Page 24 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Holiday

“ A nd I’m confirming Paris for next month.” Marcy scribbles more notes onto my contract.

I nod, which turns into a yawn. “Do they know I don’t speak French?”

“Yes, everyone speaks English.”

“Which I’m sure they love .”

Maybe I should learn.

I’ve always wanted to speak another language, and if I sign a five-year contract with a French company, now’s the perfect time. Plus, I’ve always heard that the French hate Americans. Or hate people who don’t even try to speak French.

And I don’t want to be one of those.

I mindlessly reach for the afternoon tea tray between us and take a macaron, breaking it in half, only to put it down again.

I’ve already eaten three, plus all the sandwiches. Not the self-discipline L’Oreal would expect before the start of a beauty contract. It’s right there in the fine print that Marcy’s finalizing—I’m required to look after myself.

Instead of the sugar from a macaron, I signal the server for a strong cup of coffee. Less carbs and more effective at keeping me awake.

Why am I tired, you ask?

Because the goddamn English countryside has ruined me.

A month in Valentine Nook and it seems it’s impossible to sleep without my windows open, listening to the sound of the stream running through the village.

Last night, I opened the patio door of my suite at Claridge’s, and all I could hear were sirens. Even with the doors shut, and after I’d called down to the concierge for a set of earplugs, I didn’t get to sleep until after two a.m.

I planned to stay two nights in London, returning to the city I’ve always loved visiting.

Last night was spent at dinner catching up with friends who are in town filming.

This morning, I was pampered from head to toe in the spa before my meeting with Marcy, and this evening, I’m supposed to be catching a show in the West End, but as soon as we wrap up, I’m calling time on London and heading straight back to Bluebell Cottage.

“Okay, honey. I gotta go. I need to get this finalized and sent over to the lawyers before a call with the West Coast. Expect me to confirm the schedule by the end of the week —”

I stand as Marcy gathers everything up—papers, pen, phone, laptop, you name it—and shoves it in her bag, which must now weigh ten pounds.

“Thanks, Marce. I appreciate you,” I tell her, giving her a hug.

“Yeah, yeah. And once I’m done with this, we can discuss what you’re working on next. You’ve only got a couple of months until we have to ramp things up before the junkets in November and then . . .”

God, even listening to her makes my brain ache.

It sets off a swirl of unease that sits right in my chest. All that relaxation from my morning massage lasted about thirty minutes.

“But I’ll see you in Paris.” She squeezes me hard, waves goodbye, and powers toward the elevators.

A million miles an hour is the speed at which she runs. There’s nothing else.

It’s what’s made her one of the most successful agents in the business. But it’s what’s going to kill me if I’m not careful.

Slumping back in my chair, I drain the rest of the champagne in my glass, knock back the espresso the server brought over, and ask for the check.

My eyes are closing when my nose catches a scent that has my heart beating fast. I’m too tired to compute why my body is on high alert until he’s standing in front of me.

It’s not the server.

My tiredness is forgotten.

It takes me far longer than it should to realize it’s him. And it’s not because we’re in the Claridge’s tearoom instead of a field, it’s because he looks completely different .

Over the past month, there may have been an occasion or two when I wondered what Lando would look like in a suit accompanying me on the red carpet. Sophisticated, I assumed, because what guy doesn’t look good in a custom suit?

I was way off.

Some guys look good in a suit, and some guys make the suit look better.

Lando is the latter.

Dark navy slacks, a cream button-down cut exactly to his body, wide shoulders, narrow waist. The jacket’s hanging off his finger, and I notice the cufflinks have the same emblem as his pinkie ring, the one Clemmie also has.

His beard, which was thick only a few days ago, has been trimmed down to long stubble, enough that I can see the dimples pulling at his cheeks .

But as mouthwatering as he looks, it feels all wrong. I can’t see this guy galloping over the fields on Thunder or birthing a calf.

Yet I can’t look away.

“I thought that was you.”

His deep baritone reverberates over my skin. If I hadn’t already woken up, that would have done it.

“What are you doing here?”

