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

“Deal. You know Noah Harrison is going to turn that book into a pain fest, right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“I’m counting on it.” It couldn’t end any other way.

…

Three days later, the doorbell rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was time.

“I’ll get it!” Mom called, already clicking her way to the door—which was fine with me, since dread had my butt anchored to Gran’s office chair, debating my choice for the thousandth time since telling Helen to send the final contract.

Three days. That was all it had taken them to hammer out the details. Helen had assured me it was more than fair, and we didn’t give up anything Gran wouldn’t have, including the performance rights—those, she’d only ever sold to Damian, and he sure as hell wasn’t getting any more. In fact, it was the best contract of Gran’s career, which was one of the reasons my stomach churned.

The other reason had just walked into the house.

I heard his voice through the door—deep and sure, tinged with excitement. The more I’d thought about this deal, the more I’d realized that he really was the only one who could do it. His ego was earned in this department. He was a specialist in gut-wrenching endings, and this story surely had one.

“She’s in Gran’s office,” Mom said as she opened one of the massive cherry double doors that had closed Gran off from the world while she wrote.

Noah Harrison filled the doorway, but it felt like he consumed the room. He had that kind of presence—the kind that other men paid thousands of dollars in acting classes to try to pull off for Damian’s films. The kind those actors had to have because they were playing roles Gran had written in her books.

“Ms. Stanton,” he said quietly, sliding his hands into his pockets, his eyes seeing far more than I wanted them to.

I looked away, tucked a piece of my hair behind my ear, and silenced the part of my brain that nearly corrected him. You’re not Mrs. Ellsworth anymore. Get used to it.

“I think if you’re going to be writing Gran’s story, you can call me Georgia.” I brought my gaze to meet his and noted, to his credit, that he wasn’t staring at the shelves of rare books or even the infamous typewriter that Gran had sworn by in the middle of the desk. His eyes were still on me.

Me. As if I were something just as rare and valuable as the treasures that filled this room.

“Georgia,” he said slowly, as if tasting my name. “Then you’ll have to call me Noah.”

“It’s really Morelli, right?” I already knew the answer, along with just about everything regarding his career up to this point. Whatever I hadn’t known at the time of our unfortunate run-in at the bookstore, I’d been schooled on by Helen. Hazel had taken over when it came to the revolving door of women in his life.

“It’s Morelli. Harrison is a pen name,” he admitted with a slight tilt of his lips.

Drop-your-panties gorgeous. Hazel’s description echoed through my brain as my cheeks flamed. How long had it been since I’d felt real, true attraction to a man? And why the hell did it have to be this man?

“Well, have a seat, Noah Morelli; I’m just waiting for them to send the contract.” I motioned to both of the leather, winged-back chairs across from the one I sat in.

“I signed my portion before driving over, so they’re probably accepting it right now.” He chose the one on the right.

“Would either of you like a drink?” Mom offered from the doorway in her best hostess voice. God bless her, the woman had been on her best behavior since Monday. Attentive. Caring. I almost didn’t recognize her. She’d even promised to stay through Christmas, swearing that I was what brought her back to Poplar Grove in the first place.

“Be careful—all she knows how to make are sodas and martinis,” I whispered loudly.

“I heard that, Georgia Constance Stanton,” Mom lectured with a mock scowl.

“I’m not sure about that. Last time she poured a mean lemonade.” Noah laughed lightly, revealing straight, white—but not fake white—even teeth. Had to admit, I was looking for any imperfection at this point. Even his inability to see a romance through to a happily-ever-after was a mark in his favor at this point, which meant I was looking hard.

“And I can do it again,” Mom said.

Ten years ago, I would have said Mom’s chipper, maternal attitude was everything I’d ever wanted. Now it only served to remind me how hard we both had to try to even act normal around the other.

“That would be great, Ava,” Noah answered, never looking away.

“Me too, Mom. Thanks.” I flashed a quick smile that left as soon as Mom shut the door.

“I couldn’t really care less about the lemonade, but you looked like you were about to grind your teeth into dust.” He crossed his ankle over his knee and sank back into the chair, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned on his elbow. “You always this tense around your mom? Or is it the deal?”

He was observant, just like Gran had been. Maybe it was a writer thing.

“It’s been…a week.” It had been a year, if I was honest. From Gran’s diagnosis to her refusal of treatment, to the burial, to finding Damian with— “So, it’s Morelli,” I said, halting the ever-present downward spiral of my thoughts that threatened to pull me under. “I like that better,” I admitted. It suited him.

“So do I, honestly.” He flashed that public smile, the one everyone in New York wore to functions they didn’t actually want to attend but needed to be seen at.

Those pretty smiles were just one of the many reasons I left that city—they usually melted into ugly gossip the minute your back was turned.

His expression softened, as if he’d noticed my defenses rising. “But my first agent