“I also know you don’t like me, but don’t worry, I’ve made it my personal mission in life to win you over.” A self-deprecating grin materialized for the length of a heartbeat before he wiped it away, rubbing his fingers over his lips as he looked down at the desk with open admiration.
The energy in the room shifted, easing some of my tension from my shoulders as he slowly brought those dark eyes back to mine.
“I will do this right,” he promised. “And if I don’t, then you pull it. You have the final say.” Only the slight tick of his jaw gave away his nervousness.
“And you have an out in the contract, too, if you read it and decide you’re just not up for the challenge.” I’d have bet that he was a hell of a poker player, but I’d learned to spot a bluff a mile away when I was eight. Lucky for him, he was telling the truth. He honestly believed that he could finish the book.
“I won’t use it. When I commit, I commit.”
Just this once, I allowed myself to be comforted by someone else’s confidence. Arrogance. Whatever.
I glanced at the lone photo Gran kept on her desk, right next to the paperweight I’d made her in Murano. It was of her and Grandpa Jameson, both in uniform, so lost in each other that my chest ached for what they’d had…and lost. I’d never loved Damian like that. I wasn’t even sure Gran had loved Grandpa Brian like that, either.
That was the real stuff, right there.
I signed my name on the contract and clicked enter, sending it off to the publisher as Mom walked in with the drinks, smiling from ear to ear.
She handed us our lemonade, and I retrieved two coasters from the desk drawer—not that there was much condensation to be had up here at eight thousand feet. But still. I wasn’t risking this desk to anything.
“Did you sign it?” Mom’s tone was calm, but she was white-knuckling her own hands.
I nodded.
Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Good. It’s all done, then?”
“Publisher has to sign it, but yes,” I answered.
“Thank you, Georgia.” Her lower lip trembled slightly as she gripped my shoulder, caressing me with her thumb before letting go with two pats.
“Of course, Mom.” My throat tightened.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to wait a few more minutes,” Noah said. “Charles told me they’d sign it immediately, and I’d much rather the deal be finalized before I take the manuscript off your hands.”
“Naturally,” Mom answered as she moved toward the door. “I will say, Noah—you look good at Gran’s desk. It’s nice to have your kind of creative genius in here again.”
Your kind of creative genius? My stomach twisted.
“Well, it’s an honor to be in Scarlett Stanton’s office,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve both gotten a lot of inspiration from this place.”
Mom’s brow puckered. “Funny you should mention it, but Georgia actually did go to some art school on the east coast. Not that she uses her degree, but we’re all very proud.”
Heat rushed up my neck, setting my cheeks on fire as my twisting stomach plummeted to the floor.
“It wasn’t just any art school, Mom. It was the Rhode Island School of Design. It’s the Harvard of art schools,” I reminded her. “And I might not have used my studio major, but my concentration in media and technology definitely helped get my production company off the ground.” Holy shit, was I five years old again? Because it sure felt like it.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought you gave away money for a living.” She gave me a reassuring smile.
I pressed my lips together and nodded. This wasn’t the time or place for this fight. I ran a twenty-million-dollar charity, for fuck’s sake, but okay.
She shut the door behind her, and Noah raised his eyebrows at me. “Do I want to know?”
“Nope.” I clicked refresh on my inbox a little harder than necessary and avoided his eyes at all costs. “Feel free to look around the room and get a feel for her,” I offered, clicking again.
“Thanks.” He moved around Gran’s office in silence for the next ten minutes while I hit the refresh button so often, my mouse sounded like morse code.
“You’re in a lot of these pictures,” he noted, leaning in toward Gran’s photo gallery.
“She raised me.” That was the simplest explanation to both the question he’d asked and the one he hadn’t.
He studied me for an awkward moment, then moved on.
“Oh, thank God,” I muttered, opening the notification that the contract had been accepted. I took the thumb drive I’d spent the last few days preparing and walked it over to him. “It’s here. Deal is done.”
“What’s this?” His brow furrowed.
“It’s the manuscript, the letters, and a few pictures.” I pressed it into his palm. “Now you have everything.”
His fingers wrapped around the drive, but his entire frame tensed. “I want the actual manuscript.”
“Good, because it’s here.” I gestured to his palm. “I scanned everything in, and before you argue, the chances of you walking out that door with my gran’s originals are zero and zero. Even she used to make a copy before sending it to her editor.”
“But I’m not the editor. I’m now the writer who is finishing the original manuscript.” His jaw ticked, and I got the feeling he wasn’t used to losing. Ever.
“Were you planning on typing it out on this thing, too?” I nodded toward Gran’s typewriter. “Just to keep it authentic?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Just checking. Originals stay. Period. Or hey, feel free to use that out.” Originals never left the house, and he wasn’t the exception just because he was pretty. Our eyes warred in a silent argument, but eventually he nodded.
“I’ll begin reading tonight and will call you with my thoughts when I’m finished. Once we agree on the direction of the plot, I’ll start writing.”
