Page 13 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Holiday

TANNER: How’s the straw roof?

HOLIDAY: Stopped leaking, thank god.

TANNER: Can you seriously believe they make their houses out of straw?

HOLIDAY: No, yet here we are.

TANNER: And you’re definitely staying?

HOLIDAY: I’m staying. I like it.

TANNER: Then we’ll be over to visit as soon as the season is over.

HOLIDAY: You better. And can you send me some more pictures of my nephew in the meantime please? I haven’t had any this week.

TANNER: In the morning, once I’ve had more sleep. Love you.

HOLIDAY: Love you too.

I ’m about to toss my phone onto the bed when it rings, and my agent’s name flashes on the screen.

It’s eleven o’clock here, which means it’s six o’clock in New York, and while my brother was awake for his son’s morning feed, it’s been rare I’ve heard from anyone before lunchtime the past couple of weeks.

I hit the button right before it cuts out, and Marcy’s face fills the screen.

Marcy was my first agent when I entered the industry fresh out of high school. Straight black bob, hitting just below her jawline, and a face pumped so full of Botox that I have no idea how old she is because she looks exactly the same as the day I met her.

She taught me everything I needed to know about standing on my own two feet, and I owe my career to her. On the flip side, she likes me working, and I know she’ll have been slowly driving herself crazy from declining any offers coming in for me.

From the looks of it, she’s already in her office, and I’m ashamed to say I’m still in bed. I woke up, made a coffee, and decided to get back under the comforter. I’ve had a delightful morning trying to read a book while listening to the birds and the occasional clip-clop of horses’ hooves.

“Hey Marce, how’s it goin’?”

“Holiday, honey, boy, are you a sight for sore eyes,” she crows, though her face doesn’t move.

“Oh yeah?” I laugh.

“Yeah. Tell me everything. I want to hear it all.”

I pause for a second. I haven’t done much more than sleep late and read. I’ve jogged. Clemmie and I have been to the pub ( pub , not bar as Eddie corrected me). And after a trip to the local grocery store, I’ve eaten whatever I’ve wanted.

I’ve been here almost two weeks, and I’m starting to feel like myself again.

Ashley has been an excellent gatekeeper, so in the absence of dozens of emails and calls she’s fielding every day, it’s also been incredibly relaxing. And freeing .

But bizarrely all that pops into my brain is Lando, the moody one.

In the end, I go with, “Oh, you know, I’m still getting used to the time difference and that everything is the wrong way around.”

True story. I almost got hit by a car yesterday because I was on the wrong side of the road and not looking in the right direction.

I mean I was looking right, but I should have been looking left .

Even in the English countryside, where everyone seems to be super chill, that really pisses people off.

“Not ready to come back?”

I shake my head and settle back into the pillows. I’m not even ready to get out of bed.

“Nope, not ready.”

Marcy takes a breath, sucks her cheeks in, and her lips purse.

“I thought as much, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check.

However, you are a very popular woman right now .

. . I told you this would happen . . . I told you after the award season, everyone would want you. And they do, but it’s fine. I got you.”

If this is going to be a call about how dramatic Marcy thinks I’m being, then I’ll hang up right now.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to get to thirty / forty / fifty, and my entire life will have gone by in a flash with nothing to show for it but a bunch of movies no one can remember.

“Now, the reason I’m calling you is because I had an enticing offer come through?—”

My finger hovers over the end call button. “Marcy?—”

She holds her hand up. “Just listen.”

“Okay.”

She pauses again and sits back in her chair. It’s the same as the chair she has in her LA office, with high wing backs that almost make it seem like she’s sitting on a throne. Because in case you didn’t realize when you enter her space, Marcy is important, and she makes shit happen.

“L’Oreal wants you to join their global brand ambassadors lineup. Five-year contract, eight million for the first year, and the potential to renegotiate higher for years two through five. But it won’t lower. Minimum forty mil. Half up front.”

I watch Marcy’s mouth moving, but I can’t hear anything else. My jaw drops. Holy crap.

Forty million dollars.

The only time I’ve stepped outside of acting was to front a fragrance campaign for Gucci, but it was nothing of this caliber.

I might have twenty-five films under my belt and won a couple of awards in the process, but I still feel like that struggling young actress auditioning for her first role.

