The Things We Leave Unfinished

by Rebecca Yarros

  “Guess your friend didn’t show you every article,” I teased. I liked that she was neat. Not that I had any business liking anything about her, to include the way her shorts clung to her very nice ass, but there I was, doing it anyway. How had that ass escaped my attention last time I was here? Or those mile-long legs? You had other, more important things on your mind. “So the first two are in?” My eyes trailed down the nape of her neck as she returned to her seat.

  “Depends on how much you’re pissing me off at the moment.” She lifted a shoulder.

  “And right now?”

  Her gaze swept over me from head to toe and back up again, taking in my cargo shorts and NYU shirt. I would have worn the Armani had I known there’d be a test.

  “I’d say you’re a solid seven.” Again, she pulled it off straight-faced.

  Nice. I lifted a single brow. “And when I’m pissing you off?”

  “You slide right off the scale into the negatives.”

  I laughed. Damn, how long had it been since a woman had made me laugh so many times in just a few minutes?

  She folded her hands on the island, and her energy shifted. “Tell me why you’re really here, Noah.”

  “I promised—”

  “So, what? You’re just going to stand in my kitchen and make me tea?” Her chin lifted. “I know you’re here about the book.”

  I studied her carefully, taking in the rise of color in her cheeks and the spark in her eyes. She was mostly back to what I’d consider normal, but in all honesty, I didn’t have a baseline when it came to Georgia Stanton. I was flying blind.

  “You want to get out of here?” I asked.

  “What do you have in mind?” She looked more than skeptical.

  “How’s your life insurance?”

  …

  “No,” she said a half hour later as she stared up at the rock face that stretched a hundred feet above us.

  “It’s fun,” I argued, gesturing to a couple of guys who were all grins as they packed up their equipment. “See, they think it’s fun.”

  “You have lost your mind if you think I’m climbing that.” She lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head so I could see just how serious she was.

  “I didn’t say you had to climb the whole thing,” I argued. “There’s a less challenging path right over there.” That one was only thirty-or-so feet, and my niece could easily do it, not that I was about to say that to Georgia.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” she whispered as the other climbers walked past on the trail.

  “We have equipment.” I gave the shoulder strap of my backpack a pat. “I brought an extra harness.” I eyed her footwear. “Your shoes aren’t exactly what I’d recommend, but they’ll do until we can get you some good ones.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “When you said, throw on some active wear and let’s go for a hike, I assumed, shockingly, that we were hiking.” She gestured to her Lululemon-covered body.

  “We did hike,” I argued. “It was half a mile to get up here from the trailhead.”

  “Semantics, again!” she snapped, putting her hands on her very nice hips.

  Stop looking at her fucking hips.

  “What are you afraid of?” I turned my Mets cap backward and shoved my glasses to the top of my head.

  “Falling off the mountain!” She pointed to the rock face. “It’s a pretty realistic fear when you think about climbing it.”

  “Think of it as vertical hiking.” I shrugged.

  “Unreal.” She jabbed her finger in my direction.

  “I was only kidding about the life insurance comment. I won’t let you fall.” Ever. She’d already been let down too many times.

  She scoffed. “Okay. Right. And how exactly are you going to prevent it?” She lifted her eyebrows.

  “I’ll be your belay partner and control the rope in case you fall. See, we put the harness on—”

  “Why the hell do you even have an extra harness? Do you just fly around the United States, hoping to pick up women climbers?” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “No.” Though I couldn’t help but wonder if that thought was spurring her on or not. Sure, it made me an ass, but the thought of Georgia getting all worked up out of jealousy was pretty fucking hot. “It’s my extra harness in case mine breaks. I like to climb, therefore, I bring my equipment when I’m going somewhere with mountains…you know, like Colorado.”

  “How did you even know about this place, anyway?” she asked, still downright hostile.

  “I found it the last time I was here.”

  She tilted her head.

  “During the days I was waiting for you to decide if I was good enough to—”

  “You promised!” And the finger was back again.

  I pressed my lips in a tight line and breathed in through my nose for a count of three. “Georgia, I’m not going to force you up that rock face—”

  “As if you could.”

  “—but I am promising that if you choose to climb, I will not let you fall off the mountain.” I lowered my face to hers, making sure she knew I was serious.

  My best friend thinks I should jump you. My brain was pretty much a broken record after hearing that.

  “Because you control gravity?” She blinked.

  I had never met a more frustrating woman in my life.

  “Because I’m going to—”

  She lifted that brow again.

  I sighed. “If you wanted to climb, I would go first and hook the rope up. I scouted it the first time I was here.”

  Her brows lowered. “And what would keep you from falling off?”

  I swung the backpack from my shoulders and shook it lightly. “I’d clip in. We’re not talking about Yosemite here. It’s pretty well-traveled. Then as you climbed, I’d have you on belay, so if you did slip off, you’d just hang there dangling until you found your footing.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You what?”

