Page 34 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)
Holiday
L ando is true to his word.
We are making the most of it.
For two weeks, we’ve been inseparable.
When it’s rained, we’ve stayed in. When it’s been sunny, we’ve ridden out. I am now fully confident back in the saddle, as long as it’s Sunday underneath me and Thunder keeping him focused.
I learned that we’re not morning people even though Lando has to be up early most days. So on the weekends, we sleep late.
When Lando’s worked, I’ve hung with Clemmie, practiced yoga, or jogged alone because she refuses to jog with me.
Pierre finally decided I’d mastered the art of good pastry (my words, not his), and I’ve graduated to working with chocolate, a subject I’d only previously known how to eat.
Somewhere along the way, during the weeks he’s been teaching me, he’s decided I need to learn everything about becoming a patissier, whether I want to or not.
I’m on the fence, but I guess, at the very least, I’ll finally have something to contribute to the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving .
Obviously, Lando appointed himself chief taster, a role he’s taken very seriously.
I’ve spent more and more time in Valentine Nook, enough that I’m now on a first-name basis with Claudia from The Beanery, where I begin my days with a coffee because once Lando leaves, I can’t get back to sleep.
Sometimes I sit and eat breakfast on the chairs set on the cobbled street outside, or I’ll perch on the fountain wall and watch the morning pass by.
I check my daily report from Ashley, which is getting shorter and shorter, and I try not to think about the day I have to start taking calls again, because it’ll mean I’m no longer in Valentine Nook.
My shoot in Paris looms, and for the first time ever, I’m not looking forward to seeing Marcy.
In the evenings, we have dinner at the different restaurants in Valentine Nook, where it’s become clear how much everyone in the village adores Lando, but none more so than Eddie, who we always stop in and see on the way home.
And while we’ve been seen around the village, and there’s an awareness of Lando and me spending time together, I hadn’t realized how fiercely he was protected until no news sightings were reported of us.
My media update from Ashley started and stopped with the photo outside Claridge’s.
But I have a feeling that’s all about to change today.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, MILO, BACK. WATCH YOUR FUCKING BACK,” Hendricks screams at Miles, thundering down the far side of the polo field.
There’s a lot of yelling. Mostly Hendricks, but also Alex, who both seem to be under the impression Miles can hear them across a space the equivalent size of eight football fields.
“Hen, watch your language,” Clemmie snaps, her hands shooting up to cover Max’s ears.
It doesn’t appear that Max is paying the slightest bit of attention to his father. He’s far too busy watching his uncle, tiny fists gripped around a pair of binoculars, as he gallops toward the goal with four angry-looking riders chasing him.
I’ve seen Miles in a new light.
Gone is the guy with the permanent smirk and roving eye. He’s been replaced by a serious athlete with focus and dedication, tearing down the field. His face is a mask of determination and control with instincts so sharp he’s nothing short of dangerous.
It happens so quickly I don’t fully understand how, but in a blink, Miles spins his pony around, blocks the ball with his mallet, and slams it between the posts, bringing the score to even.
It feels like I’ve witnessed a Tom Brady touchdown.
Foxleigh Park crowds go wild.
The stand we’re in—the Burlington family stand, which must hold one hundred people—goes even wilder. None more so than Max, who drops the binoculars, jumps up in his chair, and squeals, “WELL FUCKING DONE, UNCLE MILO.”
Hendricks is too busy cheering in excitement to notice his son chanting expletives. Lando turns away so Max doesn’t see him laughing. Alex ruffles his hair, Clemmie rolls her eyes, and I pick up my drink, feeling happier than I have any right to.
The smile on my face has been a permanent fixture for the past two weeks.
Play resumes, and the ponies get back into position. Hendricks sits and scoops Max onto his lap, leans down to where the binoculars landed on the floor, and loops them around his son’s neck.
“Daddy, when can I play like Uncle Miles?”
“When you’ve eaten all your vegetables.”
Max, satisfied with Hendricks’s response, settles into his father’s chest and resumes his watching. Every time Hendricks shifts forward to yell his support, so does Max, moving as one .
I once went to a polo tournament in the Hamptons, where I was the guest of the title sponsors—a locally made gin brand. I invited some girlfriends, and we spent the afternoon in the VIP tent, sipping cocktails and paying little attention to the day’s events.
This is not like that. Lando and his siblings only take their eyes off the field during the changeover breaks. Even Clemmie.
“LEFT,” Hendricks yells again. “LEFT.”
