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

in her seat as the cab lurched forward into traffic.

“You have to get a visa. You can’t stay here. Our baby can’t stay here.” He shook his head. “You told me they were cold and monstrous, but that was…” His jaw flexed. “I don’t have the words to describe what happened back there.”

“So you’re taking me to the embassy.” She lifted a brow.

“Yes!”

“Love, we don’t have our marriage records or any of my personal identification. They’re not just going to give me a visa because you say so,” she said, calmly stroking his hand.

“Shit!”

The driver glanced back at them but continued on.

“I know they’re…upsetting. But they don’t have any power over me anymore—over us. Jameson, look at me.”

“If something happens to me, I need to know that you can get to Colorado.” Just the thought of her going back to her family sent another hot pulse of anger through him. “We’re not poor—at least not in land—and I’ve already changed my will. If I die, you have options, but going back to those two isn’t one of them.”

“I know.” She nodded slowly. “I won’t. Nothing will happen to you—”

“You don’t know that.”

“—but if it does, I’ll never go back there. I promise.”

His eyes searched hers. “Promise me we’ll start the visa process.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“Promise. Me. If nothing else, you’d have it if I die.” He wasn’t giving on this one, wasn’t being the sensible, sensitive husband. She had to belong somewhere if he went down.

“Okay. Fine. We’ll start the process. But we can’t do anything about it today. We have to get an appointment—”

He kissed her hard and quick, not giving a shit that they were in public or potentially scandalizing the cab driver.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his forehead against hers.

“Can we go back to the hotel now?”

He gave the driver the destination change with a grin that didn’t fade as they made their way to the hotel. It didn’t even fade as they climbed the wide staircase up to their room or as he unlocked their door.

Even if he didn’t survive this war, she would—their child would.

…

“What is that?” Scarlett asked, gesturing to a large box on the desk as they walked into the room. She was completely, utterly drained, not only from walking miles while they shopped but from the encounter with her parents on the street.

“I bought you a present while you were sleeping this morning and arranged to have it delivered. Go on.” He motioned her toward the box.

“A present?” She put the bag with the baby clothes on their bed, then looked over her shoulder at him with skepticism. “What are you about?”

“Just open it.” He shut the door, then came up beside her, half sitting on the desk to face her.

“It’s not my birthday.” She tugged one flap open.

“No, but it’s the start of a new era for you.”

She opened the next flap, and again, peering down into the wide box as it opened.

Then she gasped, her chest constricting at what she found.

“Jameson,” she whispered.

“Do you like it?” he asked with a grin.

She ran her fingers lightly over the cool metal casing. “It’s…” Amazing. Wonderful. Thoughtful. Too much.

“I thought maybe you could write down some of those stories you’re always thinking up inside that beautiful brain of yours.”

A joyful laugh burst from her throat, and she flung herself into his arms, holding him tight. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

He’d bought her a typewriter.

Chapter Twenty-One

Georgia

Jameson,

I miss you. How long has it been since we’ve written letters? Months? Even living in the same house, your flight schedule and my watches have us missing each other by minutes. It’s the sweetest form of torture, sleeping next to your pillow, my head filled with your scent, knowing you’re flying in the skies above me. I pray that you’re safe, that you’re reading this while I’m already at work, smiling as you fall asleep next to my pillow with my scent, wishing you were holding me. Sleep well, my love, and maybe I’ll make it home this afternoon before you’re due on the flight line. I love you.

Scarlett

“You’re sure?” Helen asked, her tone efficient as always. Gran’s agent had always left minimal room for nonsense, which was why Gran had chosen her after the first had passed away twenty years into her career.

“Absolutely,” I assured her, switching the phone to my other hand and crossing into the entry way. “I already told him when he called a couple of weeks ago, but Damian has all the Scarlett Stanton rights he’s going to get. And you know how Gran felt about movies. I don’t care what he’s offering: the answer is no.”

She chuckled. “I sure do. Okay, then, no manuscript for Ellsworth Productions.”

My heart ached at the mention of the company I’d helped build, which only made me that much more determined not to give my ex another single thing.

“Thank you.” I headed for the giant bowl of candy on the entry table and refilled it with a fresh stock of Snickers bars.

“Of course,” Helen said. “And honestly, I’m looking forward to telling him to stick it. I think I’ll give him a call when we’re done. How is that manuscript coming, anyway?”

I paused at the foyer mirror, adjusting my witch hat while taking in the added bonus of seeing Noah in the reflection, typing at Gran’s desk behind me. Lord, that man even made writing look sexy. His shirtsleeves were pushed up his forearms, and his brow was furrowed in concentration as his fingers flew over his keyboard.

“Georgia?” Helen prompted.

“It’s coming.” Which was more than I could say for me, since I’d dutifully kept my hands off the writer-in-residence. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about that almost-kiss or contemplate climbing into his lap for a do-over so I could follow through with at least one of the daydreams I’d had about his mouth on mine. The doorbell rang for the millionth time that evening. “Gotta run, Helen; it’s a madhouse around here tonight.”

“Happy Halloween!”

We hung