Page 39 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

Holiday

W hen it rains in England, it rains .

Miraculously, the roof is holding up.I’ve been staring at the crack in the ceiling, daring it to leak, but so far, it’s been drip-free. I’m not so sure about the windows because they’re taking a beating this morning.

It’s so loud I’m amazed Lando’s sleeping through it. Sometimes he sleeps so deeply that I have to stop myself from checking his pulse. Today, the quiet snoring tells me all I need to know, and when I slip out of bed, he doesn’t stir.

In lieu of a robe, I snatch up the cashmere blanket resting on the chair in the corner, wrap it around myself, and tiptoe quietly downstairs in search of coffee.

The last of summer’s petals litter the backyard, rain bounces off the patio as it pelts down, and puddles form underneath the fruit trees.

As I’m staring out of the back doors while the coffee machine whirs and chugs, I’m overcome with a feeling of deep sadness.

Summer is over. Fall is coming. The change of seasons is a stark realization that it’s getting closer to the day I’ll be leaving this little cottage behind .

I know what leaving is like. I’m good at leaving.I’m used to being in one place, working my ass off all hours of the day and night, then saying goodbye.

But it’s never felt like this.

This is different.

Emptiness builds in my chest because I don’t want Valentine Nook to become one more memory. Somewhere along the way, it stopped being a place I escaped to and started to feel more like a home. A beginning.

I’ve found a community I’ve never really had before, where people stop and talk to me—not because I’m famous—because they want to tell me about a new litter of puppies their dog had, give me a jar of honey they just harvested or fresh eggs from their chickens.

Or the one I love most—an invite for afternoon tea.

I’m not ready to go. I want to keep it, and I need to figure out how.

I want to see the village in every season. I want to shoot the shit with Eddie at the end of my day. I want to go to London with Lando every month.

When I head back upstairs, it’s with one trudge at a time, and I slip under the comforter without Lando ever knowing I was gone.

For the next hour, I watch raindrops smash against the windows. The white noise-esque ambiance both hypnotizes and feels strangely comforting as I lie there trying to map out a plan for the next few months before I have to return to work.

How do I stay? Would Lando want me to stay? Is what we have purely because there’s an end date to it? We’ve built a bubble that could easily burst with the slightest bit of extra pressure, and I’m not sure what that pressure looks like.

My brain aches with questions that have no answers, and in the end, the pull of watching Lando becomes too strong.

I’m obsessed with the way his entire face smooths out when he sleeps. The weight of responsibilities he carries during the day is gone. His brow relaxes, his jaw softens, and even his beautiful mouth appears too sweet to whisper the filth he knows I love to hear.

If I could draw, I’d sketch him every day, but sadly, I wasn’t blessed with that talent.

“I know you’re staring at me.” His gruff voice breaks through my thoughts, and I have to bite down my grin.

“You don’t know shit.”

“Oh, you think?” he replies, his eyes still shut.

“Yeah.”

Quick as a flash, his fingers shoot out and dig into my ribs, tickling them against my sides until I’m laughing so hard I wheeze.

“Stop. Stahhp .”

“Admit you were staring.”

I’m laughing so hard I can’t speak, and when his fingers move again, I gasp out the words, “Fine, I was staring at you.”

“I knew it.”

The torture immediately stops, and I’m tugged into his side. His eyes open, and over my shoulder, he spies the coffee mug.

“How long have you been awake?”

“A little while. The rain woke me.”

He peers to the window, only now noticing the apocalypse outside. “Hmmm. Guess summer’s officially over.”

My chest tightens at that statement, and the urge to cry becomes overwhelming to the point I need to turn away.

Lando shuffles the pillow underneath his head, punches it a few times for extra fluffiness, and slides his arm underneath. I’m instantly distracted by the flex of his bicep, and the tears dry up.

“What’s that brain of yours thinking about?”

My mouth mashes together. He’s so close I can see my reflection in his big blue eyes, and the way they always soften when he looks at me.

I debate whether to tell him I’ve been awake for hours, mentally juggling destinations, time zones, and travel time.

How long I’ll be away from Valentine Nook for my junkets—from him—and how long I can stay when I return.

That I’m fantasizing a world in which we can be together, where I don’t leave permanently, and Valentine Nook is my base instead of Los Angeles.

A world where I get to wake up next to Lando every day.

But I’m not ready to admit it yet.I also don’t know if that’s what Lando would want.

“I’m thinking about lunch,” I say instead.

