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

the corner and sank into the office chair, then pulled myself forward so I sat at the desk. Georgia’s laptop lay closed to my right, but on my left sat the famed typewriter.

“If you’re feeling bold…” Georgia ran her fingers over the keys.

“No, thank you. First, I’d probably break it, and second, I make way too many corrections as I go to ever think about using a typewriter. That’s hard-core, even for me.” My eyes caught on the shirt box on the edge of the desk. It was labeled “UNFINISHED” in thick, black marker. “Is that…”

“The originals? Yeah.” She slid the box my way. “Go ahead, but I’m sticking to my guns on this one. Originals stay here.”

“Noted.” I flipped the top off, then lifted the stack of papers to the polished surface of the desk. She’d typed these pages herself, and here I was, getting ready to finish them. Surreal.

The manuscript was thick, but it wasn’t only the word count that stacked up the pages but the pages themselves. I thumbed through quickly. “This is amazing.”

“I’ve got another seventy-three boxes just like it,” she teased, leaning back against the desk.

“You can actually see her write it, then revise. The pages are all in different stages of aging. See?” I held up two pages from Chapter Two, when Jameson had just approached Scarlett where she sat with Constance. “This page here has to be the original. It’s aged, and the quality of the paper is lower. This page”—I waved it slightly, my lips tugging up at the smudge of chocolate at the edge—“can’t be more than a decade old.”

“Makes sense. She liked to revise, always added word count.” She braced her hands on the edge of the desk. “Personally, I think she liked living there, between the pages with him. Always adding little bits of memory but never closing the door.”

That was something I understood. Closing out a book meant I said goodbye to those characters. But they weren’t just characters to Scarlett. They’d been her sister. Her soul mate. I read a few sentences from the first page, then the second. “Damn, you can actually see her skill evolve.”

“Really?” Georgia adjusted slightly, turning her head to see the pages.

“Yeah. Every writer has a particular flow to their sentence structure. See here,” I pointed to a spot on the first page. “Slightly choppier. By here,” I selected a different passage on the second, “she smoothed out.” I’d bet my life that the first pages most closely resembled the style of her early works. I glanced up to find Georgia’s eyes on me.

She failed at stifling a smile.

“What?” I asked, slipping the pages back into the manuscript where they belonged.

“Now you have chocolate on your face.” She laughed softly.

“Awesome.” I swiped my hand over the stubble closest to my mouth.

“Here.” She slid along the desk, the bare skin of her legs brushing against mine.

I suddenly wished I’d worn shorts as I rolled back slightly, hoping she’d come closer.

She filled the space between my knees, cupped the side of my face, and brushed her thumb over the patch of skin just below the corner of my mouth. My pulse kicked up a notch, and my body went tight.

“There,” she whispered, but didn’t move her hand.

“Thanks.” Her touch was warm, and it took everything I had not to lean in to it. Damn, I wanted her, and not just her body. I wanted inside her mind, past the walls even George R.R. Martin would be proud of. I wanted her trust simply so I could prove I was worthy of it.

She swept the tip of her tongue over her lower lip.

My self-control hung by a thread, and the look in her eyes was slowly pulling at the edges of it, fraying the strands.

Still, she didn’t move.

“Georgia.” Her name came out as both a plea and a warning.

She moved closer. Not close enough.

My hands found the curves of her waist and I tugged, bringing her as close as the chair allowed.

Her breath caught in a tiny gasp that sent all the blood in my body straight to my dick. Calm the hell down. She slid her hand along my jaw and into my hair.

My grip tightened on her waist through the thick fabric of her sweatshirt.

“Noah,” she whispered, lifting her other hand to hold the back of my neck.

“Do you want me to kiss you, Georgia?” My voice was rough, even to my own ears. There could be no mistake here. No mixed signals. There was too much riding on this, and for once, it wasn’t my career I was thinking about.

“Do you want to kiss me?” she challenged.

“More than I want my next breath.” My gaze dropped to that incredible mouth, and her lips parted.

“Good, because—”

Her phone rang.

You have got to be kidding me.

She shifted, leaning closer.

Another ring.

“Don’t—” I started.

With a groan, she ripped her phone from her back pocket, then sucked in a breath as her eyes narrowed at her screen. She swiped violently, answering the call and lifting the device to her ear.

“—answer it,” I finished with a sigh, letting my head fall back against the chair.

“What the hell do you want, Damian?”

Chapter Twenty

July 1941

North Weald, England

“It’s better, right?” Scarlett asked as she forced the buttons of her uniform jacket through the holes. She wasn’t going to be able to hide it much longer. She wasn’t sure she was even effectively hiding it now.

Jameson leaned against the doorframe to their bedroom, his mouth pressed in a firm line.

“I’ve taken out every spare quarter inch,” Constance murmured, tugging the hem lightly. “Perhaps we could request a larger size?”

“Again?” Scarlett’s eyebrows rose as she took in her reflection in the oval mirror that topped their dresser.

Constance winced. “True. The first time, the supply clerk looked at me as though I’d been stealing her rations.”

The uniform was tight, straining at seams not only over her belly but also her hips and chest.

“I have an idea,” Jameson said from the doorway, crossing his arms over