The Things We Leave Unfinished by Yarros, Rebecca (phonics reading books .txt) 📕

He shook his head. “They’re love stories. It says so right here.” He held up one of the covers that happened to have a quote by Gran. The quote. The one her publisher had begged Gran for so often that she’d finally relented, and they’d made do with what she had to say.

“No one writes love stories like Noah Harrison,” I read, a slight smile tweaking my lips.

“I’d say that Scarlett Stanton is a pretty well-respected romance writer, wouldn’t you?” A lethally sexy smirk played across his face. “If she says it’s a love story, then it’s a love story.”

How could someone so devastatingly handsome annoy the shit out of me so thoroughly?

“I’d say that Scarlett Stanton was arguably the most respected romance writer of her generation.” I shook my head, filed Gran’s other book back where it belonged, and turned to walk away before I completely snapped at this guy throwing Gran’s name around like he knew the first thing about her.

“So it’s safe to take her recommendation, right? If a guy wants to read a love story. Or do you only approve of love stories written by women?” he called after me.

Seriously? I pivoted at the end of the aisle, my temper getting the best of me as I turned back to face him. “What you don’t see in that quote is the rest of it.”

“What do you mean?” Two lines appeared between his eyebrows.

“That wasn’t the original quote.” I glanced up at the ceiling, trying to remember her exact words. “What was it… ‘No one writes painful, depressing fiction masquerading as love stories like Noah Harrison.’ The publisher edited it for the blurb.” That was a step too far. I could almost hear Gran’s voice in my head.

“What?” It must have been the way he shifted under the fluorescent lights, but it looked like his skin paled.

“Look, it happens all the time.” I sighed. “I’m not sure you noticed, but here in Poplar Grove, we all knew Scarlett Stanton pretty well, and she was never one to keep her opinions to herself.” Guess that’s genetic. “If I recall correctly, she did say that he wrote with a flair for description and was…fond of alliteration.” That was the nicest thing she’d said. “It wasn’t his writing she objected to—just his stories.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Well, I happen to like alliteration in my love stories.” He walked by with both books, heading for the checkout. “Thank you for the recommendation, Miss…”

“Ellsworth,” I responded automatically, flinching slightly as it left my lips. Not anymore. “Enjoy your books, Mr.…”

“Morelli.”

I nodded, then walked away, feeling his gaze follow me out the door as Mrs. Rivera rang up both books for him.

So much for getting some peace. Worst part of that whole little spat? Maybe he was right, and the books Gran wrote really were unrealistic. The sole happily-ever-after I knew of was my best friend, Hazel, and, since she was only on year five of her marriage, the verdict could hardly be determined.

Five minutes later, I drove onto our street, passing Grantham cottage, the closest of the rental properties Gran owned. It looked vacant, which was the first time since…ever. Only being a half hour or so out of Breckenridge meant rentals never stayed empty for long around here.

Shit. You didn’t make the arrangements with the property manager. That was probably one of the dozens of unheard voicemails, or perhaps one of my thousand unread emails. At least the voicemail box had stopped accepting new messages, but the emails continued to pile up. I needed to pull myself together. The rest of the world didn’t care that Damian had broken my heart.

I pulled into the driveway of the house I’d grown up in and parked. There was already a rental car at the apex of the semicircular drive.

Mom must be here. That ever-present exhaustion swelled, sweeping over me.

I left my suitcases for later but grabbed my purse before heading toward the front door of the seventy-year-old colonial. The flowers are missing. Perennials popped up here and there, all rather desiccated, but there were no bright splashes of color in the beds that usually lined the drive this time of the season.

The last few years—when she’d been too fragile to spend that much time kneeling—I’d flown out to help Gran plant. It wasn’t like Damian had missed me…though now I knew why.

“Hello?” I called as I walked into the entry hall. My stomach churned at the stale scent of ash in the air. Had she been smoking in Gran’s house? The hardwood looked like it hadn’t been mopped since winter, and there was a thick layer of dust on the foyer table. Gran would have shit bricks to see her house like this. What had happened to Lydia? I’d asked Gran’s accountant to keep her housekeeper on payroll.

The doors to the sitting room pushed open, and Mom came through, dressed for company. Her megawatt smile slipped when she saw me, then widened.

“Gigi!” She opened her arms and gave me the two-second, back-pat hug that had pretty much defined our relationship.

God, I hated that nickname.

“Mom? What are you doing here?” I asked the question gently, not wanting to send her into a meltdown.

She tensed, then pulled back, her smile faltering. “Well…I’ve actually been waiting for you, honey. I know losing Gran was a major blow, and now that you’ve lost your husband, I figured you might need a soft place to land.” Her expression dripped with sympathy as she looked me up and down, grasping my shoulders lightly, ending her perusal with a slightly raised eyebrow. “You definitely look heartbroken. I know it’s hard right now, but I swear the next time will be easier.”

“I didn’t want there to be a next time,” I admitted quietly.

“We never do.” Her eyes softened in a way they never had toward me.

My shoulders fell, and the thick defenses I’d built over the years cracked. Maybe Mom was turning over