Page 37 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Holiday

L ando’s method of relaxation works until I arrive at the address to meet Marcy.

Marcy rushes to greet me, powering out to the car in heels I always long to take off the moment I step into them.

Ironically, they make her appear more French than American.

“Hi, doll, you look fabulous .” She ropes me into a hug, kissing both cheeks, something she never does, and I have to pull in my smile.

“The room’s all set up, and everyone’s super excited to meet you.

We’ve done preliminaries, and now that you’re here, we’ll go through the finer points. There’s a presentation.”

I nod, doing my best to hold my shit together and not let my nerves get the better of me. I don’t even know where they’re from. I’ve been in dozens and dozens of meetings like this one, and I never feel like I’m on the verge of a breakdown.

But this, this feels momentous. I want this.

This is the next five years of my life.

This gives me the freedom to choose the future I want, which is probably why I’ve convinced myself there are a dozen ways I could fuck it all up before the ink is dry.

Three women, the epitome of what I appreciate as truly French elegance, are waiting inside the front doors. They’re immaculate and chic—perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect faces—and each wears a lipstick in varying shades of red.

There’s no subtlety when their eyes drop to the floor, slowly traveling back up. It’s a move I’m used to, one I always prepare myself for. Am I the same Holiday Simpson they were expecting?

I stand straighter, shoulders back, until eventually, dark red lips flicker in approval.

I high-five myself for the online shopping spree I began at eleven p.m. four nights ago, fueled by panic and a bottle of wine. Otherwise, I wouldn’t now be dressed head to toe in Chanel, holding a Dior clutch.

I figured I might not be able to speak French, but I can spend French.

There’s no rushing because they’re far too laissez-faire for that, but there is still warmth in how they hold their hands out to greet me now that I’ve met their IRL standards.

“ Bonjour , Mademoiselle Simpson.” Bright red lips smiles. “Welcome. I’m Marie-Thérèse, head of marketing.”

“ Bonjour ,” I reply, reaching my limit on the language. “Please call me Holiday.”

She dips her head, sweeping her hand out in front of her, and guides me through reception until we reach a meeting room, where I find another six people waiting around a table laid out with designated seating.

An image of my face is blown up on the wall.

It’s one I don’t even recall having taken. I’m staring straight at the camera, fresh-faced, makeup-free, but there’s determination and steeliness in my expression that instantly bolsters me .

That girl up there is ready to take on anything. Therefore, so am I.

“Welcome, Holiday. We’re so happy to have you here,” Marie-Thérèse begins with her thick French accent before introducing everyone in the room, whose names I find myself repeating in my head so I don’t forget them. “Can we offer you refreshments? You flew this morning, yes? You need café .”

I nod as everyone else titters with light laughter. The typical icebreaker for these meetings. I excel at small talk, even though inside I cringe at how contrived it comes across.

“Yes, but only from England. I won’t say no to coffee, however,” I add with a laugh of my own.

“ Bon .”

Coffee appears in front of me, placed purposely between a fresh copy of the contract and a tray of pastel macarons displayed so beautifully I want to take a photo to send to Pierre.

We sip and commence with the preamble of more polite chatter, I’m given instruction on the best places to visit during my trip here, and they tell me how much they like New York, but only New York. Not America, obviously.

I get the impression that in the period before I arrived, Marcy has played hardball to the point where they no longer want to acknowledge her. Or they’re only acknowledging her because I’m present because when we finally get around to starting the meeting, they’re studiously ignoring her.

“ Allors , let’s talk scheduling,” Marie-Thérèse says with a flip through a thick notebook. “We have a camera test booked for tomorrow, where we’ll assess your skin tone, hair type, what works best, what doesn’t. And these initial shots will be used to announce our partnership in January?—”

I nod.

“Your agent tells us you have press junkets in November, and you have some films scheduled for next year we must work around, which is no problem?—”

I pause. My jaw grits tight as I stare at Marcy, willing her to look at me so she can see I’m absolutely fuming.

“That’s not necessary. And nothing’s confirmed next year, so we can schedule what you need.”

Several pairs of eyebrows shoot up, and I try not to grit my teeth.

“ D’accord. ” Marie-Thérèse leans across the table, fingers steepled. “Holiday, we see this as a partnership between Hollywood’s sweetheart and the world’s biggest beauty company. We want to collaborate, we want you to be part of our family, and we believe we will have a great future together.”

“Thank you.” I smile around the room, and for the first time since I arrived in Paris, I completely relax (don’t tell Lando). “I’m so grateful to you for the invitation and the warmest of welcomes. I’m excited to join you all on our journey together.”

The final page of notes flicks closed.

All that’s left to do is sign the thing, and then I remember . . .

“I’m working with a new charity. It belongs to my .

. . er . . . friend.” Friend. That doesn’t sound right.

It sounds cold and distant even though none of my friends are either of those things.

But referring to Lando as one of them doesn’t sit well with me, not after what he just did to me.

Not after the past few weeks. “I’d like to offer them a prize that money can’t buy, and I’m hoping you can help.

A trip to a shoot or the opportunity to spend a day with the makeup artists perhaps? Anything along those lines?”

“Holiday—” Marcy starts, only to be interrupted by Marie-Thérèse.

“ Oui , we can do that.”

“Thank you.” I smile and suck in a deep breath. “Then I guess that’s everything. ”

I glance at Marcy to see if she has anything to add, but her pursed lips stay clamped shut.

