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

reviews came out. Christopher is even more pissed, which as editorial director is absolutely possible, trust me.”

I was twenty-four hours too late to tell him I’d been wrong. Really wrong. But maybe I could show him. At least I could try. “Did Noah really edit both versions?”

“Yep. Copy edits and all. Told you, he’s a mess over you.”

“Good.” I smiled, too happy to clarify that statement.

“Good?”

“Yep. Good. Now go get Christopher.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Noah

The only institution slower than publishing was the United States government. Especially when it had to work in conjunction with another country, and neither could agree on who was responsible for what. But six weeks and a couple hundred thousand dollars later, I had the answer to one of my questions.

I was starting to think the other one was better left unanswered.

I cursed as I scalded my tongue on freshly brewed coffee and squinted at the sunlight streaming in the apartment windows. Jet lag was a pain in the ass, and I hadn’t exactly been keeping regular hours over there as it was.

I carried my cup-of-lava to the couch, then fired up the laptop and scanned through about a billion emails. Ignoring the real world for six weeks came with some serious inbox complications that I really wasn’t feeling up for dealing with yet.

Cell phone, it was. As usual, I went through my texts to find the last message from Georgia.

GEORGIA: I’m sorry about the reviews.

That was one I’d gotten when I landed the day after everyone in publishing simultaneously agreed that I was an asshole, which, in their defense, was true. Just not for the reasons they shouted on every platform. I read through the rest of the conversation, which had become just as routine as coffee.

NOAH: I kept my word.

GEORGIA: I know. I’m taking some time, but call me when you get back.

NOAH: Will do.

That was it. That’s where we left it. She was taking some time, which roughly translated into leave-me-the-hell-alone, so I did. For six fucking weeks.

How much more time did the woman need?

Also, did that time include today? Was I supposed to call now that I was home? Or give her more time?

It had been three months since she’d raised that stubborn, stoic chin and thrown me out on my ass for the lie I’d been ridiculous enough to tell. Three months since those eyes had welled with tears I’d put there. Three months, and I still loved her so much I ached with it. I couldn’t have written a more lovesick character, and I had the circles under my eyes to prove it.

Mom called, and I answered.

“Hey, Mom. I just got back last night. Did you get your copy messengered over?” Usually I took my latest copy myself, but I wasn’t sure I could live through seeing her face once she realized what I’d done to Scarlett Stanton’s last work.

“It came by courier last night! I’m so proud of you!” Shit, she sounded so happy—because she hadn’t read the ending yet.

“Thanks, Mom.” My laptop started pinging next to me as the Google alerts filed in with more reviews. I really had to turn that crap off.

“I love it, Noah. You really outdid yourself. I can’t even tell where Scarlett’s words end and yours begin!”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out once you get to the end. It’s pretty obvious,” I groaned, sliding lower into the couch. There was a special hell for people who disappointed their mothers. “And I need you to know that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?”

“Just wait. You’ll see.” I should have stayed overseas, but even that distance wasn’t far enough to save me from the wrath of my mother.

“Noah Antonio Morelli, will you stop talking in circles?” she snapped. “I stayed up all night and read the whole thing.”

My stomach hit the floor. “Am I still invited for Memorial Day?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Her tone grew suspicious.

“Because I slaughtered the ending?” I rubbed my temples, waiting for the ax to fall.

“Oh, stop being humble. Noah, it was beautiful! The moment in the aspen grove when Jameson sees—”

“What?” I sat straight up, my laptop crashing to the floor. “Jameson…” That wasn’t what happened. At least, not in the version they’d published. Adam. “Mom, do you have the book there with you?”

“Yes. Noah, what’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, honestly. Do me a favor and flip to the front, where the copyright is.” Adam had to have printed a special edition for her. Holy shit, I owed him big time.

“I’m there.”

“Is it a special edition?”

“Well, not if first editions are special.”

What the actual hell? I grabbed my laptop off the floor and opened the first Google alert. It was the Times and the first line knocked me on my ass.

HARRISON SEAMLESSLY BLENDS STANTON’S VISION—

“Mom, I love you, but I have to go.” I clicked down the row of alerts. They all said variations of the same thing.

“Okay. I love you, Noah. You should get more sleep,” she said in that kindly authoritarian way she’d always had.

“I will. Love you, too.” I hung up and dialed Adam.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Welcome home! How was the trip? You fired up to start next year’s release?” Why was everyone so damned chipper this morning?

“Harrison seamlessly blends Stanton’s vision with his own take on classic romance. This one shouldn’t be missed. The Times,” I read.

“Nice!”

“Are you serious? How about this one?” I snapped. “We’ve been had. How the bait and switch of the decade led to a surprised—and relieved—fandom. The Tribune.” My hands curled into fists.

“Not bad. Almost looks like we meant to do it, huh?”

“Adam,” I growled.

“Noah.”

“What the hell did you do to my book?” I roared. It was all ruined. Everything I’d put on the line for her had been ripped away. She’d never forgive me for this—never trust me, no matter how much time I gave her.

“Exactly what I was told to do by the only person who had the contractual right to tell me to do it,” he said slowly.

There was