“ Lunch ?”

“Yeah, I want to try to make one of your Sunday lunches.”

Lando’s slash of dark brows rises into his hairline, and his lips twitch because this is a bold undertaking.

Sunday lunch, I’ve discovered, is a ritual in England. One they take very seriously.

I hadn’t noticed it so much during the summer, but I walked into The One True Love a couple of weeks ago to find it the busiest I’ve ever seen. Customers were being turned away due to the lack of available tables. At the other end of the high street, Cupid’s Arrow was experiencing the same.

The following Sunday was no different.

“Ooh, Hollywood.” Air hisses between his teeth as he sucks it in. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes. It’s Sunday lunch. Meat and vegetables.” I push out of his arms and sit up. “I think I can handle it. And you know what? I’m feeling confident. Your mom is away, so why not invite everyone over here?”

The crease on his forehead deepens. “By everyone, do you mean my siblings? Are you sure?”

My mouth purses at the skepticism on his face, which only makes me more determined. It’s time I used the kitchen for more than making coffee and baking pies.

“ Everyone. Isn’t this what you Brits do on a Sunday when it’s raining? And I don’t want to go outside in this . . .” I wave a hand toward the window where visibility is dim. “So why not bring it here? I thought Sunday lunch was about family?”

An amused grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Well”—he leans over, smacking his lips to mine—“all right then. We might make an English woman of you yet.”

His words are as warming as the cashmere blanket I tossed back on the chair. “That might be the best compliment you’ve ever given me.”

Lando sits up against the headboard and snatches his phone from the nightstand.

“What are you doing?”

“Calling in the troops,” he replies, his fingers typing rapidly on the screen. “It’s ten now. Shall we say lunch at three? And what’re we cooking?”

“What?”

He glances back at me, his fingers paused. “Hollywood, correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe your fridge is empty. If we’re making Sunday lunch, we’ll need the meat and vegetables. All you have in your cupboards are the ingredients for pastry.”

“And that won’t work?”

His headshake is so solemn, I can’t tell if he’s doing it ironically or I got my sarcasm wrong. “I’m afraid not.”

“Well then, I’ll go to the grocery store and buy it all. You’re smart, you know that?”

“I do.” He finishes typing his message, tosses the phone to the side, and turns back to me. “But you know how I know that?”

“How?”

“Because I’m here with you. ”

I stifle a giggle. “Wow. Smart and cheesy. Isn’t it a bit early to be using lines like that?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. Let’s see, shall we?” His fingers scratch through his beard as he thinks. After a brief pause, he says, “Am I in heaven, or is there an angel in my bed?”

I don’t know how he keeps a straight face. It’s literally my job to control my reactions, and I’m struggling to do so.

“Actually, this is my bed.”

“Ah, true. Okay, well...” He taps a finger against his lip. “Nope, that won’t work . . .” Leaning over, he peers at my dress on the floor. “Nope, already there.” His cheeks puff out with a long breath. “This is tougher than I thought.”

“Oh, buddy, it’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“Yeah, how pretty?”

“Pretty enough for me to do this.” My hand slips under the comforter until I reach bare skin.

I softly graze along his shaft, and he lets out a quiet groan as I cup his balls and squeeze gently. The feel of his cock thickening in my palm sets off a throbbing deep in my pelvis. An intense tugging that instantly floods between my thighs.

I love the way Lando reacts to my touch and the way my body revels in the power I hold over him. It’s nothing I’ve ever experienced before—the insatiable need to make him feel good because it makes me feel good.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “I must be really fucking pretty.”

“You are.”

His cock is velvet and steel, smooth and straight. If it were possible for dicks to be called beautiful, Lando’s would be. Gripping the length, I slowly pump.

“Ahhh . . . fuck , Hollywood . . . that’s so good .”

His words spur me on, and I want to bring this guy to his knees. Literally. I want to watch his face as he comes with my name on his lips.

His balls tighten as he gets closer. My fist moves quicker, and Lando groans louder. I’m so caught up with making Lando come that it takes me a second to realize he’s groaning from frustration, because someone’s banging on the door.

“Ignore it. They’ll go away,” I whisper, twisting my palm over the flat end of his dick, covering myself in precum.

But when the banging becomes loud enough to compete with the sound of the rain, the mood is officially killed.

“Hol. Hol . You there? Lemme in.”

“I’m going to kill her,” Lando snarls, and his eyes screw tight.

Bang. Bang. Bang. “I need to pee.”