Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145574 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 728(@200wpm)___ 582(@250wpm)___ 485(@300wpm)
“Of course, Mom.” My throat tightened.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to wait a few more minutes,” Noah said. “Charles told me they’d sign it immediately, and I’d much rather the deal be finalized before I take the manuscript off your hands.”
“Naturally,” Mom answered as she moved toward the door. “I will say, Noah—you look good at Gran’s desk. It’s nice to have your kind of creative genius in here again.”
Your kind of creative genius? My stomach twisted.
“Well, it’s an honor to be in Scarlett Stanton’s office,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve both gotten a lot of inspiration from this place.”
Mom’s brow puckered. “Funny you should mention it, but Georgia actually did go to some art school on the east coast. Not that she uses her degree, but we’re all very proud.”
Heat rushed up my neck, setting my cheeks on fire as my twisting stomach plummeted to the floor.
“It wasn’t just any art school, Mom. It was the Rhode Island School of Design. It’s the Harvard of art schools,” I reminded her. “And I might not have used my studio major, but my concentration in media and technology definitely helped get my production company off the ground.” Holy shit, was I five years old again? Because it sure felt like it.
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just thought you gave away money for a living.” She gave me a reassuring smile.
I pressed my lips together and nodded. This wasn’t the time or place for this fight. I ran a twenty-million-dollar charity, for fuck’s sake, but okay.
She shut the door behind her, and Noah raised his eyebrows at me. “Do I want to know?”
“Nope.” I clicked refresh on my inbox a little harder than necessary and avoided his eyes at all costs. “Feel free to look around the room and get a feel for her,” I offered, clicking again.
“Thanks.” He moved around Gran’s office in silence for the next ten minutes while I hit the refresh button so often, my mouse sounded like morse code.
“You’re in a lot of these pictures,” he noted, leaning in toward Gran’s photo gallery.
“She raised me.” That was the simplest explanation to both the question he’d asked and the one he hadn’t.
He studied me for an awkward moment, then moved on.
“Oh, thank God,” I muttered, opening the notification that the contract had been accepted. I took the thumb drive I’d spent the last few days preparing and walked it over to him. “It’s here. Deal is done.”
“What’s this?” His brow furrowed.
“It’s the manuscript, the letters, and a few pictures.” I pressed it into his palm. “Now you have everything.”
His fingers wrapped around the drive, but his entire frame tensed. “I want the actual manuscript.”
“Good, because it’s here.” I gestured to his palm. “I scanned everything in, and before you argue, the chances of you walking out that door with my gran’s originals are zero and zero. Even she used to make a copy before sending it to her editor.”
“But I’m not the editor. I’m now the writer who is finishing the original manuscript.” His jaw ticked, and I got the feeling he wasn’t used to losing. Ever.
“Were you planning on typing it out on this thing, too?” I nodded toward Gran’s typewriter. “Just to keep it authentic?”
His eyes narrowed.
“Just checking. Originals stay. Period. Or hey, feel free to use that out.” Originals never left the house, and he wasn’t the exception just because he was pretty. Our eyes warred in a silent argument, but eventually he nodded.
“I’ll begin reading tonight and will call you with my thoughts when I’m finished. Once we agree on the direction of the plot, I’ll start writing.”
I walked him to the door, unable to kick the nervousness tightening my chest. “You said you know the worth of what I just handed to you.”
“I do.”
Our gazes collided, the electricity—chemistry, attraction, whatever it was—coursing between us enough to raise goose bumps on my arm. “Earn it.”
His dark eyes flared at the challenge. “I’ll give them the happily-ever-after they deserve.”
My hand tightened on the doorknob. “Oh, no. That’s the one thing you can’t do.”
Chapter Six
August 1940
Middle Wallop, England
Scarlett’s heart clenched as she watched Jameson whirl Constance around the small dance floor of the local pub. He took so much care with Constance because he knew how precious she was to Scarlett, which only made her like him more.
Too much, too soon, too fast…it was all of that and then some, but she couldn’t bring herself to slow it down.
“You’re falling for him, aren’t you?” one of his American friends—Howard Reed, if she remembered correctly—asked from across their table, his arm wrapped around Christine, another filter officer who bunked in the same hut as Scarlett.
Christine glanced over the top of the newspaper she was reading. The headlines were more than enough to convince Scarlett to look away.