Page 3 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Holiday

I ’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Ashley, the house is made of straw. Straw . Like I’m one of the three little pigs. And it’s leaking .”

I pivot my phone so my assistant can see the drops of water slowly seep through a crack in the ceiling and fall into the saucepan I’ve placed on the floor of my bedroom. A small pool of rainwater collects in the bottom and splashes with every new drip.

Drip, drip, drip.

“Isn’t it only the roof that’s made of straw?”

“Yes. A roof that’s supposed to keep me dry.”

I knew this would happen. Roofs are not supposed to be made of straw. They should be brick or tile or, if you’re the Chrysler Building, hubcaps, but not straw.

“Okay. Do you want me to find you somewhere else?” she asks, pulling the face she does sometimes when she’s really trying to look concerned for me.

It’s a look that could also be misinterpreted as judgment because I’m behaving like a brat and being a pain in her ass. It’s almost like I don’t pay her a generous salary .

I fall back onto my bed with a loud groan and try to ignore how I sink into the incredibly comfortable mattress. I’m loath to admit it might be the best mattress I’ve ever slept on.

It’s one of the many surprising things about this quaint English cottage and its leaky straw roof that looks all kinds of ramshackle and whimsical from the outside, with wisteria creeping across the walls and a rose-lined path leading to the powder-blue front door.

Seriously, the Jane Austen vibes are on point.

I, of all people, should know you can’t judge a ramshackle-looking house by its cover because the front door is where ramshackle stops.

Once you’ve crossed the threshold to this deceptive little place, you’ll find a beautifully laid out, super cozy yet spacious, and incredibly well-put-together home.

A kitchen with professional-level appliances, three perfect bedrooms including a primary suite overlooking a backyard I’d die for in LA, along with furnishings my interior decorator would call “country cottage chic” before sending me a mid-six-figure bill.

But all that money, and the goddamn roof leaks.

It’s what’s taking this place I’ve rented for the next six months from utterly perfect and charming to I-need-to-move-back-to-Los-Angeles-where-it-doesn’t-rain, stat.

It’s been raining all morning .

“No,” I say eventually, sitting up and re-plumping the pillows. “No. I’ll call the maintenance guy. There’s a maintenance guy here, right?”

I’m ashamed to say I don’t know.

In my defense, I’ve had an insanely busy eighteen months, after an insanely busy two years, after an insanely busy three years before it. You get the picture. This is the first time since I started my career that I haven’t worked. It’s a much-needed respite in a quiet and private setting.

And hopefully relaxing .

Ashley did what she does best and organized my chaotic life so I could escape from it.

She gave me a list of options, and I chose the prettiest, jumped on a plane, and now here I am, sitting next to a saucepan.

“I’ll do it.”

“Oh thank god .” I sigh with relief.

“I think this place will be good for you, boss. I printed off everything you need about the village, and it’s in your travel wallet.

You’ve only been there a few days. If you still hate it in a week, I’ll see if your second option is still available.

Or book you a flight home, whichever you prefer. ”

“Thanks, Ash. What would I do without you?” I peer into the phone to catch her mumbling a response I don’t hear, which is when I notice her background and the sun rising over the Pacific.

“Where are you, anyway? And come to think of it, why are you up so early? I said call me when you wake up, but I didn’t expect it to be before the sun. ”

“On my way to surf camp. I decided I’m going to learn while you’re out of town this summer.”

A pang of homesickness flickers in my chest. I could have learned to surf this summer too, but maybe I’ll learn something else—how to fix a roof, for example.

Or bake. I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that.

“What time is it?”

“Five o’clock.”

I groan again. That’s why I’m being so grumpy. Jet lag. I’m still on LA time, and I’ve been traveling so much recently that my body has no idea whether I’m coming or going.

“Hope the water isn’t too cold.”

“I need cold. It’s been over one hundred degrees every day this week.”

I peer out of the rain-splattered window .

In fairness, even on this miserable day, the views from my bedroom are stunning.

Fields upon fields upon fields stretch as far as I can see, broken up by tall, thick hedgerows. Patches of brown tell me they probably haven’t had rain in a while. In the distance, I can make out horses grazing, and when I crack it open, all I can hear are birds and the occasional moo of a cow.

