip between her teeth lightly.
“Scarlett.” He swore against her lips, then took her mouth over and over, moving his hand to her waist to pull her closer.
Nothing was close enough. She wanted to feel his every breath, every heartbeat, wanted to live inside that kiss where there were no bombs, no raids, nothing that would pry him from her arms.
She lifted her hands to his neck and arched against him as his lips slid to the curve of her jaw. Pure, insistent need unfurled in her belly, and her fingernails bit into his skin as she gasped at the sensation. He worked his lips down her neck in hot, open-mouthed kisses, and she tilted to give him better access.
He reached the collar of her uniform and, with a groan, brought his mouth back to hers. The kiss spiraled, taking her with it. She’d never felt so consumed by another person in her life, never willingly given this much of herself. In the midst of letting go, she stumbled onto the truth she’d been too hesitant, too cautious to admit until now: Jameson was the only one she would
ever want like this.
He gripped her hips with strong hands, then slowed the kiss until it was nothing more than soft brushes of his lips against hers.
“Jameson,” she whispered as he rested his forehead on hers.
“When I saw those explosions coming for us, I didn’t know how to protect you.” His grip tightened.
“You can’t,” she said softly. “There’s nothing either of us can do to keep the other alive.” Her fingers caressed the nape of his neck.
“I know, and it’s killing me.”
Her stomach tightened. “I’m not marrying him. I need you to know that. I spent all night watching the waves of the raids, and the thought of losing you—of you up there, thinking God knows what…” She shook her head. “I’m not marrying him.”
“I know.” He kissed her again, light and soft. “I should have let you explain. The shock just about ripped me apart.”
“There will be more,” she warned him. “If my parents went this far, they’ll go further. There will be more rumors, more articles, more pressure. As long as you know the truth of it, I can handle them.”
He nodded and swallowed, a pained look crossing his face before he brought his gaze back to hers. The intensity she found there stole her breath. “I’m in love with you, Scarlett Wright. I’ve done everything I can to fight it, to take it slower, to give you what time and space you need. But this war isn’t going to give us that time, and after last night, I’m not hiding it anymore. I’m in love with you.”
A sweet ache began to throb in her chest. “I’m in love with you, too.” What was the point of avoiding it, of not giving in, when neither of them knew if they’d be alive tomorrow?
The smile that lit his face was echoed on hers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to feel that happiness radiate, to sink into every fiber of her being. But now that they’d admitted it, what were they going to do with it?
“There’s talk of the Americans getting their own squadron,” she whispered. Another squadron meant a transfer.
“I’ve heard.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
“What are we going to do?” Her voice broke on the last word.
“We’re going to face it all head-on. Your parents, the war, the whole Royal Air Force,” he said with a flash of a smile. “We’ll do it together. You are mine, Scarlett Wright, and I am yours, and from this second on, we don’t keep secrets.”
She nodded, then kissed him sweetly. “Okay. Now take me home before we do something that gets us both court-martialed.”
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”
She knew that what was coming for them might very well crush this new, fierce feeling that filled her chest, but for this moment, they were safe, they were together, and they were in love.
Chapter Nine
Georgia
Dearest Jameson,
Here we are again, writing letters. I would give anything to reach through this paper, to stretch across the long miles between us just to touch you, to feel your heartbeat. How many more times can this war separate us before we’re simply allowed to be happy? I know we’re lucky, that we’ve been stationed together longer than most, but I am greedy when it comes to you, and there is no replacement for feeling your arms around me. But don’t worry, my arms only hold the other Mr. Stanton, and he makes every day we’re apart just a little brighter…
I glared down at my phone for what felt like the billionth time that week. Just when I thought Noah might understand, that he might actually grasp the simple fact that I wasn’t backing down, he’d call again and suggest some cheesy conclusion to Gran’s story, and each was worse than the last.
Like right now.
“I’m sorry…did you just say he pops out of a Christmas present?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at the screen, making sure that was actually Noah on the other end. Yep, that was his number, his low—and I could admit, begrudgingly—sexy voice, spinning an absolutely ludicrous tale.
“Exactly. Just picture it—”
“You have lost your mind, and you might just be driving me to lose mine in the proce—” That was it. My eyes narrowed. “That isn’t your real ending, is it? None of these are.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. That is a joyful celebration of love and hope.” He was good. He even sounded offended.
“Uh-huh. You’re giving me blatantly bad, corny endings to wear me down so I won’t dismiss your actual idea, aren’t you?” I finished pouring my sweet tea and headed for Gran’s office—my office.
“Actually, I had a more…poignant idea, too.” There was a sound like a soft crash, like he’d thrown himself onto his couch—or bed.