It’s there every time I step onto set, and they decide I’m too young to know what I’m talking about, or when I walk into a meeting with an executive, studio head, or film director and know I’ll have to prove myself all over again.

But this? This is more money than I’ve ever been offered in one go before. Even after all the percentage cuts for my lawyers, manager, Marcy, and tax, forty million dollars is enough to make it work for me.

I wouldn’t need to start another movie next year.

I could set up my own production company. I could direct.

I’ve always wanted to do theater, even though the thought terrifies me more than anything else in the world, and this contract would allow me to be more choosy with the roles I take on and free up the time to do so.

Marcy takes the silence as hesitation.

“You can have a couple of weeks to decide where you want to negotiate, but this is a good offer, Holiday. You need to meet with them in Paris in a couple of months’ time for some initial shots, which they’d pay extra for. I’m gonna fly over so we can discuss it in person.”

I balk. Marcy and the countryside would not mix. For one, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her out of five-inch heels. For another, the air is way too fresh.

“You’re coming here?”

“Yeah, you said you’re not ready to leave.”

“To the English countryside?”

“Sure, why not? Send me a list of all the clothes I need to buy,” she says, and she’s dead serious and more enthusiastic than I’ve ever seen her outside of a conversation about making money. Though this is still about making money. “It’s all tweed and shit, right? I look great in tweed.”

I stifle a laugh. Now that I think about it, I’ve not seen any tweed. Maybe it’s one of those ideas perpetuated by movies. I’m almost tempted to share the rain boots I ordered only to see what she’d do, but then I change my mind.

“Why don’t I meet you in London?”

I can almost feel her sigh of relief. “Thank god . We’ll do Claridge’s. I’m sending the proposal now. Read over it.”

My email pings, and I nod silently. “Thanks, Marcy. Thanks for looking out for me. You’re the best.”

“I know. I know.” She grins. “Anyway, gotta go, I have another meeting. I’ll leave you to your English peace. Call me if you have questions.”

“I will.”

The second she hangs up, I open the email.

It’s fairly top line but laid out in black and white is what I need to do for forty million. Photo shoots, filmed campaigns, press. A total of ten full days per year, which would work around all other commitments.

Easy. And huge. Hell, this isn’t just good. It’s a dream deal.

Since the first movie contract I signed, I typically get a surge of excitement coupled with acute anxiety whenever a new job offer comes in, but this is different.

Adrenaline rushes through me until I’m shaking. Tears prick my eyes.

Someone somewhere has deemed me worthy to join the lineup of incredible women who currently serve as ambassadors to the world’s largest cosmetics company. Women I’ve looked up to for years. Idolized. Wanted to be.

Me. Holiday Simpson from Augusta, Maine.

The years and years of auditions followed by rejections are too ingrained in me to believe this is real, that I’ve earned it through my hard work and nothing else.

For a split second, I forget I’m not still that little girl putting on plays in my parents’ backyard and forcing the whole neighborhood to come watch.

I glance back at the screen.

I’m tempted to message Clemmie and ask her to meet me for lunch. But I also want to sit with this news for a little bit before anyone weighs in with their opinions.

Therefore, I’m going to do what I always do whenever I get an offer. Buy myself a coffee and a donut and go for a manicure.

I ’m deciding what donut I’m going to buy when I round the corner, and right there next to the fountain is Lando, deep in discussion with Eddie from The One True Love.

The first thing I notice is he’s not scowling, and his smile is kind of nice. Full mouth, straight white teeth, and his beard has been trimmed such that I can make out the hard line of his jaw. The shadow from the peak of his baseball cap only enhances it.

Yeah, this guy is all kinds of hot.

On second glance, he’s also cleaner than I’ve seen him before, aside from the nakedness. But I don’t think about that .

I’m so engrossed in watching him that I don’t notice the enormous black horse standing calmly next to him. I mean, enormous .

This one might look chill, but I’m not about to chance it isn’t.

Unfortunately, the wide berth I take means I walk right into the eyeline of Eddie.

“A’right ’Oliday,” he greets. “How’s it goin’?”

Lando spins around. His eyes widen a split second before he catches himself, and the surprise is replaced with amusement.

Now what’s his problem? I have no idea what to do with this guy.

I’ve met him three times, and he’s either naked or yelling. And don’t get me started when he turned up at the cottage covered in blood with a story about baby cows. At least he seems to have washed since then.