I walked him to the door, unable to kick the nervousness tightening my chest. “You said you know the worth of what I just handed to you.”
“I do.”
Our gazes collided, the electricity—chemistry, attraction, whatever it was—coursing between us enough to raise goose bumps on my arm. “Earn it.”
His dark eyes flared at the challenge. “I’ll give them the happily-ever-after they deserve.”
My hand tightened on the doorknob. “Oh, no. That’s the one thing you can’t do.”
Chapter Six
August 1940
Middle Wallop, England
Scarlett’s heart clenched as she watched Jameson whirl Constance around the small dance floor of the local pub. He took so much care with Constance because he knew how precious she was to Scarlett, which only made her like him more.
Too much, too soon, too fast…it was all of that and then some, but she couldn’t bring herself to slow it down.
“You’re falling for him, aren’t you?” one of his American friends—Howard Reed, if she remembered correctly—asked from across their table, his arm wrapped around Christine, another filter officer who bunked in the same hut as Scarlett.
Christine glanced over the top of the newspaper she was reading. The headlines were more than enough to convince Scarlett to look away.
“I…couldn’t say,” Scarlett answered, even as heat bloomed in her cheeks, giving her away. She was with Jameson every free moment they had, and between his flight hours and her schedule, there weren’t a lot of moments to be had between them.
She’d only known him for three weeks, and yet she couldn’t remember what the world had felt like before. There were now two eras in her life—before Jameson, and now.
She filed the after Jameson in the same category as after the war. Both were obscure enough concepts that she refused to waste her time examining either of them, especially
now. Since the Battle of Britain, as Churchill had called it, had begun a few weeks ago, and the Germans had begun bombing various airfields around Britain, their time together had taken on the sharp, undeniable taste of desperation—an urgency to grasp on to what they could while they had it.
Work had picked up, too. Their schedule was grueling, and she found herself placing flags for Jameson’s own patrols on the map, marking his current location and holding her breath as the news came in minute by minute from the radio operators. She noticed every time a 609 flag moved, even if it wasn’t on her section of the board.
“Yeah, well, he’s sweet on you, too,” Howard remarked with a grin.
The song came to an end, but there was no band to clap for, just a record to be changed.
Jameson escorted Constance through the sea of uniforms and back to the table.
“Dance with me, Scarlett,” he said, offering his hand and a smile that stripped away her defenses.
“Of course.” She traded places with her sister, then slid into Jameson’s arms as a slower tune started up.
“I’m glad I got to see you tonight,” he said into her hair.
“I hate that it’s only for a few hours.” She rested her cheek on his chest and breathed him in. He always smelled like soap, aftershave lotion, and the tang of metal that seemed to cling to his skin even between patrols.
“I’ll take a few hours with you on a Wednesday night whenever I get the chance,” he promised softly.
His heartbeat was strong and steady as they swayed. Here was the only place she felt safe or certain about anything lately. There was nothing in this world that compared to the feel of his arms around her.
“I wish I could stay here, just like this,” she said softly, her fingers making lazy circles on the shoulder of his uniform.
“We can.” His hand splayed on her lower back without venturing into more southern territory, unlike many of the other soldiers around them with their partners.
Jameson was respectful to the level of complete and utter frustration. He hadn’t so much as kissed her—not really, though he’d often move just close enough to spike her heart rate before pressing his lips to her forehead.
“For another fifteen minutes,” she muttered. “Then you have to leave for patrol.”
“And you have work, if I’m not mistaken.”
She sighed, then looked away from the couple next to them as dancing became a fully involved kiss.
“Why haven’t you kissed me?” Scarlett asked him softly.
His rhythm broke for a breath of a second, and he took her chin between his thumb and finger, tilting her face gently toward his. “Yet.”
Her brow furrowed.
“Why haven’t I kissed you yet,” he clarified.
“Don’t play with words.”
“I’m not.” He caressed her lower lip with his thumb. “I’m just making sure you know it’s a yet.”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine, then why haven’t you kissed me yet?” All around them, the world changed so fast, she barely knew what to expect in the next minute. Bombs fell and planes crashed, yet he acted like they had years—when she wasn’t sure they even had days.
…
He glanced toward the couple at their left. No wonder she was questioning his less than speedy timing. “Because you’re not just another girl in a pub,” he said as they began to sway again, his hand cupping her face gently. “Because we’ve only been alone once, and kissing you for the first time isn’t something I want to happen in front of an audience.” Not if he kissed her like he wanted to.
“Oh.” Her eyebrows shot up.
“Oh.” A slow smile spread across his face. If she knew half the thoughts that went through his head when it came to her, she would have put in for a transfer. “I also know your world has a hell of a lot more rules than mine, so I’m trying my best not to break any of them.”
“Not so many, really.” She tugged her lower lip between her teeth, as though she needed to think it over.
“Sweetheart, you’re an actual aristocrat under this uniform.” From what he’d been able to piece together between what little she told him about her family and the details Constance was more than willing to part with, the life Scarlett led as a WAAF officer was so different from her pre-war lifestyle that the two couldn’t be compared.
