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

new kids were just that, kids. They’d all been freshly delivered via Canada, having smuggled themselves out of the States in hopes of joining The Eagles.

Overnight, those—like Jameson—who had considered themselves rookies throughout the Battle of Britain were now the veterans. The new Americans were all pilots, but most of them were commercial. They’d flown supplies or even people. They’d dusted crops. They’d showboated in front of crowds.

They’d never shot another man out of the sky.

There were a few who had, and they’d already lost one back to 64 squadron. Not that Jameson blamed him. They’d been plucked from daily missions and tossed into training now for six weeks, and the frustration over their uselessness was mounting. They were needed in the sky.

This was bullshit.

“Maybe Art was right to leave,” Howard grumbled before draining half his beer.

“You read my mind.” Jameson looked down at his full glass. It wasn’t as satisfying as it had been when they’d done this after a mission. It felt…fake, like they were playing at being fighter pilots.

At least the unit had been moved to Kirton-in-Lindsey last week. That was one step closer to being operational. Unfortunately, they’d transferred the Buffaloes with them.

The American aircraft didn’t perform well at high altitude, and that was the least of its problems. The engine overheated regularly, the cockpit controls weren’t dependable, and it lacked the armament they’d come to depend on. Sure, the new men liked the open, airy cockpit, but they’d never flown a Spitfire.

Jameson missed his Spitfire almost as much as he missed Scarlett.

God, he missed Scarlett. It had been nearly two months since he’d seen her, and he was slowly going out of his mind. If not for the unit move, he would have made the trip to Middle Wallop already—he was that desperate to look into those blue eyes. She’d spent her October leave with her parents, which was understandable, but according to her letter, it hadn’t gone well. He hated the pressure that loving him put her under. It wasn’t fair that she was forced to choose between her family and Jameson, but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit his happiness at being the one chosen.

Without flying combat missions, he had more downtime, which meant she was never far from his mind. His letters increased from twice a week to three times, and sometimes even four. He wrote the letters as though he were talking to her, as though she were there with him, hearing how much he missed her. How much he longed for her. He told her stories from his childhood and did his best to paint a picture of life in his tiny hometown.

Even now he smiled, just thinking about taking her to Poplar Grove. His mother would love her. Scarlett always said exactly what she meant. She never minced words or played games. She wasn’t coy or flirtatious, either. She guarded her emotions the same way she protected her sister—someone was only given access once they’d proven their worth.

Sometimes he felt like he was still proving his.

“Hey, Stanton!” One of the men called over with a distinctly Boston accent. “Is it true you’ve got an English sweetie?”

“It is.” Jameson’s grip tightened on his glass.

“Well, where do you find one?” He lifted his eyebrows, and some of the new guys laughed.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Howard said under his breath.

“I picked her up on the side of the road,” Jameson answered in a deadpan.

“She have any friends?” the rookie prodded. “We could all use a little friendly company, if you get my meaning.”

“Okay, now you can let it get to you.” Howard whacked Jameson’s shoulder.

“How is Christine, anyway?” Jameson asked with a slight tilt to his lips.

“Far away. Very far away.”

“She does have friends,” Jameson said loudly, so this jerk could hear him. “None of them would be interested in meeting you, but she does have them.”

“Oh!” The men howled.

The man flushed. “Well, her standards couldn’t be too high if she’s with you, Stanton.”

Right, these guys are still in the whip-it-out-and-measure stage. Andy rolled his eyes, and Howard finished off his beer.

“She is definitely out of my league, boys.” Jameson nodded thoughtfully. “But she’d chew you up and spit you out before you even got close, Boston.”

Howard lurched, spraying beer through his lips onto the floor in front of them. Every head turned toward him as he wiped the remains of his drink from his chin and pointed toward the door on the far end of the room. “She’s also here.”

Jameson’s head whipped toward the entry, and his heart stopped.

Scarlett stood in the doorway, her jacket folded over an arm.

She looked like heaven.

Her glossy black hair was pinned back, barely brushing the collar of her uniform. Her cheeks were pink, her lips curved in a barely contained smile, and damn, he could see the blue of her eyes from here. She was here. At his base. In his rest room. She was here.

He was halfway across the room before he’d even thought to move, abandoning his beer on the nearest table as he went. A few short strides and he was home, sucking in his breath at the warmth of her skin as one of his hands cupped the back of her neck and the other palmed her waist.

“You’re here,” he whispered, awestruck as she smiled up at him. This wasn’t a dream. She was real.

“I’m here,” she answered just as softly.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, and his grip tightened at the hunger that threatened to consume him. He needed her kiss more than he needed his next breath, but he wasn’t about to do it here. Not in front of the jackass who’d implied he needed company.

“For how long?” he asked, his stomach pitching at the knowledge that it was most likely only a few hours. He would have met her halfway if she’d told him. He wanted as much time as he could get with her.

“About that…” Her grin turned playful. “Do you have a minute?”

“I