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.
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.