Page 40 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

My grip eases, causing another round of protests from Lando. “No, baby, please . Don’t stop. I’m so close.”

“Babe, your sister is outside.” I jump out of bed and grab the blanket again. “We’ll pick it up later.”

“Tell her she’s disinvited to lunch.”

Rushing down the stairs, I open the door to find Clemmie standing outside, bedraggled and soaked to the skin. There’s not a dry inch of her, and when she drops four large shopping bags on the floor and pushes past me to the bathroom, she leaves a trail of tiny puddles behind.

I lug her bags into the kitchen and deposit them on the counter. How did she even manage to carry so many when they’re this heavy? Tossing a tea towel on the floor to mop up the water, I run upstairs to get her some dry clothes.

She’s switched on the coffee machine when I get back down.

“God, I’m so sorry. Something about the rain makes me really need to pee.”

“Here.” I hand over a pair of my brother’s sweatpants, which I packed by accident, and a couple of cozy sweaters I bought online last week. “Your legs are longer than mine, but these should be okay. ”

“Wow, thank you. That’s really kind,” she says, pushing the shopping bags across the kitchen counter. “I brought lunch.”

Clemmie strips off and switches her wet clothes for dry ones while I examine the contents of the bags—an array of vegetables, a chicken, a side of beef, a leg of lamb, lemons, fresh herbs, several bottles of wine, and three tubs of different-flavored ice cream.

There’s no way I’d have thought to buy all this.

“Is this all for today?”

Clemmie nods with a smile. “So there’s a choice.”

“How did you get here so quickly?”

“I was in the store when Lando messaged. I know you're cooking, but I thought I could help. And remember when I said I make a mean roast chicken...” She shrugs her shoulders. “Surprise. Sorry, is that okay?”

Glancing down at all the ingredients spread across the counter, maybe Lando was onto something when he asked if I knew what I was getting myself into. I don’t think I did.

One look at Clemmie’s eager face, and I yank her into a tight hug. “Thank you. Oh my god, thank you. Yes, help. Please. Roast chicken sounds perfect, and you know. ..the rest.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I must have woken up thinking I was Martha Stewart or something. Lando asked me if I knew what I was doing, and I said yes. But I wonder if maybe I don’t.”

“Well.” Clemmie chuckles, easing from my grip. “I can’t think of a better reason to do it together than to prove my brother wrong.”

“Oh, thank god.” I sigh with relief and stick a cup under the coffee machine. “D’you want one?”

Clemmie nods as she puts the ice cream in the freezer. “Yes, please. I suppose it’s a bit early to start drinking.”

I’m tempted. But I also know that I can’t drunk cook my first English Sunday lunch.

It gives me a weird buzz that I’m about to do something I’ve never done before.

On the rare occasions I’ve hosted dinner parties at my place, I’ve always used caterers or dished out preprepared food.

Never cook cooked. And I’ve been so busy baking with Pierre that I haven’t yet gotten around to learning the rest.

“Maybe later,” I reply, staring at the mountain of food. “How long does this take? We have just over four hours.”

“That’s plenty of time. We can enjoy our coffees first and decide what we’re having.

” She turns as Lando walks in, looking less than happy.

Not that Clemmie seems to notice, or perhaps she’s used to him, so she chooses to ignore it and flashes him a big smile instead. “Morning, Lanny. Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Why are your lips blue?”

“Cold shower,” he grunts, then drops a kiss on my head and takes a large sip from my coffee cup while I hold in a smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the Valentine Cook when you messaged, so I offered my services. Holiday and I are making lunch together.”

His eyes flick to mine, twinkling with amusement, and I know exactly what he’s thinking.

“In that case, there are definitely too many cooks in here. If you don’t mind, I’ll nip home and check on Thunder.”

I shake my head. “I don’t mind.”

“Excellent, and that means we can discuss the Fall Ball,” Clemmie says through a slurp of her coffee.

“Then I won’t hurry back. Don’t burn the place down. Remember, the roof is thatched.”

I glance out the window, where the rain still hasn’t let up.

“I don’t think we need to worry about anything catching fire.”

I have a newfound respect for Martha Stewart.

How the hell does she make it look so easy?

It’s taken me an hour just to clean the kitchen up.

Even with Clemmie’s help, we barely had enough time.

There’s a chicken and a side of beef in the oven, the vegetables went in right before Clemmie left to change into clean clothes, and after convincing me I didn’t need to stare at the stove while she was gone, I did the same.

