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

I rolled my eyes but walked over to the box, looking for an opening. “Did you tape it shut?” I teased.

“Nope. Just lift.” There was so much excitement in his eyes that I couldn’t help but feel it rub off on me.

I gripped the sides of the box and lifted. My heart leaped into my throat and tears stung my eyes. “Oh, Noah.”

He came forward and took the box from my trembling hands, but I was too busy staring at my gift to see where he put the wrapping. Then he was at my side.

“Is it…” I was almost afraid to say the words, content to let it be real, even if only in my mind.

“It is.” He nodded, his smile soft.

“But how?” I reached a shaky hand toward the vintage record player, running my fingers over the timeworn edge of the casing as it sat open on the table before me.

“I found a panel loose in the back of my closet at Grantham Cottage a couple of weeks ago,” he said, maneuvering the arm of the phonograph so it rested above a dustless record. “The same closet where the heights marked on the closet doorframe weren’t painted over like the rest of the house.”

My eyes flew to his, somehow knowing what his next words would be. “They were Grandpa William’s, weren’t they?” I guessed.

He nodded. “My guess is that’s why she never sold the cottage. I went to the county and looked up the property records. It was originally owned by Grantham Stanton—Jameson’s father. Your great-great-grandfather.”

“It’s where they lived for the first few years,” I whispered, putting it all together. “But Gran said the record player was destroyed.”

A corner of Noah’s mouth lifted. “Whatever got destroyed, it wasn’t this. Scarlett must have hidden it in the wall.”

“But she never went back to get it?” My brow puckered. “Come to think of it, I don’t know if I ever heard of her going in the house. She’d always had it managed.”

“Grief is a powerful, illogical emotion, and some memories are safer left boarded up and undisturbed.” He flipped the switch on the record player, and to my complete shock, it turned on.

“You found Jameson’s phonograph,” I whispered.

“I found Jameson’s phonograph.” He dropped the arm and the needle made contact, filling the room with Billie Holiday’s voice.

My eyes slid shut, imagining them in that field, starting out the love affair that led to my existence, the love that had haunted Gran the rest of her life, even though she’d eventually married again.

“Hey,” Noah said softly, backing into the center of the room and holding out his hand for mine. “Come dance with me, Georgia.”

I walked straight into Noah’s arms, feeling the last of my barriers give way.

“Thank you,” I said, resting my cheek on his chest as we moved gently together, rocking to the music. “I can’t believe you did this all for me. The dinner, and your sister, and Mom, and the phonograph. It’s too much.”

“It’s nowhere near enough.” His voice lowered as he tilted my chin to look in my eyes. “I am completely, wholeheartedly, madly in love with you, Georgia Constance Stanton.” The intensity in those words was echoed in his eyes.

“Noah.” My heart clenched, and the sweet ache I’d tried like hell to stifle broke free and filled every desiccated, love-starved cell in my body as I let myself believe, let myself love him back.

“This isn’t a fling for me. It hasn’t ever been. I wanted you from the first second I saw you in that bookstore, and knew you were the one the minute you opened your mouth to tell me you hated my books.” He nodded slowly, a smirk playing at his mouth. “It’s true. And I don’t need you to say it back. Not yet. In fact, please don’t. I want you to say it in your own time, when you’re ready. And if you don’t love me yet, don’t worry, I’ll win you over.” He rested his forehead against mine as we swayed.

Oh God. I loved him. Maybe it was reckless and foolish, and too damned soon, but I couldn’t help it. My heart was his. He’d won me over so completely that I couldn’t imagine a single day without him. “Noah, I l—”

He kissed me quiet, stopping my declaration. Then he carried me upstairs and made love to me so thoroughly, there wasn’t a single inch of my skin that didn’t know his hands, his mouth, his tongue.

By the time the sun came up, we were both famished, drunk on a cocktail of orgasms and sleep deprivation as we kissed our way downstairs like a pair of teenagers, staying as quiet as possible so we didn’t wake Mom.

We were a total cliché—Noah wearing last night’s dress pants while I’d hastily buttoned his shirt over nothing but a pair of boy-cut briefs. I didn’t care. I was in love with Noah Morelli, and I was going to make him pancakes—or eggs. Whatever was quicker and got us back into bed.

He kissed me deep and long in the foyer, tugging me toward the kitchen.

“What is that?” I drew back at the sound of rustling paper coming from the office.

Noah lifted his head, his eyes narrowing at the slight gap in the office doors. “I shut those last night before the party. Wait here.” He swept me behind his back, then strode silently to the French doors, pushing one open carefully to look inside. “What the hell are you doing?” he growled, disappearing inside.

I followed, racing through the open door.

It took a second to figure it out. Mom sat in Gran’s chair, her cell phone poised above the desk, a shirt box open to her left and a small pile of papers in front of her.

She was scanning the manuscript.

Chapter Twenty-Six

May 1942

Ipswich, England

William cried, and Scarlett rocked him gently, swinging him side to side as the air-raid sirens wailed above them. The shelter was full and dimly lit, but she imagined