“Just keep running, Adam. I’d hate to leave you in the dust when I get back.” If I get back. We hung up and I pulled Georgia into my lap, sliding my hands beneath her coat and sweater to the warmth of her skin.
“What was that about?” she asked, brushing my hair out of my eyes.
God, I loved this woman.
“Time,” I answered, kissing her softly. Now all I could do was pray that mortgaging my career had bought me enough.
Her eyes flew wide. “Oh God, your deadline. It’s this week, isn’t it? Is the book done?” Was that a hint of panic in her voice? Or was I just hearing what I wanted to?
“Not yet.” It wasn’t, at least that’s what I told myself to steal a little more time with her. Sure, it was written, but it wouldn’t be done until it was through edits. “Don’t worry. It’s just delivery. Adam’s juggling a few things on the calendar and starting with what we have so we don’t blow the print deadline while I’m getting these endings just right. Think you can stand having me around for a little bit longer?” Semantics, but it still felt like a lie.
Because it was.
But the smile she gave me? Absolutely worth it.
Chapter Twenty-Four
January 1942
North Weald, England
Scarlett glanced between the small gift box on the table, her typewriter, and the dishes that lay piled in the sink. She hadn’t had a spare moment since breakfast. William had fussed all morning, and was finally down for an afternoon nap, which hopefully gave her at least forty-five minutes to get something done…but all she’d wanted to do was nap right next to him.
The days blurred together with the nights, which one of the other wives had told her was normal when caring for a newborn. She was so tired that she’d fallen asleep sitting at the dinner table last night.
And speaking of dinner…
She sighed, mentally sending an apology to her hatbox of stories as she made her way to the sink, blatantly ignoring the gift box addressed in her mother’s handwriting. This was her third kitchen in the past year, and though she appreciated the sizeable yet frozen garden just beyond the kitchen window, she wished it had come with a view of Constance.
They’d been at Martlesham-Heath for over a month now, and she’d only seen her sister twice. It was the longest they’d been apart since Constance’s birth. She missed her immeasurably, and while they were only an hour apart in distance, they were years apart when it came to this new stage of life.
Constance was still billeted with the other women, still taking her watches, eating in the officers’ mess—and planning a wedding. Scarlett’s closest confidant was now a six-week-old baby who wasn’t much for conversation. She really was going to have to get out and make some friends.
She was pleasantly surprised when the house was still quiet after she finished the dishes.
A quick listen told her William hadn’t woken—she might just have a few minutes.
It felt rather indulgent, but she slid behind her typewriter anyway. It took her a matter of seconds to load the first crisp piece of blank paper. She stared at it for a moment, contemplating what it would become, what story it would hold.
Perhaps she should do as Constance suggested, and finish something. Maybe publish it.
That hatbox was already half full with semi-formed plots, snippets of dialogue, and ideas that needed execution. It contained stories she should write for other people, endings she could twist and sweeten to make other people happy. Endings like the one Constance should have been given.
Endings like the one she wanted for herself and Jameson and William, but couldn’t guarantee. She couldn’t even guarantee that there wouldn’t be a bombing raid tonight—that she wouldn’t be among those counted as casualties.
But she could leave as much of their story for William as possible…just in case.
She started on that hot day in Middle Wallop when Mary forgot to pick them up at the train station. She remembered everything she could, writing even the smallest details about the moment she met Jameson. A smile stretched across her face. If only she could go back and tell herself then where they would end up…she never would’ve believed it. She wasn’t sure she even believed now. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance that settled into a passionate, sometimes complicated marriage.
Jameson hadn’t changed much in the last eighteen months…but she had. The woman who had made quick decisions at the planning board, who had been a rock-solid, valuable officer in the WAAF, was now…none of that, really. She was no longer responsible for the lives of hundreds of pilots, only William, not that she was alone in that, either.
When he was home, Jameson was a hands-on father. He held William, rocked him, change nappies—there wasn’t anything Jameson wouldn’t do for William, which only made her love him more. Becoming parents hadn’t stripped them of their personalities, it had given new, deeper facets to them both.
She wrote as far as Jameson asking for their first date before William woke with shrill demand. Hearing that first cry, she removed the paper from the typewriter and put it into the hatbox, adding to the stack she’d been careful to leave on top so it wouldn’t get mixed in with the rest. Then she put it away and went to fetch her littlest love.
Hours later, William had been fed, changed, cleaned up and changed again, fed once more, mopped up after another spit up, then fed one last time and burped before he was back to sleep.
She headed into the kitchen to contemplate dinner, pulling out fish to fry, and as though right on cue, Jameson walked in the front door.
“Scarlett?”
“In the kitchen!” The relief was a jolt of energy through her system, just like it was every time he came home to her.
“Hey.” His footsteps were soft, but his mood filled the room like a thundercloud, dark and ominous.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, abandoning the fish she’d planned on frying.
He strode across the kitchen, took her face in his hands, and kissed her. It was soft, which, considering his mood, only made it that much sweeter. He was always careful with her. Their lips moved together in a soft dance that quickly deepened, intensified. It had been six weeks since William’s birth. Six weeks since her husband had shared her body, and not just her bed. According to the midwife, six weeks was long enough, and Scarlett couldn’t agree more.
…
Jameson lifted his head slowly, keeping a tight leash on his self-control. She was so damn beautiful, it was nearly impossible to keep his hands off her. Her curves were lush, her hips grabbable, and her breasts full and heavy—she was every fantasy, every pinup painted on a plane, and she was his.
He knew she needed time to heal, and he would never push her to heal faster. He wasn’t that big of a bastard. But he missed her body, missed the feel of sliding inside her, the way the rest of the world faded until it was just the two of them, straining together. He craved her taste on his tongue, the way her hips ground against his mouth, the silk of her hair sliding over his face from above as she kissed him when she took the lead. He longed for that little catch in her throat before she came, missed the way her eyes glazed over, her breath caught, her muscles locked, the sound of his name on her lips when she finally let go. He missed the sweet oblivion he found in her body, but mostly he craved just a few moments of her undivided attention.