The Things We Leave Unfinished Yarros, Rebecca (reading like a writer .TXT) 📖

I long for is the sound of your voice. Tell me you can get leave soon. I have to see you. Please meet me in London next month. We’ll get separate rooms. I don’t care where we sleep as long as I get to see you. I’m dying here, Scarlett. I need you.

Was it coincidence? Proof? Did it even matter? I clicked among the four documents my lawyers had sent over an hour ago. Three death certificates. One marriage license.

My phone vibrated on the desk and my gaze snapped to the screen. Adrienne.

I hit the decline button and cursed my asinine hopes for jumping at every call. Of course it wasn’t Georgia, but there I was, hoping anyway.

My chest ached at the thought of her, and I rubbed the spot over the physical organ like it would help ease the pain. It didn’t. I missed everything about Georgia. Not just the physical things like holding her or seeing her smile, either. I missed talking to her, hearing her perspective—which was always different from mine. I missed the way her voice charged with excitement when she talked about the work with the foundation, the way the light had come back into her eyes as she got her feet under her and started to rebuild her life.

I wanted to be a part of that life more than I wanted my next two contracts.

Adrienne called back.

I declined.

My little sister had stayed by my side while I packed my luggage in the small bedroom at Grantham Cottage. We’d taken the same flight back to New York, not that I remembered much of it through the haze of heartbreak and my own self-loathing screaming in my ears. Despite her best efforts to see me home, we’d parted ways at the airport, and I’d ignored the rest of the world ever since.

Unfortunately, the world wasn’t ignoring me.

Adrienne’s name flashed across my screen again, and a stab of worry broke through. What if she’s in trouble? I swiped, answering the call, which automatically transferred into my Bluetooth headphones. “Is something wrong with Mom?” My voice was gruff, thick from disuse.

“No,” she answered.

“The kids?”

“No. Now, if you—”

“Mason?”

“Everyone is fine but you, Noah,” she said with a sigh.

I hung up and went back to staring at my computer. The images attached to the email were grainy—clearly scanned copies of the originals—and had taken me six days and a call to my lawyers to receive.

Adrienne called again.

Why the hell couldn’t everyone just leave me alone? Licking my wounds wasn’t a spectator sport.

“What?” I snarled, answering it when I really wanted to chuck the damned thing out the window.

“Open your front door, jerk face,” she snapped and hung up.

I drummed my fingers on the desk, wishing it was polished cherry and not contemporary glass and I was about nine thousand feet higher and sixteen hundred miles away. Then I took a deep breath, pushed my chair back, and walked to the front door of my apartment, throwing it open.

Adrienne stood at the threshold, her coat buttoned up to her chin, juggling a carrier tray with two cups of coffee and her cell phone in the other hand, her mouth moving quickly as she pushed her way past me into the apartment.

I jerked my headphones off, letting them hang around my neck as I shut the door.

“—the least you could do is tell me you’re alive!” I caught the tail end of her lecture.

“I’m alive.”

“Apparently. I’ve been out there knocking for at least ten minutes, Noah.” She arched a brow.

“Sorry. Noise-canceling headphones.” I pointed to the set of Bose around my neck and headed back to the office. “I’m in the middle of some research.”

“You’re in the middle of wallowing,” she countered, following me. “Whoa,” she murmured as I sank into my office chair. “I thought the Stanton book was done?” She motioned to the pile of Scarlett’s books that littered the coffee table in front of the couch.

“It is. As you well know.” Hence why I was in the middle of Manhattan and not Poplar Grove.

“You look like shit.” She pushed aside two manila files and set the drink carrier on the space she’d cleared. “Have some caffeine.”

“Coffee isn’t going to fix this.” I tossed my headphones onto a pile of research and leaned back in my chair. “But thank you.”

“It’s been eight days, Noah.” She unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, draping it across the chair she’d commandeered across from my desk.

“And?” Eight excruciating days and sleepless nights. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t eat, couldn’t stop wondering what was going through Georgia’s head.

“And enough wallowing!” She took a cup from the carrier and leaned back, her posture so much like mine that it was almost laughable. “This isn’t you.”

“I’m not exactly at my best.” My eyes narrowed. “And aren’t you supposed to be the compassionate one in the family?”

“Only because the role of stubborn asshole was already taken.” She sipped her coffee.

The corners of my mouth lifted.

“Well, look at that, he lives.” She saluted me with the cup.

“Not without her,” I said quietly, glancing at the Manhattan skyline. Whatever this was, it wasn’t living. Existing, maybe, but not living. “You know, I used to think the term falling in love was an oxymoron. It should be rising, right? Love is supposed to make you feel like you’re on top of the world. But maybe that phrase is so popular because actually making it work is rare. Everyone else just crashes at the end of it.”

“It’s not over, Noah.” Adrienne’s face softened. “I’ve seen you two together. The way she looked at you… There’s just no way this is how it ends.”

“If you’d seen the way she looked at me in that office, you might think differently. I really hurt her,” I countered quietly. “And I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. Even you. But holing up in your apartment and burying yourself in whatever this is”—she motioned to the disaster zone of my desk—“isn’t going to win her back.”

I