The Things We Leave Unfinished Read online

“I’ll have to give Helen a call. I’m sure you remember Gran’s agent,” I said after they finished. “And the performance rights are off the table. You know how she felt about that.” Gran hated movie adaptations.

  Christopher’s face tightened.

  “And where is Ann Lowell?” She’d been Gran’s editor for more than twenty years.

  “She retired last year,” Christopher answered. “Adam here is the best editor we have on staff, and he’s brought in his best writer to finish up what we’re told is going to be about a third of the book?” He glanced at Mom.

  She nodded.

  She’d read it? The bitter taste of jealousy coated my tongue.

  “He’s the best,” Adam gushed, glancing at his watch. “Millions of sales, phenomenal writing, critically acclaimed, and even better—a die-hard Scarlett Stanton fan. He’s read everything she’s written at least twice, and he’s cleared the next six months for this project so we can push it out fast.” He tried to give me a reassuring smile.

  He failed.

  My eyes narrowed. “You hired a man to finish Gran’s book?”

  Adam swallowed. “He really is the best, I swear. And your mom wanted to interview him to make sure he was the correct choice, so he’s actually here.”

  I blinked, surprised that Mom had been that thorough, and shocked that the writer— No.

  “I can’t even remember the last time he had to pitch himself.” Christopher chuckled.

  My thoughts tripped, falling down a rabbit hole like a line of dominos. Impossible.

  “He’s here right now?” Mom asked, glancing toward the door and smoothing her skirt.

  “He just pulled up.” Adam motioned to his Apple Watch.

  “Georgia, you sit. I’ll show our guest in.” Mom sprung out of her chair and rushed for the door, leaving the three of us in an awkward silence broken only by the steady tick of the grandfather clock.

  “So I met your husband at a gala last year,” Christopher said with a tight smile.

  “My ex-husband,” I corrected him.

  “Right.” He winced. “I thought his last movie was overrated.”

  Just about every movie—besides Gran’s—Damian had directed was overrated, but I wasn’t going there.

  A deep, rumbling laugh sounded from the foyer, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  “He’s here!” Mom announced joyfully, swinging open the glass doors.

  I stood as he walked in with my mother, and I somehow managed to keep my balance as he came into full view.

  His flirtatious smile fell, and he looked at me like he’d seen a ghost.

  My stomach hit the floor.

  “Georgia Stanton, meet—” Christopher started.

  “Noah Harrison,” I guessed.

  Noah—the stranger from the bookstore—nodded.

  I didn’t care how sinfully gorgeous the man was. The only way he’d get his hands on Gran’s book was over my dead body.

  Chapter Two

  Noah

  Scarlett, my Scarlett.

  Hopefully you don’t find this until you’re halfway across the Atlantic—too far gone to change your stubborn, beautiful mind. I know we agreed, but the thought of not seeing you for months, or years, ruins me. The only thing holding me together is knowing that you’ll be safe. Tonight, before I crept from our bed to write this, I tried to memorize everything about you. The scent of your hair and the feel of your skin. The light in your smile and the way your lips purse when you tease. Your eyes—those beautiful blue eyes—bring me to my knees every time, and I can’t wait to see them against the Colorado sky. You are strong, my love, and braver than I ever could be. I could never undertake what you now face. I love you, Scarlett Stanton. I have loved you since our first dance, and I will love you the rest of my life. Hold on to that while we are an ocean apart. Kiss William for me. Keep him safe, hold him close, and before you even have time to miss me, I’ll be home with you, where there are no more air-raid sirens, no more bombings, no more missions, no more war—only our love.

  I’ll see you soon,

  Jameson

  Stanton. The beautiful, infuriating woman from the bookstore was Georgia-fucking-Stanton.

  For the first time in years, I was speechless.

  I’d never had that moment I’d so often written about, the one where someone takes a look at a total stranger and simply knows. Then she’d turned around, holding a book by my favorite author, staring like it had the answers for the sadness in her eyes, and suddenly that moment was me…until it blew apart as I realized what she was saying.

  No one writes painful, depressing fiction masquerading as love stories like Noah Harrison. Her earlier statement etched itself into my brain with all the blister and agony of a branding iron.

  “Noah?” Chris prompted, gesturing to the last empty seat in what looked like an intervention.

  “Of course,” I muttered, but moved toward Georgia. “It’s nice to officially meet you, Georgia.”

  Her handshake was warm, unlike her crystal-sharp blue eyes. There was no kicking that feeling, that hit of instant attraction, even knowing who she really was. I couldn’t help it. Her words had left me uncharacteristically stumbling over my tongue in the store, and here I was, choking again.

  She was stunning—exquisite, really. Her hair fell in waves so black, there was an almost blue shine to it, and the contrast with her delicate ivory skin brought to mind about a million different Snow White references. Not for you, Morelli. This one wants nothing to do with you.

  But I wanted her. I was supposed to know this woman—I felt it with every fiber of my being.

  “You seriously bought your own books?” she asked, arching a brow as I let go of her hand.

  My jaw ticked. Of course that’s what she’d remember. “Was I supposed to put them back and let you think your opinion had swayed me?”