It’s not one hundred degrees, but it’s warm, and the air is fresh with that just-rained scent, which is something you could never say about Los Angeles, where smog rules the sky.

The blast of the English countryside has sufficiently reinvigorated me, and I’m taking control of the rest of my day—today’s the day I’ll be brave and venture out.

“You go enjoy the water. I’m going to get my shit together while I wait for the maintenance guy.”

“Okay, boss. I’ll call him now. Message me if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” I add before ending the call.

Tossing my phone on the bed, I peer around and drum my fingers against my cheek while I decide what to do.

What I really want to do is speak to my twin brother, Tanner. My favorite person in the whole world, and the one I always miss the most when I’m traveling. He’s the best person at talking sense into me.

But it’s still early in New York, and he’s recently become a dad, so if he’s not asleep, he’s probably attempting to soothe my gorgeous nephew back to sleep.

I pad through to the bathroom and stare at myself in the wide mirror above the sink. The dark circles under my eyes seem a little less prominent than they did when I arrived but still mauve enough to tempt me back to bed.

I should probably unpack.

The couple of days I’ve been here have been mostly spent sleeping, and my unpacking so far leaves a lot to be desired .

Two of my four suitcases are open on the bedroom floor and, considering I’ve existed solely in pajamas or sweats, are virtually intact with everything I brought still neatly folded. The closets are waiting to be filled.

I also have to unpack a couple of boxes Ashley shipped from home—trinkets, prints, my favorite cozy blanket—that I like to take with me when I travel to make everything seem more familiar.

It was a trick I learned a few years ago when I was on location in Vancouver for three months.

And even though Vancouver is only a couple hours’ flight from LA, having my own things made it feel a little bit closer, so now I do it wherever I go.

Scraping my hair back, I secure it with the tie that’s almost permanently on my wrist and pick up the coffee I made before Ashley called. It’s time to roll up my sleeves and get my shit together.

I’m about to start on the first suitcase when a loud knocking stops me, and I forget I’m not at home for a second. This cottage doesn’t have an intercom—just a good old-fashioned door knocker.

I’m singing Ashley’s praises with every step I tread down the super-narrow and very steep, uneven stairs, trying not to add to the bruises on my shin from where I’ve already fallen twice.

But when I open the door, it’s not a maintenance man standing there. Well, as far as I know, this isn’t what maintenance men look like in the English countryside.

A tall woman about my age, maybe a little younger, stands there in muddy dark green rain boots, a pair of denim cutoffs, a navy sweater, and a wax rain jacket that looks a hundred years old.

Dark blond hair falls over her shoulders in thick waves that look so natural I’m tempted to ask her where she gets them done and how she manages them.

She’s incredibly pretty, wearing a broad smile, and her blue eyes are so wide with excitement that it immediately makes me a little anxious.

Back in the US, I never open the door to strangers.

I have gates on my property in Los Angeles that Ashley always answers.

Where I lived in New York while filming my last project, there was a buzzer and a concealed entryway so no one was allowed in without being seen first. While this charming English cottage has a large-ish hedge and a tall gate, clearly neither deters people from walking up the path.

This girl definitely isn’t a maintenance man .

But her expression doesn’t say I look different in person from how she expected me to. That I’m shorter, taller, fatter, or less pretty.

Which also happens.

It’s not that I’m not used to people staring at me like she is, because I am. Just not on my doorstep, and I figured it would take the public a lot longer to find me here.

“Hello?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous or too standoffish, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Hiii,” she draws out, pulling down the hood of her rain jacket.

“Oh my god. Hel- lo .” She wrestles an enormous bunch of pale pink roses from one hand into the other and tucks a bottle of champagne under her arm.

The basket of eggs she’s also holding rattles precariously as she stretches out her free hand.

The eggs are all different—some large and brown, some small and white, and a couple are the exact shade of pale blue as the front door.

“I’m Clementine Burlington . . . call me Clemmie.

I’ve come to welcome you to Valentine Nook. ”

My shoulders drop a little. Despite her smile making her look somewhat crazed, Clementine has the face of a person I intuitively know I’ll like.

I have two options.