I can only imagine what he’s like as a father on the side of the field, assuming he’s not been banned for arguing with the ref and coaches because, based on today, that’s just as likely.
“GO CHESTER. GO CHESTER,” Max screams.
I lean into Lando and whisper, “Is Chester another player?”
He answers from the corner of his mouth. “Chester is Miles’s pony for this chukka. He’s very fast with a quick spin. He usually brings him in during the middle chukka.”
“How many ponies does he have?”
“Actually, I’m not sure.” He turns to Hendricks. “How many ponies does Milo have at the moment?”
It’s Max who answers, “Uncle Milo has fifteen ponies at Foxleigh. But some are still too gween.” He proceeds to list them all out. “My favorite is Clover.”
“Mine too, Maxy,” Lando agrees.
I wait until the end of the chukka to ask any more questions because I get it.
I come from a sporting family. We grew up loving baseball in the summer and football in the winter.
I learned a long time ago that sport takes priority, and it seems polo is no different.
As the teams make their way off for the changeover, everyone relaxes. Drinks are ordered, and snacks are consumed. Max leaps off Hendricks’s lap, picks up a mini polo mallet, and proceeds to charge around the stand, pretending to be his uncle on a pony .
Lando stands behind me, close enough for me to lean into him and breathe in the rich, musky scent I crave when he’s not around.
His thick bicep wraps around my chest, tucking into my shoulder.
When he drops a kiss on my head, I have to physically stop myself from preening because, of all the things I’m learning about Lando, his affection is my favorite.
“Having fun?”
“Lots.” I nod truthfully.
Any time I spend with Lando and his family is enjoyable. They’re not dissimilar to mine if mine came with giant houses and waitstaff, but the dynamic between Lando and his siblings is the same, along with the warmth and the constant banter.
“So I was thinking . . .” His chin rests on my head. “Next week, when you’re in Paris, how about I come with you?”
I spin around. “You want to come to Paris?”
He nods. “I’d like to see you at work. In your environment. I’ve shown you mine. How about you show me yours?”
My teeth sink into my lip, and I peer up at him. “I’d love to show you mine.”
In a second, Lando’s eyes darken. That delicious, familiar tugging in my pelvis kicks in. I’m pressed so close to him that I feel the swell behind his zipper, and I briefly wonder how far I can push this.
He leans closer, his mouth brushing over the shell of my ear. “Behave yourself, Hollywood. Only good girls get my cock, and I know how desperate you are for it.”
Scratch affection. This is my favorite.
My brain is firing, trying to find any excuse for us both to leave right now when I sense Clemmie jiggling a bottle of champagne at me. “Hol, want a top-up?”
“Sure,” I croak, doing my best to steady my shaky hands as I pass her my glass. “Thanks.”
As she’s pouring, another roar lets out from the crowd. “Oops, we need to watch this. Miles will quiz us later. ”
“What?”
“Yes, sadly. He’ll want to know what you feel were his highlights of the match. I’d go with that last goal, personally.”
A laugh rumbles from Lando’s chest.
“Why do you think we’re all watching so closely?” He winks, his lip quivering as his eyes crease, and I think about how good he looks when he’s smiling.
“Where’s Miles’s yard?”
He turns me back around and points at the far left of the field, past the stands where thousands of spectators are sitting.
“See that line of trees? It’s beyond there.
It’s where all the ponies are kept for the Oxfordshire team.
And where the England team trains. There’s an arena, practice fields, and an exercise pool. It’s impressive.”
“And Miles runs it?”
Lando nods. His stubble tickles my cheek when his head dips over my shoulder. “I know, it’s hard to imagine Miles doing anything other than partying and causing havoc. Polo is the only thing he takes seriously.”
“Do you play?”
“I can play, but I’m not very good. We all compete in a family tournament at the beginning of every season, but Miles carries us.”
While he’s speaking, the players gallop back onto the field on fresh ponies. Miles has switched out Chester for a pony as black and shiny as Thunder, who’s currently prancing about like a prima ballerina while Miles sits steady.
Even to my extremely untrained eye, I can see he’s in a league of his own.
“What about Hendricks?”
“He’s better than I am, but no one’s like Miles,” Lando replies, “except Max.”
I peer over to where Max has given up riding the mallet, and he’s now swinging it around. “My brother used to do that with his baseball bat, and now he plays in the majors.”
“He has the same talent Miles did at his age, same as our father did.” Lando’s voice drops and softens. “He’d have loved to watch Miles play for England.”