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

the fifteenth had worn her to the bone, both in the operations room and in her heart.

She knew of at least two dozen fighters who’d carried their pilots to their graves.

The blitz of bombings yesterday saw much of her day in the air-raid shelter when she was not on watch. All she’d thought about was Jameson. Where was he? Was he safe? Had he been injured…or worse?

Today she was waiting for him, and she wasn’t alone. There were perhaps a dozen women in their little group, all sweethearts of the pilots, all gathered on the stretch of pavement between the parked cars and the two remaining hangars on the airfield. It was approximately the same spot where she and Jameson had been when the now-demolished hangar had been done in a month ago.

The hum of engines filled the air, and her heartbeat skyrocketed.

They were here.

She squared her shoulders as the Spitfires landed, wishing she’d worn her uniform instead of her blue-checkered dress. A woman in uniform was required to keep herself together, and at this moment, she felt anything but. Her nerves were simply shot.

It was easily another twenty minutes before the first pilots made their way down the pavement, still wearing their flight suits. A few she recognized, especially the three other Americans who would be leaving with Jameson in two short days. She should have been prepared for his transfer orders—God knew the RAF was the most mobile force in Britain—but it had still hit her like a blow.

Her stomach clenched as more and more pilots appeared.

Then she saw him.

She ran, cutting through the grass to bypass the foot traffic.

He spotted her and stepped clear of the crowd just before she reached him, catching her easily as she threw herself into his arms.

“Scarlett, my Scarlett,” he said into her neck, his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her as her feet dangled far above the ground.

“I love you.” Her arms shook slightly as she held tight, the full measure of her relief coursing through her in a shock wave of emotion.

“God, I love you.” With one arm locked tight around her back, he cupped her face with the other, pulling back enough to lock their gazes.

“I was terrified for you.” The truth spilled from her lips so easily, even after she’d withheld those very words from her sister over the last two days.

“There was no reason to be.” He smiled and pressed a kiss to her lips.

She melted against him, kissing him back despite the very public audience. Today, she couldn’t bring herself to care if the king himself were watching.

He held her carefully but kissed her passionately for a long, hard moment, then eventually, he brushed his mouth over hers and drew back. Much to her delight, he didn’t put her down. He was the only person who managed to make her feel delicate without making her feel small.

“Marry me,” he said, his eyes dancing with happiness.

She startled. “I’m sorry?”

“Marry me.” His eyebrows lifted with the corners of his mouth. “I’ve spent the entirety of the last week trying to think of how to keep us together, and that’s how. Marry me, Scarlett.”

Wait, had he just proposed? No matter how much she loved him, it was too soon, too reckless, and entirely too much like a business deal. Her mouth opened and shut a few times, but she couldn’t quite make the words come out for a few embarrassing seconds. “Put. Me. Down.” There they were.

He held her tighter. “I can’t live without you.”

“You’ve only lived with me for two months.” Her mouth tightened as she lectured her foolish heart to keep quiet.

“I wish I’d lived with you for two months,” he whispered, his voice dropping to that low, growly tone that turned her insides to mush.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” She laced her fingers behind his neck, more than aware that he had yet to do as she’d asked and lower her.

“We could live together for the rest of our lives,” he said softly. “One home. One dining room table…one bed.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting that we rush into marriage because you’d like to get me into bed.” She arched an eyebrow. Not that she hadn’t thought about Jameson that way. She had. Frequently. Too frequently according to her morals and not frequently enough, according to the ladies she lived with.

His eyes flared with humor. “Well, no, but I love which piece of furniture you focused on. If I just wanted to get you into bed, you’d know it by now.” His gaze dropped to her lips. “I want to marry you because it’s a foregone conclusion. It doesn’t matter if we date another year, Scarlett, we’re going to end up married eventually.”

“Jameson.” Her cheeks flushed, even though she resented how good it felt to hear those words.

“If we do it now, we won’t be separated.”

“It’s not that simple.” Her heart warred with her head. There was something utterly romantic about running off to marry a man you were head over heels in love with and had only known two months. There was also something naive about it.

“It is,” he assured her.

“Says the man who won’t lose his job.” There were about a dozen reasons flitting through her mind about why this was a horrid suggestion, but that one shouted the loudest.

He blinked in sheer confusion, then slowly lowered her to the ground. “What do you mean?”

She took his hand, and they started toward the car. “There’s no place for me at RAF Church Fenton. Believe me, I’ve inquired, and if I marry you”—a small smile lifted her lips—“I can’t guarantee I’d be reposted. We’d still be apart unless I left the WAAF for family reasons.”

His face fell. “The only part I liked about what you just said was ‘if I marry you.’”

“I know.” She had to admit, she liked that, too.

Their situation was damnable. Even if she thought she could do something so reckless, she could never abandon Constance. They’d agreed to see out