I’ve learned you don’t need to be good at cooking. You just need to be good at math because you have to get your timings in precise order for lunch to be ready exactly the way it’s supposed to be ready.

I can’t remember when I was last so stressed or worked so hard, and I’m not talking about movies. They’re demanding but for a different reason. I’ve busted my ass today.

But I feel like I’ve accomplished something I don’t have a natural talent for, especially the apple pie I spent an hour painstakingly putting together with latticework, just as Pierre taught me.

I’m proud of myself.

I peer around the table I’ve laid out—simple, classy, totally Martha—I even finished it off with a couple of rose heads from the front yard, knocked from their stems by the rain, which I drop into a few Mason jars. Thanks, Pinterest .

Everything happens at once—the timer for the oven goes off as the front door opens, and in sprints Max with a bunch of flowers as big as he is.

“Here!” he shouts, thrusting them at me. I catch them just in time before he rushes back to the front door, where everyone else is entering at a normal pace, including Hamish.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Clemmie pants, rushing to shut off the beeping before I can, “I was leaving, then everyone jumped in the car with me, and it obviously took another ten minutes.”

I’m still standing in the hallway when Lando walks in, looking better than anything I could serve up on a platter. “Something smells good,” he says, pulling me into him and running his nose along my jaw. “Mmm.”

The goose bumps are immediate, and I will never tire of being in his arms. Of him.

“Uncle Lando’s kissing Holiday,” shouts Max, pointing directly at us in case no one realized we’re here.

“Yes, I fucking am,” Lando mutters, doing exactly that again .

Max’s finger stays where it is. “Uncle Lando said a bad word.”

“What are you? MI5?”

Max stares at Lando, pondering the question, but runs off to join Clemmie in the kitchen before he decides on an answer.

“Well, isn’t this lovely? Don’t think I’ve been invited around for Sunday lunch before,” Miles announces, who’s last through the door after Hendricks even though he lives the closest.

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Because you can’t handle the fun I bring?”

“Yes,” Lando deadpans with a hefty eye roll. “That’s why.”

Before Miles retorts, I ease out from under Lando’s arm, telling them to go pour themselves a drink. I hurry into the kitchen, where I find Clemmie has stopped the beeping and is pulling the chicken out of the oven.

“I’ll help,” I say, putting the flowers down and grabbing oven mitts to remove the rest. I almost trip over Hamish positioned in front of the kitchen island because he knows that’s where the food is going. “Jeez.”

By the time we’ve transferred everything into the cute dishes I found in the cabinet and taken it all through to the dining table, where everyone’s patiently waiting, I’m no longer hungry.

Hendricks has already started carving, Max is piling roast potatoes onto his plate to the point there won’t be any left for anyone else, and Clemmie looks as beat as me.

Plopping into the seat next to Lando, I’m curious why Miles and Alex are staring at the bottle of wine I opened.

It’s a red that Lando and I shared at The One True Love.

I went back to see if Eddie had more, because I remembered the look in Lando’s eyes as he took hold of the bottle.

For whatever reason, it seemed special to him, and I wanted to share it again.

“Is everything okay?”

“This wine, Holiday, where did you get it?”

I thumb to Lando. “We had it a while back, and I really liked it. I asked Eddie if he had more and bought some.”

“It was our father’s favorite,” Miles replies so quietly it feels like a punch in the gut.

“Oh, I . . . I’m sorry.” My head snaps to Lando, who’s looking at his brother. “I didn’t realize. I just knew Lando liked it. I hope that’s okay,” I stutter a reply, feeling a little lost for words. I’m such an idiot. Why did I not ask him why he liked it so much?

Miles silently puts the bottle down. He takes three long strides and pulls me into a hug. My arms swing at my side, too shocked to do anything else.

“Thank you,” he whispers in my ear. “And thank you for bringing Lando back.”

“Wow, did I just see Milo hug a girl without trying to feel her up?” Alex drawls when Miles steps away.

“Hey, I would never do that,” Miles grumbles, only for the corner of his lip to twitch, “but if she can resist my charms, then at least we know she’s serious about the duke.”

Lando drops his head with a shake. “You’re such a dick.”

I don’t need to look down to know he’s laced our fingers together. When our eyes meet, and he mouths, “ Thank you ,” my chest feels like it’s cracking open.