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

The plane rumbled as the engine died. Jameson appeared on her left, wearing a flush of wind on his cheeks and shoving his fingers through his hair.

“Can I help you out of that?” he asked, motioning to her harness.

“If I say no, will you feed me in the plane?” she teased, her lips curving upward.

“Yes.” The answer was instant.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry at the intensity in his eyes. “Please do. Help me, that is.” She tugged at her helmet first.

“Allow me.” His fingers brushed hers aside gently, and she tilted her chin to give him better access. He undid the helmet with a few quick motions, and she pulled it off as he started on the harness.

“My hair is all over the place,” she mused with a laugh, her hands rising to her abused curls. Her mother would have died of shock.

“You’re gorgeous.”

An ache unfurled in her chest, and their eyes locked as the last clasp of her harness came free. He meant it.

That ache sharpened. Oh God, what was this? Longing saturated the air, filling her lungs with every breath.

“Hungry?” he asked, breaking the silence but not the tension.

“Starved,” she replied.

…

His chest tightened at the look in her eyes, but he turned away and held out his hand, letting her adjust her harness-wrinkled dress with what privacy he could give her. He helped her out of the cockpit when she was ready, then jumped the last few feet off the back of the wing and offered his hands.

“I’ll catch you,” he promised.

“You’d better.” She smiled as she made her way down the wing, keeping one hand on the fuselage. Then she walked right into his arms, bracing her hands on the tops of his shoulders.

He gripped the curves of her hips as he slowly lowered her to the grass. He managed to keep his eyes on hers and not the dips and hollows of her frame, but his pulse kicked up at the feel of how perfect she felt under his hands, soft and warm, trim but not frail. This moment alone was worth the flight, the hours of preparation.

“Thank you,” she said as he released her, a slight catch in her breath.

Her hair was windswept and had been bullied in places by her helmet, and those slight imperfections made her seem touchable. Attainable. Gone was the polished officer who’d caught his eye, and here was a woman who very well might catch his heart.

He blinked at that thought—he wasn’t really a love-at-first-sight kind of guy, but he believed in attraction, chemistry, and even that little thing known as fate, and this felt like all three.

“Where are we?” she asked as he led her along the beaten-down path.

“Just a little north of the village.” He led her to the small clearing they’d made with the truck yesterday.

She gasped, covering her hands with her mouth, and he smiled. There was a small table with three chairs, set for an early dinner. He’d even managed to scrounge up a real tablecloth. The look on her face right now? The pure delight in her eyes made it worth every single favor he now owed to a half dozen guys in the 609.

“How did you do this?” She wandered toward the table.

“Magic.”

She tossed him a look over her shoulder, and he laughed.

“I might owe some of the guys a few favors. A lot of favors.” He tilted his head as she turned at the first chair. “I might not have a night off for a while.”

“And you did this all for me?” she asked as he pulled out her chair.

“Well, I had a couple other girls on the list just in case you turned me down,” he joked.

“I’d certainly hate to see it go to waste,” she deadpanned, pursing her lips. “Perhaps Mary would have obliged you.”

He paused with his hand on the chair, gauging her tone. He’d been flying with the Brits for months now, but he never could guess if they were joking or not.

“Oh, your face is priceless.” She laughed, and the sound was just as beautiful as she was. “Now tell me, are we expecting company?” She motioned toward the third chair.

“I invited Glenn Miller,” he answered, pulling back the chair to reveal his most prized possession.

“You have a phonograph?” Her jaw dropped.

“I do.” He popped the lid and started the little portable up, filling the quiet with The Glenn Miller Orchestra.

She studied him with a look on her face that he was hesitant to call wonder, but he sure liked it. So much for playing it smooth, because his heart took off like a thousand horses as he sat in the chair across from her.

He’d never been so nervous about a date in his life.

He’d also never had to repeatedly ask for one.

“Now, don’t get excited; it’s a picnic dinner.” He reached for the basket at the center of the table.

“Really? Couldn’t you have put a little more effort into this evening?” Her lips pursed, but he was on to her tell, so he just grinned and served them both.

It was all cold cuts, cheese, and one very expensive bottle of wine that he definitely hadn’t had a ration card for.

“This really is lovely,” she whispered.

“You make it lovely. The rest is just a little preparation,” he countered as they began to eat.

…

She’d been to parties, and even out on a few dates before the war, but nothing that came close to this. The sheer effort he’d gone to was incredible. It had given her a second’s pause when he’d teased about having a lineup waiting, but she refused to dwell on it and spoil the night.

There was no use looking for a parachute, since she’d already jumped.

“So how many favors do you owe for the phonograph?” she asked. Portables were hard to come by, not to mention ungodly expensive, and she knew what RAF officers made.

“I have to come back alive.” He said it so