  “I commend you for the follow-through.” A corner of her incredibly kissable mouth lifted. “But it might have made this moment a tad less awkward.”

  “I think that ship sailed the moment you said all my books read the same.” And called the sex unsatisfying. All I needed was one night and I’d show her exactly how satisfying it could be.

  “They do.”

  Had to give it to her; she’d doubled down. Guess I wasn’t the only stubborn one here.

  The other woman in the room gasped, and both Chris and Adam murmured, reminding me that this wasn’t a social call.

  “Noah Harrison.” I shook the older woman’s hand, taking in her features and coloring. This had to be Georgia’s…mother?

  “Ava Stanton,” she replied with a blindingly white smile. “I’m Georgia’s mother.”

  “Though they could easily pass for sisters,” Chris added in with a little chuckle.

  I controlled the urge to roll my eyes.

  Georgia didn’t, which made me bite back a smile.

  We all took our seats, and mine was directly across from Georgia. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, somehow managing to look both relaxed and regal in a pair of jeans and a fitted black shirt.

  Wait. Recognition tingled in the back of my brain. I’d seen her somewhere—not just the bookstore. Images of her at a black-tie event flashed through my brain. Had we ever crossed paths?

  “So, Noah, why don’t you go ahead and tell Georgia—and Ava, of course—why they should trust you with Scarlett Stanton’s unfinished masterpiece,” Chris urged.

  I blinked. “I’m sorry?” I was here to take delivery of the manuscript. Period. That had been the only condition of me nearly jumping out of my skin to say yes. I wanted to be the first to read it.

  Adam cleared his throat and sent me a pleading look.

  Was he serious?

  “Noah?” His gaze darted meaningfully toward the women.
r />   Guess so. I was caught somewhere between laughing my ass off and scoffing. “Because I promise not to lose it?” My voice pitched up at the end, turning my obvious statement into a question.

  “Comforting,” Georgia remarked.

  My eyes narrowed.

  “Noah, let’s step out into the foyer,” Adam suggested.

  “I’ll get everyone some drinks!” Ava offered, rising quickly.

  Georgia looked away as I followed Adam through the French doors of the drawing room and into the vaulted entryway.

  The house was modest for what I knew of Stanton’s estate, but the craftmanship in the woodwork of the crown molding and the banister of the curved staircase spoke for both the quality of the build and taste of its previous owner. Just like her impeccable, captivating writing had been detailed without falling into frilly, the house felt feminine without stumbling into the floral-print-from-hell category. It was understated and elegant…reminding me of Georgia, minus the temper.

  “We have a problem.” Adam ran his hands over his dark blond hair and gave me a look I’d only seen once before—when they’d found a typo on one of my covers that had already gone to print.

  “I’m listening.” I folded my arms across my chest. Adam was one of my closest friends and as level-headed as they came in New York publishing, so if he thought we had a problem, we did.

  “The mother led us to believe that she was the daughter,” he blurted.

  “In what way?” Sure, both women were beautiful, but Ava was easily a decade or two older.

  “In the who-has-the-rights-to-this-book way.”

  My stomach threatened to heave up my lunch. Now it made sense—the mother wanted me on the book…not Georgia. Holy shit.

  “Are you telling me that the contract we’ve spent weeks negotiating is about to fall apart?” My jaw clenched. I hadn’t just made time for this project, I’d canceled my entire life for it, come home from Peru for it. I wanted this damn book, and the thought of it slipping through my fingers was inconceivable.

  “If you can’t convince Georgia Stanton that you’re the perfect author to finish the book, then that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  “Fuck.” I lived for challenges, spent my free time pushing my mind and body to the limit through rock climbing and writing, and this book was my mental Everest—something to push me outside my comfort zone. Mastering another author’s voice, especially one as beloved as Scarlett Stanton, wouldn’t just be a professional feat, either. There were personal stakes for me here, too.

  “Pretty much,” Adam agreed.

  “I met her earlier today. She hates my books.” Which didn’t bode well for me.

  “I gathered that. Please tell me you weren’t your usual asshole self?” His eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Eh, ‘asshole’ is a relative term.”

  “Awesome.” His tone dripped sarcasm.

  I rubbed the skin between my eyebrows as my mind raced, thinking of some way to change the mind of a woman who’d obviously sealed her opinion of my writing long before we’d met. I couldn’t remember the last time hard work or a little charm hadn’t gotten me something I wanted this badly, and it wasn’t in my nature to back down or concede defeat.

  “How about I give you a minute or two to gather your thoughts, and then you come back in with a miracle?” He slapped my shoulder and left me standing in the entry while Ava puttered in the kitchen.

  I slid my phone from my back pocket and dialed the only person I knew would give me unbiased advice.

  “What do you want, Noah?” Adrienne’s voice came in over the cacophony of her kids in the background.

  “How do I convince someone who hates my books that I’m not a shit writer?” I asked quietly, turning toward the office doors.

  “Did you really just call so I could stoke your ego?”

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “You’ve never cared what people thought before. What’s going on?” Her voice softened.

  “It’s ridiculously complicated and I have about two minutes to figure out the answer.”