  I lifted the backpack slightly. “You would be attached to one end of the rope, and I would have the other.”

  She drew back.

  “You’d be safe,” I promised.

  She shook her head, her mouth tightening.

  A thought dawned on me. “Georgia, if you don’t want to climb because you’re scared of heights, or you don’t want to scrape up your hands, or you just flat don’t want to, that’s fine.”

  “I know that.” Her eyes said she hadn’t known that. What? Like I was going to shove her up the mountain while she begged me not to?

  “Right.” My chest ached. “But if you don’t want to climb because you think I’ll drop you, then that’s a whole other matter. I promise you that I will not drop you.” I kept my voice even and low, hoping she’d hear the truth in my words. “I’m really good at this.”

  She swallowed, then glanced at the bag. “I barely know you.”

  “See? More articles your best friend missed out on. You can run a google search on my climbing history if we’ve got service up here. It’s pretty well documented that I’m an avid climber, and I don’t just mean the easy stuff.”

  Her forehead puckered. “I never said you weren’t.”

  My stomach lurched. “So it’s not my skill level you’re worried about,” I said slowly.

  She averted her gaze and shifted her weight. “You could be a serial killer,” she suggested, sarcasm dripping from her tone as she lifted her hands.

  Deflecting. She uses humor to deflect.

  “I’m not.”

  “You kill off a lot of people in your books. Just saying.” She looked up the rock face, tilting her head back.

  “Not through homicide, and now who’s talking about books?”

  A smile tugged at her lips.

  “Besides, there are three other climbers right there.” I pointed t
o a group midway up the face. “Pretty sure they’d rat me out if I murdered you in broad daylight.”

  She stared at the other climbers silently.

  “You’re not going to climb, are you?” I asked quietly.

  She shook her head, her lips pursing as she watched the other climbers.

  Her refusal stung. It shouldn’t have, and I knew it, but it still did. “Want to hike up the rest of the trail?”

  Her head snapped my way in surprise. “You can climb. I’m happy to watch.”

  “I didn’t come up here for me.” I’d brought her in hopes that the fresh air would help clear out whatever had taken her down earlier.

  She winced. “I’d still hate to make you miss out. Go ahead. I’m fine.” She nodded, plastering on a smile so fake, it was almost comical.

  “I’d rather hike with you. Come on.” I nodded back toward the trail and slipped my pack over my shoulders.

  “You’re sure?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s not you.” She sucked in a breath, then glanced back up at the rock wall. “The last man who promised to keep me safe screwed his lead and dropped me on my ass,” she said softly. “But I’m sure you already know that. Everyone knows that.”

  If I’d been the serial killer she’d joked about, Damian Ellsworth would have been my first victim.

  “And after today…” She shook her head, the edges of her mouth trembling. “Today just isn’t a good day for the whole trust fall thing. So let’s get going.” She forced another smile, then took off up the trail.

  She doesn’t trust you. I swore under my breath as I realized that was the same reason she wouldn’t let me finish the book how I wanted.

  It all came down to trust.

  I steadied myself before striding after her, cursing at the irony. I’d spent the majority of my life making sure I lived by my word, and now it was being questioned by a woman so jaded even I couldn’t dig out of the hole someone else had dug.

  Guess it was good that I was an expert climber.

  “So how long are you here for?” she asked as we continued the hike.

  “Until I finish the book.” My lungs burned as we pushed up the trail. “And, since my deadline is in two and a half months, I’d guess I’ll be here about that long.”

  “What? Really?”

  “Really.”

  Two little lines appeared between her brows. “So where are you staying?”

  “I rented a little place down the road,” I replied, a smug smile quirking at my lips.

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. It’s called Grantham Cottage.”

  She stopped in the middle of the trail, so I turned around and kept walking backward, savoring the surprise and horror on her face. “Like I said, hang up on me now, neighbor.”

  The look on her face made the hassle of tracking down a rental entirely worth it.

  Chapter Twelve

  November 1940

  Kirton-in-Lindsey

  It was different being surrounded by other Americans now that Jameson was in the 71st Eagle Squadron. Almost like being back home, except they weren’t anywhere near it.

  “They’re all so young,” Howard muttered as they watched the new recruits at their first beer call. It was an English tradition he’d been all too glad to keep, seeing as it wasn’t just about the camaraderie. This was where they had it out when disputes needed to be settled.

  “Most of them are the same age we are,” Andy countered, leaning back against the walls of their newly acquired rest room. They’d been lucky enough to fall in on a collection of armchairs to mix in with the harsh wicker ones that sat scattered around the space, but the three of them stood apart in more than the physical sense.

  “Not really,” Jameson said. “Not in the way that matters.” The three of them had seen combat. War was no longer something romantic, something to glorify. These new kids were just that, kids. They’d all been freshly delivered via Canada, having smuggled themselves out of the States in hopes of joining The Eagles.

