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)
“You first.”
“Hmm…” She shut off the faucet, then lifted and tipped the watering can over the rosebush. “Warning—trust issues.” She lifted a brow at me.
That made perfect sense.
“Warning—always right.”
She scoffed, finishing up with the can.
“I’m serious. I have a really hard time admitting I’m wrong, even to myself. I’m also a control freak.”
“Well, you’re wearing a Mets shirt, so at least you chose the right New York team.” She smiled and put the can back on the bench.
“I grew up in the Bronx. There is no other team. I keep forgetting that you lived in New York.” The pictures I’d seen of her from the net showed a glossed and polished Georgia, not the gardener with a messy bun and ripped jeans. Not that I should have been looking at her jeans or the way her ass filled them out…but I was.
“From the day I got married until the day I met you, actually.” Her smile faded and she crossed her arms over her chest. “So what exactly did you want to talk to me about? Because I know you didn’t go to the trouble of ordering that rosebush just to deliver it. I saw the label.”
Here went nothing.
“Right.” I scratched the back of my neck. “I want to make a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” Her eyes narrowed. That was quick.
“The kind where I ultimately get more than you do, admittedly.” My lips flattened.
Her eyes flared with surprise. “Well, at least you admit it. Okay, shoot.”
“I think we both need to get out of our comfort zones when it comes to dealing with each other and this book. I’m not used to having someone dictate my endings, let alone an entire story, since two-thirds of it is already written, and you don’t trust me farther than you can throw me.”
Her head tilted slightly, not bothering to deny it. “What do you have in mind?”
“I will spend some time getting to know Scarlett—not just the character she wrote herself as in the book, but the real woman, and then I’ll write two endings. One will be the one I want, and the other will be what I’m known for—what you want. You can choose between the two.” I grabbed my ego in a choke hold to keep the asshole quiet.
“And I have to…” She lifted her brow.
“Go rock climbing. With me. It’s a trust thing.” Smooth. Real smooth.
“You want me to put my life in your hands.” She shifted her weight, clearly uncomfortable.
“I want you to put Scarlett’s life in my hands, which I think starts with yours.” Because she valued Scarlett’s more. That’s what the trip to the gazebo and the internet had taught me. She was ruthlessly protective of her great-grandmother, while she’d allowed her husband out of their marriage with little to no consequence.
“And the final decision is still mine?” she clarified, her forehead crinkling.
“One hundred percent, but you have to agree to read both endings before you decide.” I’d win her over one way or another. I just had to get her to read it my way.
“Deal.”
Chapter Sixteen
February 1941
Kirton-in-Lindsey, England
“Good morning!” Scarlett said to Constance as she arrived for her morning watch.
“So loud.” Eloise, who had only been posted to Kirton for the last month, winced as she stirred a mug of cocoa.
“Someone stayed out with the boys a bit too long last night,” Constance explained as she handed Scarlett a steaming mug of coffee.
That could probably be said for most of the 71st and the WAAFs this morning, as well as a healthy percentage of the single, civilian girls from Kirton. Scarlett was among the sleepless, too, but for much…different reasons. After what they’d both considered an acceptable amount of time, Jameson had taken her home for their own celebration, though there had been a sharper, more desperate edge to his lovemaking.
As of yesterday, the 71st was officially ready for defensive duties. Training, and the blissful months of relative safety, were over. The only thing to celebrate in her mind was that the unit had finally been outfitted with Hurricanes, rather than the cumbersome Buffaloes Jameson hated so very much, but he still missed his Spitfire.
Scarlett offered Eloise a compassionate smile. “More water, less cocoa.” She finished putting her things away and looped her arm through Constance’s elbow as they headed for the door. “How late did you stay out, poppet?”
“Just long enough to see some of the girls home.” She sent a meaningful look toward Eloise, who followed close behind.
“Which was totally unnecessary,” the pretty little blonde added. “Did I enjoy myself? Certainly. But it’s not like I’m silly enough to end up in any of the dark alcoves with a flyer. I’m not about to have my heart broken when—” She winced. “Not that you’re silly, of course, Scarlett. You’re married.”
Scarlett shrugged. “Yes, and that was still silly of me. We both know there are no guarantees. I worry every time Jameson flies—and he’s only been training these last few months, but now…” Her heart plummeted, but she forced a smile.