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

When he was home, Jameson was a hands-on father. He held William, rocked him, change nappies—there wasn’t anything Jameson wouldn’t do for William, which only made her love him more. Becoming parents hadn’t stripped them of their personalities, it had given new, deeper facets to them both.

She wrote as far as Jameson asking for their first date before William woke with shrill demand. Hearing that first cry, she removed the paper from the typewriter and put it into the hatbox, adding to the stack she’d been careful to leave on top so it wouldn’t get mixed in with the rest. Then she put it away and went to fetch her littlest love.

Hours later, William had been fed, changed, cleaned up and changed again, fed once more, mopped up after another spit up, then fed one last time and burped before he was back to sleep.

She headed into the kitchen to contemplate dinner, pulling out fish to fry, and as though right on cue, Jameson walked in the front door.

“Scarlett?”

“In the kitchen!” The relief was a jolt of energy through her system, just like it was every time he came home to her.

“Hey.” His footsteps were soft, but his mood filled the room like a thundercloud, dark and ominous.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, abandoning the fish she’d planned on frying.

He strode across the kitchen, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. It was soft, which, considering his mood, only made it that much sweeter. He was always careful with her. Their lips moved together in a soft dance that quickly deepened, intensified. It had been six weeks since William’s birth. Six weeks since her husband had shared her body, and not just her bed. According to the midwife, six weeks was long enough, and Scarlett couldn’t agree more.

…

Jameson lifted his head slowly, keeping a tight leash on his self-control. She was so damn beautiful, it was nearly impossible to keep his hands off her. Her curves were lush, her hips grabbable, and her breasts full and heavy—she was every fantasy, every pinup painted on a plane, and she was his.

He knew she needed time to heal, and he would never push her to heal faster. He wasn’t that big of a bastard. But he missed her body, missed the feel of sliding inside her, the way the rest of the world faded until it was just the two of them, straining together. He craved her taste on his tongue, the way her hips ground against his mouth, the silk of her hair sliding over his face from above as she kissed him when she took the lead. He longed for that little catch in her throat before she came, missed the way her eyes glazed over, her breath caught, her muscles locked, the sound of his name on her lips when she finally let go. He missed the sweet oblivion he found in her body, but mostly he craved just a few moments of her undivided attention.

He wasn’t jealous of his son, but he could admit the transition had a few bumps and growing pains. “I missed you today,” he said, cradling her cheeks in his hands and sweeping his thumbs across the soft skin.

“I miss you every day,” she replied with a smile. “But I saw the look on your face when you came in. Tell me what happened.”

His jaw tightened. “Where’s William?” he dodged, noting that his little man wasn’t in the bassinet.

“Sleeping upstairs.” She tilted her head. “Tell me, Jameson.”

“We’ve been denied permission to leave for the Pacific front,” he admitted quietly.

Scarlett’s spine stiffened against the counter, and he instantly regretted the words.

“You asked permission to go to the Pacific front?” Scarlett asked, stricken and sidestepping out of his reach.

“The squadron did. But I was in favor of it.” His arms immediately felt empty. “Our country has been attacked, and we’re all the way over here. It was only right that we ask. Only right that if we’re needed, we go.” It had been a highly contentious debate within the squadron, but the overwhelming majority had demanded they send the request for transfer.

Her chin rose, which meant he was in for a fight. “And at what point were you going to discuss the suggestion with me?” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts.

“When it was deemed a possibility,” he replied, “or now that it’s not.”

“Wrong answer.” Fire shone in her eyes.

“I can’t just sit here while my country goes to war.” He backed away from her, leaning against the kitchen table and clenching the edge.

“You are not just sitting here,” she fired back. “How many missions have you flown? How many patrols? How many bomber intercepts? You’re already an ace. How would you call that just sitting here? And the last time I checked, your country was also at war with Germany. You’re already where you need to be.”

He shook his head. “Who knows how long it will take for American soldiers to arrive? For America to do anything about the German threat? I joined the RAF to keep war from my door, to keep my family safe, to stop it here before it was my country being bombed or my mother becoming another casualty on the report. I came here to guard my home against the wolves, and while I was busy watching the front door, the wolves snuck in the back.”

“And that is not your fault!” she snapped.

“I know that. No one saw Pearl Harbor coming, but it happened, and it doesn’t change the fact that I might be needed there. If there are plans, I want to be a part of them. I can’t risk my life defending your country and not do the same for my own. Don’t ask that of me.” Every muscle in his body tensed, waiting, hoping she’d understand.

“Apparently I don’t get to ask anything at all, since you knew the 71st sent the request without so much as telling me.” Her voice