  Overnight, those—like Jameson—who had considered themselves rookies throughout the Battle of Britain were now the veterans. The new Americans were all pilots, but most of them were commercial. They’d flown supplies or even people. They’d dusted crops. They’d showboated in front of crowds.

  They’d never shot another man out of the sky.

  There were a few who had, and they’d already lost one back to 64 squadron. Not that Jameson blamed him. They’d been plucked from daily missions and tossed into training now for six weeks, and the frustration over their uselessness was mounting. They were needed in the sky.

  This was bullshit.

  “Maybe Art was right to leave,” Howard grumbled before draining half his beer.

  “You read my mind.” Jameson looked down at his full glass. It wasn’t as satisfying as it had been when they’d done this after a mission. It felt…fake, like they were playing at being fighter pilots.

  At least the unit had been moved to Kirton-in-Lindsey last week. That was one step closer to being operational. Unfortunately, they’d transferred the Buffaloes with them.

  The American aircraft didn’t perform well at high altitude, and that was the least of its problems. The engine overheated regularly, the cockpit controls weren’t dependable, and it lacked the armament they’d come to depend on. Sure, the new men liked the open, airy cockpit, but they’d never flown a Spitfire.

  Jameson missed his Spitfire almost as much as he missed Scarlett.

  God, he missed Scarlett. It had been nearly two months since he’d seen her, and he was slowly going out of his mind. If not for the unit move, he would have made the trip to Middle Wallop already—he was that desperate to look into those blue eyes. She’d spent her October leave with her parents, which was understandable, but according to her letter, it hadn’t gone well. He hated the pressure that loving him put her under. It wasn’t fair that she was forced to choose between her family and Jameson, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit his happiness at being the one chosen.

  Without flying combat missions, he had more downtime, which meant she was never far from his mind. His letters increased from twice a week to three times, and sometimes even four. He wrote the letters as though he were talking to her, as though she were there with him, hearing how much he missed her. How much he longed for her. He told her stories from his childhood and did his best to paint a picture of life in his tiny hometown.

  Even now he smiled, just thinking about taking her to Poplar Grove. His mother would love her. Scarlett always said exactly what she meant. She never minced words or played games. She wasn’t coy or flirtatious, either. She guarded her emotions the same way she protected her sister—someone was only given access once they’d proven their worth.

  Sometimes he felt like he was still proving his.

  “Hey, Stanton!” One of the men called over with a distinctly Boston accent. “Is it true you’ve got an English sweetie?”

  “It is.” Jameson’s grip tightened on his glass.

  “Well, where do you find one?” He lifted his eyebrows, and some of the new guys laughed.

  “Don’t let him get to you,” Howard said under his breath.

  “I picked her up on the side of the road,” Jameson answered in a deadpan.

  “She have any friends?” the rookie prodded. “We could all use a little friendly company, if you get my meaning.”

  “Okay, now you can let it get to you.” Howard whacked Jameson’s shoulder.

  “How is Christine, anyway?” Jameson asked with a slight tilt to his lips.

  “Far away. Very far away.”

  “She does have friends,” Jameson said loudly, so this jerk could hear him. “None of them would be interested in meeting you, but she does have them.”

  “Oh!”
The men howled.

  The man flushed. “Well, her standards couldn’t be too high if she’s with you, Stanton.”

  Right, these guys are still in the whip-it-out-and-measure stage. Andy rolled his eyes, and Howard finished off his beer.

  “She is definitely out of my league, boys.” Jameson nodded thoughtfully. “But she’d chew you up and spit you out before you even got close, Boston.”

  Howard lurched, spraying beer through his lips onto the floor in front of them. Every head turned toward him as he wiped the remains of his drink from his chin and pointed toward the door on the far end of the room. “She’s also here.”

  Jameson’s head whipped toward the entry, and his heart stopped.

  Scarlett stood in the doorway, her jacket folded over an arm.

  She looked like heaven.

  Her glossy black hair was pinned back, barely brushing the collar of her uniform. Her cheeks were pink, her lips curved in a barely contained smile, and damn, he could see the blue of her eyes from here. She was here. At his base. In his rest room. She was here.

  He was halfway across the room before he’d even thought to move, abandoning his beer on the nearest table as he went. A few short strides and he was home, sucking in his breath at the warmth of her skin as one of his hands cupped the back of her neck and the other palmed her waist.

  “You’re here,” he whispered, awestruck as she smiled up at him. This wasn’t a dream. She was real.

  “I’m here,” she answered just as softly.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his grip tightened at the hunger that threatened to consume him. He needed her kiss more than he needed his next breath, but he wasn’t about to do it here. Not in front of the jackass who’d implied he needed company.

  “For how long?” he asked, his stomach pitching at the knowledge that it was most likely only a few hours. He would have met her halfway if she’d told him. He wanted as much time as he could get with her.

  “About that…” Her grin turned playful. “Do you have a minute?”

  “I have a lifetime.” Which he’d offered her…and she’d refused, but he was trying incredibly hard not to think about that part.