Filed to story: The Things We Leave Unfinished Novel Free
“I think if you’re going to be writing Gran’s story, you can call me Georgia.” I brought my gaze to meet his and noted, to his credit, that he wasn’t staring at the shelves of rare books or even the infamous typewriter that Gran had sworn by in the middle of the desk. His eyes were still on me.
Me. As if I were something just as rare and valuable as the treasures that filled this room.
“Georgia,” he said slowly, as if tasting my name. “Then you’ll have to call me Noah.”
“It’s really Morelli, right?” I already knew the answer, along with just about everything regarding his career up to this point. Whatever I hadn’t known at the time of our unfortunate run-in at the bookstore, I’d been schooled on by Helen. Hazel had taken over when it came to the revolving door of women in his life.
“It’s Morelli. Harrison is a pen name,” he admitted with a slight tilt of his lips.
Drop-your-panties gorgeous. Hazel’s description echoed through my brain as my cheeks flamed. How long had it been since I’d felt real, true attraction to a man? And why the hell did it have to be this man?
“Well, have a seat, Noah Morelli; I’m just waiting for them to send the contract.” I motioned to both of the leather, winged-back chairs across from the one I sat in.
“I signed my portion before driving over, so they’re probably accepting it right now.” He chose the one on the right.
“Would either of you like a drink?” Mom offered from the doorway in her best hostess voice. God bless her, the woman had been on her best behavior since Monday. Attentive. Caring. I almost didn’t recognize her. She’d even promised to stay through Christmas, swearing that I was what brought her back to Poplar Grove in the first place.
“Be careful-all she knows how to make are sodas and martinis,” I whispered loudly.
“I heard that, Georgia Constance Stanton,” Mom lectured with a mock scowl.
“I’m not sure about that. Last time she poured a mean lemonade.” Noah laughed lightly, revealing straight, white-but not fake white-even teeth. Had to admit, I was looking for any imperfection at this point. Even his inability to see a romance through to a happily-ever-after was a mark in his favor at this point, which meant I was looking hard.
“And I can do it again,” Mom said.
Ten years ago, I would have said Mom’s chipper, maternal attitude was everything I’d ever wanted. Now it only served to remind me how hard we both had to try to even act normal around the other.
“That would be great, Ava,” Noah answered, never looking away.
“Me too, Mom. Thanks.” I flashed a quick smile that left as soon as Mom shut the door.
“I couldn’t really care less about the lemonade, but you looked like you were about to grind your teeth into dust.” He crossed his ankle over his knee and sank back into the chair, resting his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned on his elbow. “You always this tense around your mom? Or is it the deal?”
He was observant, just like Gran had been. Maybe it was a writer thing.
“It’s been…a week.” It had been a year, if I was honest. From Gran’s diagnosis to her refusal of treatment, to the burial, to finding Damian with- “So, it’s Morelli,” I said, halting the ever-present downward spiral of my thoughts that threatened to pull me under. “I like that better,” I admitted. It suited him.
“So do I, honestly.” He flashed that public smile, the one everyone in New York wore to functions they didn’t actually want to attend but needed to be seen at.
Those pretty smiles were just one of the many reasons I left that city-they usually melted into ugly gossip the minute your back was turned.
His expression softened, as if he’d noticed my defenses rising. “But my first agent thought Harrison sounded more…”
“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.