Everyone else in the room watches me, waiting for me to pick up the pen and sign at the bottom of each page of the freshly drawn-up contract. Which I do.

There’s a collective sigh of relief, none more so than mine.

I’ve done it. I’ve fucking done it.

I’ve signed the biggest contract of my career, and after we shake hands and get through another ten minutes of chatter and exit the boardroom, not one part of me is surprised—and relieved—to see Lando waiting.

I fight the urge to run into his arms, but before I get the chance to even say a word, Marcy guides me into another meeting room. Her bag drops on the table with a thud.

“Well done, honey. Great work. This will be a phenomenal stepping stone for you. Play your cards right, and they could keep you in moisturizer for life.” Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she taps the skin under her chin.

“Thank you,” I reply, and I mean it.

She might be overbearing and exhausting, but she’s always fought for the best deals.

“You’re welcome. My pleasure.” She turns back to me, confident in the six million she’s just earned herself. Her diamond stud earrings glint in the light as she opens her bag. “Now let’s talk about the next eighteen months, and what happened in there.”

“Marcy—”

“I’m not happy about it. After the junkets, we have award season. This first movie deal?—”

I step in front of her, place both hands on her shoulders, and look her dead in the eye. “Marcy, I’m not ready to go back to movies. I don’t want those offers.”

“ Holiday —”

“No, I don’t want them,” I bark. I also don’t want to go around and around in circles while she tries to persuade me to take on more roles. “But?—”

Marcy’s entire body loosens under my grip. “Of course, there’s a but . . . We can postpone. They’ll push for you. You’re an Oscar winner now, for Christ’s sake. We can change the start date, whatever you want.”

“No,” I repeat, firmer this time. “I want to do something different.”

“Different?” She must be due a fresh round of Botox because the tiniest hint of a crease appears on her brow.

“You mean television? That could work. I can see if there’s something in development you can lead.

Apple would be a good fit for you. Or an anthology season.

I’m hearing rumors about True Detective coming back?—”

I swallow hard. “Theater.”

“Theater?”

“Yes. I want to try theater.”

She steps away from me, blinking hard. “I thought we talked about this.”

“Now we’re talking again.”

“Broadway?”

“Yes.” When I think about Lando in the hallway, I blurt, “Or the West End.”

“London? You wanna live in London?”

“I want to try theater,” I repeat.

She stares at me. I put on my best resigned expression while her lips purse and relax, purse and relax until eventually she decides not to push the subject further.

“Okay, leave it with me. I’ll put some feelers out,” she says, slinging her giant bag onto her shoulder. “I’ll call you when I have something.”

Wrapping me in a final hug, she flings open the door and hurries away at her typical million miles an hour off to her next meeting .

I slowly walk toward Lando as he pushes off the wall. “Did you sign it?”

I nod. “Yes, I did.”

His chin tips to the meeting room behind me. “And that? You told her?”

“Also, yes.”

He darts forward, and his mouth smacks against mine. “Proud of you, Hollywood.”

My eyes fall on where the three lipstick girls are standing halfway down the corridor. “What were they saying? I saw you listening.”

“They think you’re the most beautiful American they’ve ever seen, and they’re excited to work with you. And they’re also wondering how you put up with her.” His eyes follow to where Marcy is pushing through the front doors. “Two points I happen to agree with.”

My lips twitch. “Hmm.”

“Are you ready to go?”

“I am.”

I revel in the way Lando’s palm fits possessively on the small of my back as he walks me out to a waiting car, where the driver jumps out to open the door. Lando hurries around to the opposite side and slips in before I do.

Two large orange bags are waiting in the center console.

“What are those?”

He taps the biggest one. “This is a package my mother asked me to collect for her. I believe it’s a Birkin.” He holds up the other. “And this is for you.”

“You bought me a present?”

“I did.”

I’m too greedy to wait until we get back to the hotel, so I tug the ribbon. Carefully easing out the box inside, I remove the lid and wade through reams of tissue to find a small leather folder with a silver buckle and a heart dangling from a strap .

“You didn’t seem to have anything to keep your notes together when you were reading them on the plane.”

It’s so thoughtful, so typically Lando, that my eyes well up immediately. I can feel him staring at me, his expression filled with confusion.

“Is this a good cry or a sad cry?”

I dab at the tears before they fall. “A good cry. A very good cry. Thank you, it’s really so kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies, reaching behind him, “but perhaps these might cheer you up too.”

He’s holding a beautiful black box covered in swirls and intricate edging. It’s the type of box that typically contains a piece of jewelry. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs.

It’s better than jewelry, and immediately, a laugh barrels out of me. Only in Paris would a box of donuts be packaged as beautifully as jewelry.

“Donuts?”

“Of course. We have something to celebrate, don’t we?”

I giggle and peer at him from under my lashes. “Yes, Gracie. We do.”

W e spend the next two days being as French as we can.

We eat croissants. We drink wine. We make love .

When I do my camera test, Lando works from a couch in the corner, watching. Too many times, my focus drifts over to him.

We try pastries that would have Pierre weeping. I buy a little box of the chocolates he says I have to beat before I can move on to making other things. We cycle along the Seine. We visit the Mona Lisa and Versailles .

We laugh and laugh and laugh.

And all the while, there’s a niggling in the pit of my stomach that feels a lot like a turning point.

My life is about to go in different directions. I just hope I take the right path.