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

“Generically American?” I tapped the touch pad on my laptop, willing the contract to appear in my email before either of us had the chance to get snarky like we had in the bookstore.

“Sellable.” He shifted, leaning forward. “And I’m not going to lie, anonymity can be a lifesaver sometimes.”

I cringed. “Or it can lead to arguments in a bookstore.”

“Is that an apology?” That was definitely a smirk.

“Hardly.” I scoffed. “I stand by every word I said. I just wouldn’t have offered my opinion quite so freely had I known to whom I was speaking.”

Delight flickered in his eyes. “Honesty. Now that’s refreshing.”

“I’ve always been honest.” I hit refresh again. “The only people who ever bothered to listen are dead, and everyone else hears what they want to, anyway. Oh look, it’s here.” I sighed in relief and clicked open the email.

I’d gotten pretty good at these since Gran had put all her rights into a literary trust and named me as executor about five years ago, so it only took a few minutes to scan through everything that wasn’t boilerplate. There weren’t any changes from the one Helen had sent over for approval earlier.

When I reached the signature box beneath Noah’s, I gripped the stylus, then paused. I wasn’t just handing over one of her works—I was giving him her life.

“Did you know that she wrote seventy-three novels?” I asked.

Noah’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, and all but one were on that typewriter,” he added, nodding toward the World War II-era hunk of metal consuming the left side of the desk. When I tilted my head, he continued. “It broke in 1973 while she was writing The Strength of Two, so she used the closest model she could find while that one was sent back to England for repair.”

My mouth dropped.

“I can nail all of your trivia, Georgia. I told you,” he said, resting his chin on the tips of his fingers with a half smile more dangerously attractive than the flashier one had been. “I’m a fan.”

“Right.”

My heart thundered as I stared at the stylus. In this moment, the choice was still mine, but the second I signed on that line, her story became his.

You still have final approval.

“I know the worth of what you’re giving me,” he said quietly, his voice low and serious.

My gaze jumped to his.

“I also know you don’t like me, but don’t worry, I’ve made it my personal mission in life to win you over.” A self-deprecating grin materialized for the length of a heartbeat before he wiped it away, rubbing his fingers over his lips as he looked down at the desk with open admiration.

The energy in the room shifted, easing some of my tension from my shoulders as he slowly brought those dark eyes back to mine.

“I will do this right,” he promised. “And if I don’t, then you pull it. You have the final say.” Only the slight tick of his jaw gave away his nervousness.

“And you have an out in the contract, too, if you read it and decide you’re just not up for the challenge.” I’d have bet that he was a hell of a poker player, but I’d learned to spot a bluff a mile away when I was eight. Lucky for him, he was telling the truth. He honestly believed that he could finish the book.

“I won’t use it. When I commit, I commit.”

Just this once, I allowed myself to be comforted by someone else’s confidence. Arrogance. Whatever.

I glanced at the lone photo Gran kept on her desk, right next to the paperweight I’d made her in Murano. It was of her and Grandpa Jameson, both in uniform, so lost in each other that my chest ached for what they’d had…and lost. I’d never loved Damian like that. I wasn’t even sure Gran had loved Grandpa Brian like that, either.

That was the real stuff, right there.

I signed my name on the contract and clicked enter, sending it off to the publisher as Mom walked in with the drinks, smiling from ear to ear.

She handed us our lemonade, and I retrieved two coasters from the desk drawer—not that there was much condensation to be had up here at eight thousand feet. But still. I wasn’t risking this desk to anything.

“Did you sign it?” Mom’s tone was calm, but she was white-knuckling her own hands.

I nodded.

Her shoulders relaxed. “Oh. Good. It’s all done, then?”

“Publisher has to sign it, but yes,” I answered.

“Thank you, Georgia.” Her lower lip trembled slightly as she gripped my shoulder, caressing me with her thumb before letting go with two pats.

“Of course, Mom.” My throat tightened.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to wait a few more minutes,” Noah said. “Charles told me they’d sign it immediately, and I’d much rather the deal be finalized before I take the manuscript off your hands.”

“Naturally,” Mom answered as she moved toward the door. “I will say, Noah—you look good at Gran’s desk. It’s nice to have your kind of creative genius in here again.”

Your kind of creative genius? My stomach twisted.

“Well, it’s an honor to be in Scarlett Stanton’s office,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve both gotten a lot of inspiration from this place.”

Mom’s brow puckered. “Funny you should mention it, but Georgia actually did go to some art school on the east coast. Not that she uses her degree, but we’re all very proud.”

Heat rushed up my neck, setting my cheeks on fire as my twisting stomach plummeted to the floor.

“It wasn’t just any art school, Mom. It was the Rhode Island School of Design. It’s the Harvard of art schools,” I reminded her. “And I might not have used my studio major, but my concentration in media and technology definitely helped get my production company off the ground.” Holy shit, was I five years old again? Because it sure felt like it.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought you gave away money for a living.” She