  “Okay. Well, first, you’re not a shit writer, and you have the adoration of millions to prove it.” The background noise quieted, as if she’d closed a door.

  “You have to say that—you’re my sister.”

  “And I’ve hated at least eleven of your books,” she responded cheerfully.

  I huffed a laugh. “That’s an oddly specific number.”

  “Nothing odd about it. I can tell you exactly which ones—”

  “Not helping, Adrienne.” I studied the small collection of photographs on the table, mixed in with a variety of glass vases. The one shaped like an ocean wave looked to be hand-blown, and it sat beside the picture of a young boy probably taken in the late forties. There was another shot that looked to be a debutante ball…Ava’s, maybe? And another of a child who had to be Georgia in a garden. Even as a kid, she’d looked serious and a little sad, like the world had already let her down. “I somehow don’t think telling Georgia Stanton that my own sister doesn’t like my books is going to get me far.”

  “What I’m saying is that I hated your plots, not your writ—” Adrienne paused. “Wait, did you say Georgia Stanton?”

  “Yes.”

  “Holy shit,” she muttered.

  “I’m probably down to thirty seconds over here.” I felt every heartbeat like it was a countdown. How had this gone so wrong so quickly?

  “What the hell are you doing with Scarlett Stanton’s great-granddaughter?”

  “Remember the whole complicated part of this conversation? And how do you know who Georgia Stanton is?”

  “How do you not know?”

  Ava waltzed through the entry, carrying a small tray with what looked to be glasses of lemonade on it. She shot me a smile, then slipped through the slightly open doors.

  Time was running out. “Look. Scarlett Stanton left an unfinished manuscript, and Georgia—who hates my books—is the one to decide if I get to finish it.”

  My sister gasped.

  “Say something.”

  “Okay, okay.” She went quiet, and I could almost see the gears turning in her quick mind. “You tell Georgia that under no circumstances will Damian Ellsworth be allowed to direct, produce, or sniff around the story.”

  My brow furrowed. “This has nothing to do with movie rights.” The guy was a shitty director anyway. I’d already shot him down on more than one of my options.

  “Oh, come on, if this is a Scarlett Stanton finished by you, it’s going to be huge.”

  I didn’t argue with that. Scarlett hadn’t missed hitting the New York Times with a release in forty years. “What does Damian Ellsworth have to do with the Stantons?”

  “Huh. I really do know something you don’t. How odd…” she mused.

  “Adrienne,” I growled.

  “Let me savor it for just a moment,” she sang.

  “I’m going to lose this contract.”

  “When you put it that way.” I envisioned her rolling her eyes. “Ellsworth is—as of this week—Georgia’s ex-husband. He was directing The Winter Bride—”

  “The Stanton book? The one about the guy trapped in the loveless marriage?”

  “That’s the one. Anyway, he got caught having an affair with Paige Parker—ironic, right? The proof is due any day now. Don’t you ever shop at a grocery store? Georgia’s been on the front page of every tabloid for the last six months. They call her the Ice Queen because she didn’t show a lot of emotion, and, you know, the movie.”

  “Are you serious?” It was a clever but cruel play on the haughty first wife in that book, who, if I remembered correctly, died before the hero and heroine found their happy ending. Talk about life imitating art.

  “It’s sad, really.” Her voice drifted. “She usually avoid
ed the media to begin with, but now…well, it’s everywhere.”

  “Ah, shit.” I gritted my teeth. No woman deserved that. My father taught me a man was only as good as his word, and that’s what vows were, the ultimate word. There was a reason I’d never married. I didn’t make promises I couldn’t keep, and I’d never been with a woman I was ready to forsake all others for. “Okay. Thanks, Adrienne.” I crossed to the drawing room doors.

  “Good luck. Wait—Noah?”

  “Yeah?” I paused with my fingers on the brass handle.

  “Agree with her.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This isn’t about you; it’s about her great-grandmother. Check your massive ego at the door.”

  “I don’t have a—”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  I scoffed. There was no shame in knowing you were the best at what you did, but romance wasn’t what I usually wrote. “Anything else?” I asked sarcastically. Leave it to my sister to shine a light on every flaw.

  “Hmmm. You should tell her about Mom.”

  “No.” That wasn’t happening.

  “Noah, I’m telling you, girls are a sucker for a guy who loves his mom enough to read to her. It will win her over. Trust me, but don’t try to flirt your way through, either.”

  “I’m not flirting—”

  She laughed. “I know you way too well, and I love you, but I’ve seen pictures of Georgia Stanton, and she is way out of your league.”

  I couldn’t disagree with her there. “Nice. Thanks, and I love you, too. See you next weekend.”

  “Nothing extravagant!”

  “What I buy my niece for her birthday is between her and me. See you then.” I hung up with my sister and walked into the living room. Every face but Georgia’s swung my way, each of them more hopeful than the last.

  I took my time as I made my way back to my seat, pausing to examine the photograph that had captured Georgia’s attention.

  It was Scarlett Stanton, sitting at a massive desk, her glasses perched on her nose as she typed on the same old-school typewriter she’d written all of her books on, and sitting with her back against the side of the desk, reading on the floor, was Georgia. She looked to be about ten.