The Things We Leave Unfinished, a new heart-wrenching novel from USA Today bestselling
author Rebecca Yarros is live. This story examines the risks we take for love, the scars too
deep to heal, and the endings we can’t bring ourselves to see coming. I've got an amazing excerpt to share with you all so be sure to check it out and grab your copy today.
It smelled like parchment and tea, mixed
with a little bit of dust and home. I’d never been able to find anything close
to its soothing scent in any chain store while I’d lived in New York, and grief
pricked at my eyes with my first breath. Gran had been gone six months, and I
missed her so much, my chest felt like it might collapse from the hole she’d
left behind.
“Georgia?” Mrs. Rivera’s jaw dropped for a
second before she smiled wide from behind the counter, balancing her phone
between her ear and shoulder. “Hold on one second, Peggy.”
“Hey, Mrs. Rivera.” I grinned and waved at
her welcomingly familiar face. “Don’t hang up on my account. I’m just stopping
in.”
“Well, it’s wonderful to see you!” She
glanced toward the phone. “No, not you, Peggy. Georgia just walked in!” Her
warm brown eyes found mine again. “Yes, that
Georgia.”
I waved once more as they continued their
conversation, then walked back to the romance section, where Gran had an entire
stack of shelves dedicated to the books she’d written. I picked up the last
novel she’d published and opened the dust jacket so I could see her face. We
had the same blue eyes, but she’d given up dyeing her once-black hair around
her seventy-fifth birthday—the year after Mom had dumped me on her doorstep the
first time.
Gran’s headshot was all pearls and a silk
blouse, while the woman herself had been a pair of overalls, dusty from the
garden, and a sun hat wide enough to shade the county, but her smile was the
same. I grabbed another, earlier book just to see a second version of that
smile.
The door jingled, and a moment later, a man
on a cell phone began to browse in the general fiction aisle just behind me.
“A modern-day Jane Austen,” I whispered,
reading the quote from the cover. It had never ceased to amaze me that Gran had
been the most romantic soul I’d ever known, and yet she’d spent the
overwhelming majority of her life alone, writing books about love when she’d
only been allowed to experience it for a handful of years. Even when she’d
married Grandpa Brian, they’d only had a decade before cancer took him. Maybe
the women in my family were cursed when it came to our love lives.
“What the hell is this?” The man’s voice
rose.
My eyebrows flew upward, and I glanced over
my shoulder. He held a Noah Harrison book, where—go figure—there were two
people in the classic, nearly kissing position.
“Because I wasn’t exactly checking my email
in the middle of the Andes, so yes, it’s the first time I’m seeing the new
one.” The guy practically seethed as he picked up another Harrison book and
held them up, side by side. Two different couples, same exact pose.
I’d definitely stick with my selection, or
anything else in this section.
“They look exactly the same, that’s the
problem. What was wrong with the old— Yes, I’m pissed off! I’ve been traveling
for eighteen hours and in case you forgot, I cut my research trip short to be
here. I’m telling you they look exactly
the same. Hold on, I’ll prove it. Miss?”
“Yes?” I twisted slightly and glanced up to
find two book covers in my face. Space
much?
“Do these look the same to you?”
“Yep. They’re pretty interchangeable.” I
slid one of Gran’s books back onto the shelf and mentally whispered a little
goodbye, just like I did every time I visited one of her books in a store. Was
missing her ever going to get easier?
“See? Because they’re not supposed to look
the same!” the guy snapped, hopefully at the poor soul on the other end of the
phone, because it wasn’t going to go well if he was using that tone with me.
“Well, in his defense, all his books read
the same, too,” I muttered. Sh*t. It
slipped out before I could censor myself. Guess my filter was just as numbed
out as my emotions. “Sorry—” I turned to face him, lifting my gaze until I
found two dark brows raised in astonishment over equally dark eyes. Whoa.
My ruined heart jolted—just like every
heroine in one of Gran’s books. He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen, and
as the now-ex-wife of a movie director, I’d seen my fair share.
Oh
no, no, no. You’re immune to good-looking men, the
logical side of my brain warned, but I was too busy staring to listen.
“They do not read the—” He blinked. “I am
going to have to call you back.” He moved both books to one hand and hung up,
pocketing his phone.
He looked about my age—late twenties, maybe
early thirties— stood at least six feet tall, and his black, just-out-of-bed
hair fell carelessly over tanned, olive skin before reaching those lifted,
black brows and impossibly deep brown eyes. His nose was straight, his lips
carved in lush lines that only served to remind me exactly how long I’d gone
without being kissed, and his chin was shaded in a light shadow beard. He was
all angular, sculpted lines, and, given the flex of muscle in his forearms, I’d
have bet the store that he was pretty well acquainted with the inside of a
gym...and probably a bedroom.
“Did you just say they all read the same?”
he questioned slowly.
I blinked. Right. The books. I mentally slapped myself for losing my train of
thought over a pretty face. I’d had my name back for all of twenty minutes, and
men were off the menu for the foreseeable future. Besides, he wasn’t even from
around here. Eighteen hours of travel or not, his tailored slacks blatantly
screamed designer, and the sleeves of his white linen shirt were rolled in that
casually messy style that was anything but casual. Men in Poplar Grove didn’t
bother with thousand-dollar pants or have New York accents.
“Pretty much. Boy meets girl, they fall in
love, tragedy strikes, someone dies.” I shrugged, proud that I didn’t feel any
heat creeping up my cheeks to give me away. “Throw in some legal courtroom
drama, a little unsatisfying but poetic sex, and maybe a beach scene, and
you’ve pretty much got it. If that’s your thing, you can’t go wrong with either
book.”
“Unsatisfying?” Those eyebrows drew tight
as he glanced between the books, then back to me. “Someone doesn’t always die.”
Guess he’d read a Harrison book or two.
“Okay, eighty percent of the time. Go ahead and see for yourself,” I suggested.
“That’s the reason he’s shelved on this side”—I pointed to the general fiction
sign—“and not on this side.” I swung my finger toward the romance marker.
His jaw dropped for a millisecond. “Or
maybe there’s more to his stories than sex and unrealistic expectations.” His
attractiveness slipped a peg or two as he tapped one of my pet peeves right on
the nose.
My hackles rose. “Romance isn’t about
unrealistic expectations and sex. It’s about love and overcoming adversity
through what can be considered a universal experience.” That was what Gran and
reading thousands of romance novels had taught me in my twenty-eight years.
“And, apparently, satisfying sex.” He arched a brow.
Excerpted from The Things We Leave Unfinished, by Rebecca Yarros. Entangled Publishing, 2021. Reprinted with permission.