She blinked. “My parents are.”
He laughed. “And the difference is?”
“Well, I don’t have any brothers, so the title will go into abeyance once my father passes,” she answered with a shrug. “Constance and I are seen as equal under the law, so unless one of us declines the title, neither of us will inherit it. We’ve both decided not to decline, which is rather brilliant when you think about it.” A corner of her mouth lifted in a secretive smile, making him wish they were alone and far from in public.
“You’ve decided to fight for it?” English peerage was so far beyond his area of expertise that he didn’t pretend to understand.
“No.” Her hand slid up his shoulder and over the collar of his uniform until she cupped the back of his neck. He felt her touch in every nerve of his body. “We decided not to fight for it by simply not declining it. Neither of us wants it. Constance is engaged to Edward, who will inherit his own, so our parents are pleased, and I want nothing to do with it.” She shook her head. “We made a vow when we were younger. See?” She lifted her hand, showing a faint line of a scar down her palm. “It was all very dramatic.”
His head tilted slightly as he absorbed her words. “And what do you want, Scarlett?”
The record changed, and the tempo picked up, but they stayed at the same, gentle sway at the edge of the floor, carving out their own little ballad.
“Right now, I want to dance with you,” she answered, stroking her fingers down his neck.
“I can give you that.” Man, it was those eyes that just about knocked him on his ass every time. She could have asked for the moon, and he would have flown his Spitfire into the stratosphere just to get her to look at him like she was right now.
When that song ended, they reluctantly left the floor, holding hands as they approached the table.
“Seven fifteen,” Constance noted with a small grimace. “It’s about time we get going, isn’t it?” She stood and handed Scarlett her hat.
“It is,” Scarlett agreed. “Especially since we’ll need to drop by the airfield for Jameson and Howard.” She turned to Christine, who was still consumed by the newspaper. “Christine?”
She startled. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just reading about the bombing in Sussex.”
Well, that certainly sobered the mood. Jameson’s fingers tightened slightly around Scarlett’s. “Well, I guess I’ll drive and you read,” he offered with a tight smile.
Christine nodded, and they all made their way to the car. Tonight, neither he nor Howard had been able to secure their company’s car, but Scarlett had.
“You don’t mind dropping us by the airfield?” he asked as he held the front passenger door open for her.
“Not at all,” she promised, her hand skimming along his waist as she slid into the seat. “It will give me another ten minutes with you, and who knows when I’ll get that again.”
He nodded, then shut the door once she was in, wishing she’d have preferred Constance, Christine, or even Howard drove instead of him so he could have tucked her in tight against him in the back seat. Instead, he took the wheel and began the drive to the airfield. This was always when the mood shifted between them, when they both mentally prepared for what their nights had in store while they’d be apart.
The sun was starting to set earlier now that they were in the middle of August, but he’d still have a healthy amount of light for takeoff in an hour.
“How about some music?” Constance asked, breaking the silence.
“The ra
dio in this one is broken,” Scarlett said. “Looks like one of us will have to sing.”
Jameson smiled, shaking his head. The girl had a dry sense of humor, and he couldn’t get enough of it.
“Here, I’ll read. May I?” Howard asked, and Jameson heard the paper shifting hands. “I have five dollars that says I can get everyone to sleep before we reach the airfield with this thing.” Howard’s eyebrows shot up in the rearview. “Except you, Stanton. You’d better stay awake.”
“On it,” Jameson responded as they pulled onto the station. Once they were through the gate, he took Scarlett’s hand, shaking his head at the mundane tone Howard used to read an article about supply shortages.
“He really might put me to sleep,” Scarlett whispered.
Jameson squeezed her hand.
“Coming to the aid of our troops is none other than the head of Wadsworth Shipping, George Wadsworth—” Howard continued.
Scarlett stiffened at his side.
“—who has more than one merger to celebrate with a confirmed source stating that his oldest son, Henry, is to be engaged to the oldest daughter of Baron and Lady Wright…”
Scarlett gasped, covering her mouth with the hand he wasn’t holding.
“Oh God,” Constance muttered.
Jameson felt the earth beneath him shift, and his stomach bottomed out. It can’t be.
Howard’s solemn gaze met his in the rearview, and he knew it was.
“Well, surely there’s more than one Wright in the country,” Christine muttered, yanking the paper back from Howard. “Henry is to be engaged to the oldest daughter of Baron and Lady Wright, Scarlett…” Christine fell quiet as she glanced toward Scarlett.
“Please, read the rest,” Jameson snapped. What the hell? Had she played him for a fool? Or had he been a fool all along?
“Um…Scarlett,” she continued to read, “who is currently serving in His Majesties’ Women’s Auxiliary Air Force. Both of Wright’s daughters joined the fight last year and were commissioned as officers.” The paper crinkled. “The rest is about the munitions,” she finished softly, just in time for him to park the car at the edge of the lot that faced the narrow end of all three hangers.
The Things We Leave Unfinished Page 8