“I come in for a couple of days every month or so. Investment meetings and so forth.”

Yeah. Investment. That’s exactly how he looks. Like a city guy.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came up yesterday. My agent’s here.”

Lando glances at the chair Marcy vacated. “Ah, the contract.”

I nod. I’m still positively speechless. I want to ask him to sit down and join me for a drink, but I’m staring at him too hard to remember the words I need to form.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you in Valentine Nook,” he says when it becomes clear I’m mute.

“You’re leaving?”

He pauses, his hand on the back of Marcy’s chair. “Yes. You?”

“I’m leaving too . . . for Valentine Nook.”

“How are you getting there?”

“I have a car service.”

Lando’s face splits with a smile that almost has me melting. “Well, now I’m even happier that I bumped into you. If you cancel the car, I’ll drive us both.”

I snatch the check from the server as he hands it over, and I can’t sign it quickly enough. “I have to collect my things. Can you give me twenty minutes?”

I glance up to find a pair of radiant blue eyes staring at me, edges crinkled in happiness. “Now that I know we’re going home together, I’ll give you as long as you need.”

T wenty minutes later, I’ve checked out. Lando’s waiting for me at the hotel lobby while a valet brings his car around.

I expect his muddy Land Rover to pull up, but instead, a sleek Aston Martin arrives. It’s black everywhere—black rims, black chassis, black leather interior.

I’ve never been into cars. I have a Range Rover back in LA, and that’s only because I told Tanner to find me a car that wasn’t too flashy or complicated to drive.

But now I’m wondering if maybe I should get into cars, because just like his suit, Lando makes this car look good. No, Lando makes this car look sexy .

The valet hands the keys to Lando, switching them for a wad of notes. “See you next month, Your Grace. Hope you enjoyed your stay, Miss Simpson.”

“Thanks, Henry. See you soon,” he replies, holding the passenger door open and gesturing me inside. “Hollywood.”

“Whose car is this?”

His head quirks. “Mine. Why?”

I shrug because I don’t even know why I asked, but as I slip into the cool interior, I realize I’m seeing an entirely different side to Lando I never imagined existed. Lando, with his bespoke suit and sexy car, who visits Claridge’s often enough that he’s on a first-name basis with the valet.

The engine roars as we pull away, and my eyes are drawn to his hands around the steering wheel.

I’ve seen his forearms dozens of times and watched his fingers thread through the leather of Thunder’s bridle, but now that he’s removed his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up, there’s a decadence to them.

I can’t stop watching the way they flex .

I’m so engrossed in the movement I don’t realize he’s talking to me.

“How did your meeting go?”

“Good, we went through the contract, and Marcy—she’s my agent—will now redirect all my queries to my lawyer before it goes back to L’Oreal. It takes a while.”

“Yes, because how else would lawyers earn their keep?” he drawls, making me laugh.

“Exactly.”

“But you’re happy with it?” he asks, turning left onto a busy road behind one of London’s red double-decker buses.

Except this one has an ad on the side of it, a Gucci ad featuring my face from the campaign I shot earlier in the year.

I’m stretched along the length of a dark green velvet couch, wearing nothing more than a bra and panties.

My breath judders in my throat, and I’m wondering if Lando’s noticed, when he turns to me. The heat in his eyes zips over my skin, and my core clenches until the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I worked out for three hours every day for an entire month before that shoot and always wondered if it was worth it. For the first time, I can wholeheartedly say yes.

It’s a good thirty seconds before either of us speaks again, but the bus stays there in front of us, mocking me.

Eventually, Lando clears his throat. “So you’re happy with the offer?”

“Yes, it’s good.”

“What did your dad think?”

“My dad?”

“Didn’t you say he manages your money?”

“Oh,” I reply, trying my best to focus on the conversation instead of that bus and Lando’s forearms. My body continues to throb from the way he mentally undressed me, and all I can wonder is whether it will ever become a reality.

“Yes, he does. He’s happy with it. Largely, I stay out of it because he invests everything for me through a couple of different businesses I have set up, and I pay myself a salary. ”

“Sounds sensible. Always good to diversify, and if you ever want a second opinion, I’d be happy to look over it or introduce you to my investment team.”