I can either invite her in to get out of the rain or politely excuse myself and go back to unpacking. However, I’ve rented this place for six months—assuming it stops raining—and it occurs to me I’ll need to make friends.

In two days, she’s the first person I’ve spoken to in real life.

Therefore, I take her hand and shake it. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

“These are for you. They’re from the Burlington rose garden,” she says in a confident tone like I’m supposed to know what that means as she thrusts them at me. “And these are freshly hatched this morning.” She holds out the eggs.

The roses are incredible. Huge silky petals give off the most intoxicating scent, mingling with the warm, rainy air. It’s the first time I’ve been outside today because opening the window earlier doesn’t count, and despite the damp, it’s glorious.

“Wow, these are awesome. Very thoughtful of you. Thank you . . . um . . . would you like to come in?” I ask, trying to mirror her smile. “I’m Holiday, by the way.”

“I know. I’m a huge fan.” She grins wider. “Your latest movie, the one about New York? Saw it twice. Loved it. Can’t wait for part two. Your Oscars speech was perfect. So was your BAFTA.”

My hand freezes on the doorframe. Shit. Maybe I’m wrong, and she isn’t a local, and my face must give every internal thought away.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker. You’re renting this cottage from my family.”

“What?” I ask with a frown, still wondering if I should retract my offer to let her in.

“The cottage . . . it belongs to my family . . . my brother really. I’m not sure anyone knows you’re here, and we won’t say anything if that’s what you’re worried about. I assumed you realized who I was when I introduced myself.”

I shake my head. “No, my assistant and business manager dealt with it all. I wanted to get away for a few months, and they gave me some different places to choose from. This looked the cutest, even if the ceiling drips,” I add.

“The roof’s leaking?” Clementine asks with a frown.

“Yes, I thought you were the maintenance man.” I nod and realize we’re still standing in the doorway, holding champagne, eggs, and flowers between us. Clemmie’s probably safe, so I say, “Sorry, come in. I’ll put these in water if I can find a vase.”

“There’s probably one in the pantry. I’ll show you,” she replies, toeing off her rain boots, which she leaves slumped next to the front door. “How’re you settling in?”

“Good,” I reply out of habit, hurrying after her through the small hallway to the kitchen, which leads out to the back of the house, “but I’ve mostly been catching up on sleep. I haven’t been out yet. It was something I planned to do today.”

Placing everything on the counter, I lean against it and peer outside to a backyard as pretty as the front.

Large apple trees, ripe with fruit, take center stage by a seating area I had my morning coffee at yesterday before going back to bed. Today, the rain has knocked some of the last vestiges of blossoms off the trees and scattered the petals among the wildflowers growing along the borders.

There’s a beauty to it that brings back a sense of calm I’ve not felt in a while.

“I’ll take you around and introduce you,” Clemmie offers, appearing from the small pantry off the kitchen with a huge mason jar in her hands. “Here, this is the best I can find, but I’ll have some proper vases delivered in case you need them.”

“I’m good. The jar is fine.” I huff out a small chuckle. “It kind of goes with the vibe of this place. It’s really cute.”

“My mother will be happy to hear it. She got a bit carried away with her interior designer,” she replies as she places the roses one by one into the jar before filling it up with water and positioning it on the counter. “There.”

From the sunlight creeping through the clouds, the roses take on all different shades of pink and immediately add an extra brightness to the kitchen.

“Thank you, they’re stunning. Where did you say you got them from?” I ask because I fully intend to go and buy weekly bunches of these to fill the house.

“My mum’s rose garden.”

I blink. Wow. That has to be some rose garden. My mom takes care of the garden at my parents’ house in Maine, but there’s no way she’s ever grown anything of this caliber, and if she had, there’s even less chance she’d be cutting it down to put in a vase. I’ll have to find a different supplier.

Maybe there’ll be one in this little place I plan to call home, and I’m suddenly excited to explore.

Clemmie turns away from the window. “Come on, it’s stopped raining. I’ll show you around Valentine Nook.”

I glance down at the sweats I pulled on this morning and realize I haven’t even brushed my teeth. “Can you give me ten minutes to change?”

“Of course, take your time,” she replies.

I run back up the stairs, adding one more bruise to my growing collection.

I’m definitely going to break something on these if I’m not careful.