Not that I was thinking about his bed, because I wasn’t.
“Okay. Please, do tell.” I set the tea on the coaster and fired up my computer. I’d put off everything possible during the divorce, which meant I had six months of estate work for Gran to dig out of, but I was almost through it.
“So there they are on a passenger ship halfway across the Atlantic, thinking they’ve made it out, and bam! A U-boat sinks them.”
My mouth dropped open. “Well, that’s…dark.” But at least he was giving my stance some real thought, right?
“Just wait. So as the ship goes down, he gets them to a lifeboat, but there’s just not enough room, and Scarlett is torn between taking that remaining seat for William’s safety and fighting the panicked crowd for another boat.”
My brow furrowed. Wait a second.
“Throw in some action to keep the reader on the edge of their seat, but in the end, it’s just them in the water, Jameson pushing Scarlett up onto what’s left of the wreckage—”
“Oh my God, I know you are not giving me the ending to Titanic!” My voice pitched high enough that I winced.
“Hey, you wanted sad.”
“Unbelievable. Are you always this hard to work with?”
“I wouldn’t know, because I don’t work with anyone but Adam, who can’t even start editing this novel until I get it done.” His tone sharpened. “So are you ready to discuss actual options here?”
“Like what? He flies in and lands on the street in front of their house? Or wait, I know, he chases her through the port in a mad dash to catch her before she boards a boat in a reimagined rom-com from hell scene with a forties twist?” I hammered the keys of my laptop with my password. “None of that is happening.”
“I was actually thinking more of a puppy with a little key on its collar—” He’d slipped into sarcasm.
“Ugh!” I hung up.
Mom popped through the door with a smile. “Everything okay?”
“Yep. Just dealing with—” My phone rang again. “Noah,” I said in sheer exasperation as his name appeared on my screen. “What?” I snapped into the phone.
“Do you have any idea how childish it is to keep hanging up on someone you agreed to partner with?” he asked with a voice so smooth and unbothered, it only irked me more.
“The satisfaction it brings me is more than worth what could be seen as a lack of maturity.” Or maybe I was simply reveling in the fact that I could hang up. That I wasn’t at anyone’s beck and call for the first time in six years.
“On that note, how about we end in a beautiful orchard, where they’re picnicking—”
“Noah,” I warned.
“Only to have Jameson stung by a bee—no, dozens of bees, and he’s allergic—”
“It isn’t My Girl!”
Mom’s eyebrows hit the ceiling.
“You’re right, so let’s talk about how to really give them a happy ending readers can root for.”
“Goodbye, Noah.” I hung up.
“Georgia!” Mom gasped.
“What?” I shrugged. “I said goodbye. Don’t worry. He’ll call back tomorrow, and we’
ll start all over again.” We’d been going round and round for weeks now.
“Is everything okay with the book?” Mom asked, sitting in the same chair Noah had. Things between us were still awkward—but I figured they always would be, and I had to admit, it was more than nice having her here. Knowing she planned to stay through Christmas had eased the tension and even given me a little hope that we might find some real footing. After all, we only really had each other now that Gran was gone.
I rubbed the skin between my eyes. “He’s still fighting me on the ending.”
“Is that what’s holding everything up?”
Opening my eyes, I found her staring at a framed picture of Gran and Grandpa William when he was in his twenties. I’d never known him—he’d died when Mom was sixteen.
I’d been born less than a year later.
“Well, it’s certainly holding him up, since he refuses to actually start it until we agree what should happen in the end.” I’d never been so grateful for a contract clause in my life. “If he had his way, it would be all hearts and rainbows.”
Mom’s forehead puckered as she looked back to me. “Like the rest of her books.”
“Pretty much.” A quick glance at my watch told me I had twenty minutes before my scheduled call with the lawyers.
“And you think that’s a bad thing?”
I swiveled in the wheeled armchair and grabbed the two-inch-thick binder my legal team had overnighted last week. “I think it’s wrong for this story.”
“But isn’t he…” Mom pressed her lips in a tight line.
“Say it.” I flipped the binder open.
“Well, he’s the expert, Gigi. You’re…not.”
I paused mid-page-flip at the use of that name. “He very well might be the expert at crafting his own story, but if it’s between Noah Harrison and myself, when it comes to Gran, then I’d say I’m the expert.” Page flipped.
“I just think it’s a little ridiculous to hold up the entire contract because you’re having creative differences. Don’t you?” She crossed her legs as her forehead puckered in concern. “Isn’t it best to just get this all over with so you can really dig in to your life here?”
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 11