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

“I’m sorry?”

“My mother gave it to me when I left last year.” His voice dropped slightly. “She said she’d had a little tucked aside for when I got married, but then I announced rather suddenly—she was quite clear about that point—that I was off on what my father called a ‘fool’s errand.’”

Her heart plummeted at the shadow she saw flicker across his eyes. “He didn’t approve?”

“He didn’t approve when Uncle Vernon taught me how to fly. He absolutely loathed my decision to use those skills here. He thought I was looking for a fight.” He shrugged.

“Were you?” The breeze rustled across the tops of the grass, pulling another strand of her hair free, and she quickly tucked it behind her ear.

“Partially,” Jameson admitted with a conciliatory flash of a smile. “But I figure this war is going to spread if we don’t stop it, and I’ll be damned if I was just going to sit there in Colorado and do nothing while it crept up onto our front porch.”

His hand tensed on his fork, and she leaned across the small expanse of the table to rest her fingers over his. The contact sent a slight buzzing sensation down her body.

“I, for one, am thankful you decided to come,” she said. That singular choice told her more about the content of his character than a thousand pretty words ever could have.

“I’m just glad you decided to come tonight,” he said softly.

“Me too.” Their gazes held, and his hand slipped away from hers with a caress.

“Tell me something about you. Anything.”

Her forehead puckered, trying to think of something that would keep his interest now that she’d decided she wanted it. “I think one day, I would like to be a novelist.”

“Then you should be,” he said simply, as if it were just that easy. Perhaps to an American, it was. She envied him that.

“One can hope.” Her voice softened. “My family is in disagreement, and there’s an ongoing argument about who should get to decide my future.”

“What does that mean?”

“Simply put, my father has a title and he doesn’t want to let it go. He refuses to see that the world is changing.”

“A title?” Two lines formed between his eyebrows. “Like a job title? Or one you inherit?”

“Inherit. I want nothing to do with it, but he has other plans. I’m hoping I can change them before the war is over.” That didn’t seem to work. He still looked worried. “It’s not like there’s much of anything left anyway. My parents have spent just about everything. It’s minor—the title—and really doesn’t matter, I promise. Can we change the subject?”

“Sure.” He set his silverware on the plate, then changed the record to Billie Holiday and offered his hand as “The Very Thought of You” began to play. “Dance with me, Scarlett.”

“All right.” She couldn’t resist. He was magnetic, sinfully gorgeous, and ridiculously charming.

His arms surrounded her as they swayed to the beat in the dying sunlight, and she melted when he pulled her in close. Her head rested perfectly in the hollow of his shoulder, and the rough canvas of his coveralls only served to remind her that this was very real.

How easy it would be to lose herself in this man for a while, to forget all that raged around them and would eventually come for them, to claim something—someone—for herself.

“Do you have someone waiting at home?” she questioned, hating the way her voice pitched toward the end.

“No one at home. No one here. Just my little record player.” His chuckling voice rumbled against her ear. “And I do love music, but it’s hardly a monogamous relationship.”

“So you don’t fly every girl to sunset dinners?” She tilted her head back slightly.

He lifted his hand, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Never. I knew I was a lucky bastard if I even got one shot with you, so I figured it had better be a good one.”

Her gaze dropped to his lips. “It was. It is.”

“Good.” He nodded slowly. “Now I have everything set up for the next officer I find on the side of the road.”

She scoffed, then pushed off his chest with a laugh, but he kept hold of her wrist and reeled her back in, bringing his mouth dangerously close to hers.

Yes. She wanted to kiss him, to know how he tasted, to feel his lips moving with hers.

“Are you ready?” His hand splayed on her lower back, pulling her closer.

“Ready?” she asked, rising on her toes.

“Well, you seem a little inexperienced,” he whispered, dipping lower.

“I am.” It came out as breathless as she felt. She’d only been kissed once, so she could hardly call that experience.

“It’s okay; we’ll go slow,” he promised as his hand rose to cup her cheek. “I don’t want you to be frightened when I turn the controls over.”

She ignored whatever Americanism that was and arched her neck, but the man stepped back. He. Backed. Away? She stood there like a fish with her mouth open as he grinned.

“Let’s go, trainee, let’s make this little flight legitimate.” He held out his hand.

She blinked rapidly. “Trainee?” Was she getting her vernacular confused?

He drew her against him, caressing her neck and tunneling his hands through her hair as he lowered his lips to what had to be only centimeters above her own.

“You have no idea how badly I want to kiss you right now, Scarlett.”

And there went her knees.

Good, then they were on the same page.

“But if we don’t leave right this second, we’ll lose the horizon, and that will make it three times harder to keep the airplane level while you’re flying it.”

She gasped, and he brushed his lips over hers, taunting her with the promise of a kiss before leaving her wanting.

“Wait. Flying it?” she exclaimed.

“Well, yeah, what do you think training flights are for?” He took her hand and tugged her gently. “Come on, you’re going to love it. It’s addictive.”

“And deadly.”

He turned, then lifted her in