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

now?” Constance asked, lifting her dark eyebrows. “You’ve been holding that in all day. I think that might have been the quietest train ride we’ve ever had.”

“I’m not going to marry him,” she repeated, snapping every word. Just the thought of it made her stomach churn.

An older woman passing by shot her a reproachful stare.

“Of course not,” Constance replied, but they both knew better. These were the only years either of them would belong to themselves, and only because they were in the middle of a war. Otherwise, she would have been married off to the highest bidder by now if her parents had their way.

“He’s horrendous.” She shook her head. Of all the things her parents had asked of her in her twenty years, this was the worst.

“He is,” Constance agreed. “I can’t believe he stayed all weekend. Did you see how much he ate? His father was even worse. There are rations for a reason.”

His size wasn’t as much of a concern to Scarlett as what he did with it. Marrying Henry Wadsworth would be the death of her. Not because he was a widely known philanderer or the embarrassment would do her in—that was to be expected. But even her scandal-managing mother couldn’t hide Alice, their housekeeper’s daughter, away fast enough to miss seeing the bruises on the young woman’s body this morning.

Not only had her father ignored the blatant abuse, but he then sat Scarlett right next to Henry at breakfast.

No wonder she hadn’t eaten a thing.

“I don’t care if the bloody title is sold out from under them, I’m not marrying him.” Her grip tightened on her luggage. They couldn’t make her—not legally. But they threw around the word “duty,” as if marrying that ogre would save the king himself from the grasp of the Nazis.

Even then, her love of king and country was enough to risk her life for the greater good, but this wasn’t about king or country.

It was about money.

“All he wants is the title,” Scarlett fumed as they made their way out of the village and started down the road that led to RAF Middle Wallop. “He thinks he can buy his way in.”

“He’s right.” Constance’s nose wrinkled. “But he hasn’t asked you yet, so perhaps he’ll find himself another title to buy while scrambling his pudgy arse up the social ladder.”

Scarlett laughed at the thought of him scrambling up anything without hoisting his pants back up to his belly, but the sound died as quickly as it came. “None of it seems to matter right now, does it? Planning for a time that may never arrive.” They’d have to live through this period first.

Constance shook her head, the sunlight glimmering off the shiny raven locks. “It doesn’t. But one day, it will matter very much.”

“Or maybe…it won’t,” she mused. “Maybe it will all be different.” Scarlett glanced at the uniform she’d worn for the last year. In that time, nearly everything about her life had changed. As hot and uncomfortable as she was, she wouldn’t have traded the material for anything.

“How?” Constance nudged her shoulder with a bright smile. “Come on. Entertain me with one of your stories.”

“Now?” She rolled her eyes, already knowing she’d give in. There wasn’t anything she’d deny Constance.

“What better time?” Constance gestured to the open, dusty road ahead of them. “We’ve got at least forty minutes on our hands.”

“You could tell me a story,” Scarlett teased.

“Yours are always so much better than mine.”

“That’s not true!” Before she could relent, a car slowed as it approached, giving Scarlett enough time to glance at the insignia before it pulled alongside them: 11 Group Fighter Command.

One of ours.

“Can I give you ladies a lift?” the driver asked.

American. Her head snapped toward the man, her brows arched high in surprise. She’d known there were a few Americans with the 609, but she’d never encountered one— Oh my God.

She tripped slightly, Constance catching her elbow before she could make an utter fool of herself.

Get a grip. You’d think you’d never seen a good-looking man. In her defense, he was a step beyond that description, and it wasn’t just his light brown hair or that single strand that fell across his forehead, begging to be brushed back. It wasn’t even that carved chin or the slight bump on his nose from what had to have been a previous break. What had her off-balance was the smile that curved his lips and the spark in his moss-green eyes as he tilted his head…as if he knew what his very appearance was doing to her pulse.

She sucked in a breath, but it was as if she’d swallowed lightning, the electricity turning her mouth dry then somersaulting in her stomach as her heart thundered. “We’re all right, thank you,” she managed to answer, whipping her gaze forward.

She wasn’t putting her sister into a car with a strange man, no matter what the insignia said…right? The last thing she needed was to lose her wits over something as fleeting as attraction. She’d seen it in just about every woman she served with—attraction, then affection, then grief. Even Mary had lost two sweethearts in the 609 over the past few months. No, thank you.

Constance elbowed her slightly but remained quiet.

“Come on, it’s another three miles to the station, and what…another half mile to the women’s barracks?” He leaned over the passenger seat, still keeping pace beside them. “You’re melting out there.”

A bead of sweat raced down Constance’s cheek as if to make his point, and Scarlett wavered.

“There’s two of you and only one of me. Hell, you can both sit in the back seat if that would make you more comfortable.” Even his voice was appealing, low and rough like the coarse sand at the beach.

Constance elbowed her again.

“Ow!” Scarlett scowled at her sister, then noted the circles beneath her eyes from her late night with Edward. She sighed, then offered what she hoped was a natural smile to the American. “Thank you. A ride to