Diversify . Investment team .

His response—along with this car, the suit, and everything I’ve experienced of Lando in the past hour—has me rethinking my assessment of Lando’s financial situation. His money can’t be all tied up in gold mines or whatever.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

There’s a beat of silence before the corner of his mouth tips up. “Yes, but only if I can ask you one.”

“Do you have a lot of cash?”

“What?” His response is part guffaw, part bark. “That was not what I thought you were going to ask.”

“What did you think I was going to ask?”

He shakes his head as he chuckles away. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Well, do you?” I press because I already feel like a dumbass, and now I need to see it through to the end.

“Okay . . . yes. You could say that. Why on earth do you want to know?”

“Um . . . because I keep thinking about that day a few weeks ago when I told you about my contract. I didn’t want you to think I was bragging?—”

His eyes flick to mine before going back to the road. “Hollywood, you don’t have to justify what you earn to anyone. You work incredibly hard, and you should be proud of it.”

“I am. But forty million dollars is a lot of money . . .” I don’t know what I’m asking or what I’m implying. I should have just kept my mouth shut because it’s none of my business.

I’m beginning to think the rest of the journey will continue in awkward silence when he says, “My personal wealth is approximately nine?—”

“Million?”

“ Billion. Though that’s in pounds, so with today’s exchange rate, it would be more around twelve billion dollars. Plus stock and investments. Then there’s the value of Burlington Estates.”

My entire body turns toward Lando. I can’t tell if he’s joking because he still has that wry smile tugging his mouth.

“Twelve billion ?”

“Give or take.”

“Cash?”

He nods, and boy, was I way off base. I am a dumbass.

“So you really didn’t think I was bragging when I told you how much my contract was worth?”

“No, and I don’t know why you think I would have.”

He sounds so offended that I honestly want to crawl inside myself and redo the last twenty minutes.

“Because it was kind of gross for me to tell you that I earned so much, even though you could look it up, but the day at the pool when you said Pierre wasn’t part of the rental, I figured you were one of those English old money families where your net worth is in antique oil paintings or gold mines . . .” I stop babbling.

“ Gold mines ?” Lando groans in despair. “God, Milo’s right. I’m such a dick. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for the terrible impression I left on you. Please believe me when I say it really had nothing to do with you, but I’m sorry nevertheless.”

“I’m sorry I started this conversation in the first place.” I pick at an invisible thread on my pants and ignore the heat in my cheeks. “But now I know you know what you’re talking about, so maybe I will take a second opinion.”

“And I’d be happy to help. We don’t own any gold mines, but that’s not a bad idea.”

I force a chuckle. “Thank you. ”

“You’re welcome. Now it’s my turn for a question.”

“Shoot. But if it’s about money, I’m all out.”

He laughs. “In the time you’re here in Valentine Nook, should we be expecting a boyfriend of any kind to turn up for a visit? Or, you know, be waiting for you when you get home?”

I’m not buying the innocence in his tone because if I’m not mistaken, he’s trying to figure out if I’m single.

I can’t answer quick enough, and I don’t even care because my heart’s fluttering.

“No. No boyfriend. Here or there.”

“That’s good to know. And Hollywood, if you did have one and he’s not coming to visit, then he damn sure isn’t good enough to be waiting for you when you get back.”

I’m wondering where this conversation is going, but Lando remains silent, and the second we hit the interstate, he shifts gears, and the car rockets forward.

It doesn’t take long for the urban surroundings to give way to leafy fields filled with yellow rapeseed, and soon, we pass a sign welcoming us to Oxfordshire right as a huge clap of thunder echoes through the sky.

The nearer we get to Valentine Nook, the lower my heart sinks in my chest, and as Lando pulls up outside Bluebell Cottage, I know I’m not ready for this day to end.

Out of nowhere, I remember the restaurant voucher I won at the coconut shy.

So, for the first time in my life, I ask a guy on a date.

And he says yes.