The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (best free e reader .TXT) 📗

brushed my finger over the scrolling script, then filled out the check, this time to a school district in Idaho.

The guidelines were simple: schools that needed books got money for books.

Gran would have loved it.

I dated the check March first, then sealed it into the envelope and scheduled a pickup with an overnight courier. There. Done. Now I could get to the studio.

A pen with a New York Mets logo rolled as I opened the top drawer, and my heart sank all over again, just like it did every single day. Noah’s pen.

Because for nearly three months, this hadn’t just been Gran’s desk—my desk—it had been Noah’s, too. And because throwing that pen away wouldn’t change that fact, I put the checkbook in the drawer and shut it again.

The pen was my smallest reminder, anyway.

He was everywhere I looked. I saw us dancing in the living room every time I spotted the phonograph, heard the low timbre of his voice every time I ventured into the greenhouse. He was in my kitchen, making me tea. My entryway, kissing me breathless. My bedroom, making love to me. He was in this very office, admitting that he’d lied.

I sucked in a deep breath but didn’t push away the pain. Feeling it was the only way through it. Otherwise I’d be the same shell I’d been after Damian.

The doorbell rang, and I took the envelope to the entryway, but it wasn’t the courier on the other side when I opened the door.

I blinked in pure disbelief, my jaw dropping an inch before I snapped my mouth shut with an audible click.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Damian asked, thrusting a vase of flowers in my direction. “Happy seventh anniversary, sweetheart.”

I weighed the gleeful thought of shutting the door in his face with the satisfaction of knowing exactly why he was here, and went with the latter, stepping back to let him in, then shutting the door as a frigid breeze swept over my skin.

“Thanks, I forgot how cold it is here,” he said, holding the flowers—pale pink roses—with an expectant look.

“What do you want, Damian?” I set the envelope on the entry table. What ploy was he going to try to use to get what he wanted? Guilt? Bribery? Emotional extortion?

“I wanted to talk business.” His brow furrowed as he realized I wasn’t taking the flowers, and he put them next to the envelope.

“So logically you got on a plane to Colorado instead of calling?” I crossed my arms.

“I was feeling sentimental,” he said in that soft tone he reserved for apologies as his eyes did a once-over down my frame. “You look good, Georgia. Really good…softer, if that makes any sense.”

The grandfather clock chimed. “Don’t bother taking off your coat. You’ll be gone before it chimes again.”

“Fifteen minutes? Is that really all I’m worth after everything we’ve been through?” He tilted his head and flashed a playful dimple. Emotional extortion it is.

“Counting the time we dated, I’ve already given you eight years of my life. Trust me, fifteen minutes is generous.”

I’d tried to avoid the comparison the entire time I’d been with Noah, but with Damian standing in front of me, it was impossible not to note the differences. Noah was taller, stacked with lean muscle, and held himself with the constant awareness of his body that had developed from years of climbing. Damian was none of those things.

He looked washed out, and what I’d once considered rather angelic was suddenly…meh. The blue of his eyes had nothing on Noah’s dark brown ones. Had I ever really been attracted to Damian? Or was his interest in me what had lured me in?

“I like what you’ve done with it,” Damian noted, glancing around the foyer.

“Thanks.” I’d repainted, going with a white and gray theme as I’d slowly transformed the house from Gran’s to mine. The master bedroom was next—and last—on the list. “You’re using up your time.”

His eyes flashed to mine, narrowing slightly. There you are. “I was hoping to talk to you about The Things We Leave Unfinished.”

“What about it?”

“I want to make you an offer, and before you tell me no, hear me out.” He put his hands up, then took an envelope from inside his coat. “For old times’ sake.”

“Old times,” I mused. “Like when you slept with your assistant? Or that one makeup artist? Or maybe when you got Paige pregnant and didn’t have the balls to tell me about it, which led to the time I read all about my husband’s baby mama from the sixteen billion text messages in the middle of Gran’s wake?” I tilted my head. “To which of those old times are you referring?”

The veins on his neck bulged above the collar of his coat, and he had the grace to flush. “Those are all regrettable memories. But we have good ones, too. I’m here to help, not hurt, and I have a contract all ready for you to sign. I know Scarlett’s money is tied up in all that charity work, so if you need a little extra, I’ll even look at some of her other works to option. I don’t want to see you suffer.”

“How magnanimous of you,” I drawled. “But you don’t have to worry about me anymore. My gallery is doing just fine since I got back to creating the art I love—you know, when I’m not doing all that charity work.”

He scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.” I deadpanned. “I never wanted the money. That was all you. And let me guess, that little contract you’re so generously offering me not only gives you the rights to The Things We Leave Unfinished, but it also confirms your ownership in the five other options you haven’t exercised yet, since I’m no longer part owner of Ellsworth Productions?” I asked sweetly.

“You know.” His face went slack.

“I’ve always known.” My voice dropped. “Why do you think I walked away without a fight? There was nothing about you worth keeping.”

“It won’t hold up