Page 9 of Valentine Nook (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #1)

I don’t reply immediately. I’m still trying to decide what to do when two Labradors come hurtling down the path he’s entered from and leap into the water.

I figure this is my cue to get out in case he decides to dive in after them.

Who knows what this handsome lunatic is capable of, and I have no idea how long Clemmie will be.

“Dolly. Hamish. Out,” he bellows at the dogs, only to be ignored.

I realize the steps are on the opposite side of the pool to where I’ve swum, and I’d need to pass two frolicking Labradors to get to them.

It must be the margaritas that make me braver than I am.

I’d have never attempted to pull myself out otherwise.

But thanks to the grueling training regimen I’ve been on for the past eighteen months, I’m strong enough to do it in one smooth movement.

Up close, this guy’s much taller than he seemed under the waterfall. Even taking into account the inch or so from his thick boots, he towers over me.

He’s wearing a pair of slightly muddy jeans that stretch around those powerful thighs I can’t stop thinking about, and I’ve spent enough time in clothes fittings to know that the button-down shirt he’s wearing with the sleeves rolled up his forearms is custom.

If we were in America, he’d be wearing a Stetson.

He may have been naked the last time I saw him, but it had crossed my mind he could very well have been homeless and in need of a shower. Now I’m not so sure.

For someone who looked so rugged, he’s remarkably well-kempt, with curls of thick chocolate-brown hair brushing along his collar. Even his beard looks tidy and soft enough that my fists clench to stop from finding out for myself, and I bet it’s hiding a dangerous set of cheekbones.

But it’s his eyes that I can’t tear myself away from.

I always thought mine were blue. But his eyes are blue like the Caribbean seas are blue or a cloudless sky in the dead of summer blue.

As I watch, those blue eyes drop to my feet and travel up slowly, causing my body to heat from more than the early afternoon sun.

Then I remember not only am I wearing one of my flimsier bikinis but I’m also dripping wet, so I snatch up the nearest pool towel and wrap it around myself so tightly and aggressively that I almost cut off my air supply.

“Are you following me?”

“Following you?” He has the audacity to scoff. “No. Now answer my question.”

It takes me a second to remember what his question was. I can’t even blame it on jet lag or being slightly intoxicated. To quote Nick Miller, this guy smells like strong coffee and going to see a man about a horse. It’s entirely distracting.

“What are you doing here?” he repeats, and each word he enunciates stiffens my spine a little bit more.

“I’m swimming. What does it look like?”

“I don’t know how it is in America, but you can’t just break into people’s gardens and use their pool. This is private property. ”

First off, how dare he? Who does this guy think he is?

Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare at him. “I haven’t broken in.”

“Then how did you get here?”

I have no intention of divulging any information to him, a perfect stranger. An unhinged one at that. It doesn’t matter how good-looking he is, even with the snarl.

Come to think of it, why is he snarling at me?

Then it dawns on me. This guy doesn’t like me.

Huh.

This is new .

I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who doesn’t like me.

And while I understand not everyone likes everyone, this guy doesn’t like me on sight, the waterfall incident not included.

Surely, it’s not that big of a deal that I saw him naked.

Not sufficient reason for him to be looking at me the way he’s looking at me, anyway.

Nope. This guy doesn’t like me. He doesn’t even know me.

He hasn’t even tried to get to know me.

His eyebrows lower so much with his scowl they become a dark slash across his face. But if he thinks I’ll cower, he’s scowling at the wrong girl. While I might look sweet, I’m well practiced in holding my own against hard-nosed men who think they can tell me what to do. Thanks, Hollywood.

We’re still locked in this glaring competition when Clemmie arrives back carrying another jug of her lethal margaritas.

I expect her to tell him to get lost or call the police, but she doesn’t.

It hasn’t occurred to me there are still two dogs happily swimming about in the pool like they own the place.

“Oh goodie, I’m so glad you’ve finally met.”

My eyes snap to hers, and she’s wearing that same grin she wore when she came to my cottage. The borderline-crazy one.

Finally met?

“Holiday, this is my brother Lando.” She turns, totally oblivious to the way he’s standing rigid and glowering in my direction.

Even under his beard, I can tell his jaw is set hard.

“Lando, this is Holiday. She’s renting Bluebell Cottage.

I invited her over for a swim. Do you want to stay for a drink? ”

My brain is firing a half second slower than Clemmie, but as soon as it catches up, my eyes bulge. Oh shit.

Her brother. The naked waterfall guy is my new friend’s brother.

Lando, the moody one.

She certainly hit the nail on the head with that description. I’ve never met anyone so irritable, and I say this after spending less than five minutes in his presence. Then I remember what Eddie the barman said, that Lando was grumbling about me renting his cottage.

That’s why he doesn’t like me? Because I rented his cottage ?

“No, I don’t,” he snaps and turns to his sister. “Are you planning to drink your entire summer away?”

“Maybe.” Clemmie shrugs, placing the jug on the table.

I swear once her back is turned that Lando’s scowl intensifies.

“Oh hey, Lanny, Holiday was telling me she saw a trespasser in the glen the other day. You don’t know if any of the farm staff have been down there, do you? Particularly any hairy ones? Holiday said he was gross and hairy, and completely naked standing in the waterfall.”

It’s almost in slow motion how Lando’s head tilts and one of his brows slowly rises. “Gross and hairy, was he?”

I dare not look at Clemmie.

Not for one second do I want her to know that this is the guy whose dick she asked about. If someone described my brother’s dick to me, I’d want to puke. Figuratively and literally.

“I never said gross,” I mumble.

“It sounds like you did. Unless Clemmie’s lying. Are you calling my sister a liar? ”

I look at Clemmie, hoping she’ll rescue me, but she’s too busy filling our glasses, one of which she passes to me.

“Oh, and Pierre said he’d be happy to teach you.”

“Who’s Pierre?”

“Our chef. He said he’d happily teach you what he can.”

“What?”

The pair of us turns to Lando, whose face hasn’t changed, though it’s slowly becoming redder.

“Holiday wants to learn how to cook. Pierre said he’d teach her,” Clemmie explains.

“Pierre has enough to do here without running a culinary school.”

Clemmie’s giggle does nothing to lighten the tension. I don’t think she’s even noticed it.

“Lando, what are you on about? It’s not a culinary school. It’s a couple of lessons for Holiday while she’s having some time off. She wants to learn how to cook.”

I can’t decide what’s worse—Clemmie’s obvious happiness at helping me or her brother’s annoyance that she has.

Lando realizes he won’t have any luck persuading Clemmie to give up her idea of their chef teaching me to cook. So he tries me instead.

“It’s not included in your rental, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Lando!”

Oh. Perhaps that’s what his problem is. He’s short on cash and needs money.

My eyes flick to the mullioned windows of the mansion / castle.

It can’t be cheap running this place. I bet they’re one of those rich-on-paper families, but all their wealth is tied up in property or gold mines or something.

Old money problems . . . something I know nothing about.

My money is so new it’s still shiny.

I smile my sparkliest smile, the one I save for billboards, chat shows, and magazine covers. Maybe that will win him over. “Of course, I’ll happily pay him.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Clemmie gasps. “Lando, what is wrong with you? Holiday, I apologize, he’s not normally so rude. Although he has been much more of a dick than usual lately.”

Lando stares at his sister, and I swear I hear his teeth grind together. I can tell he’s on the verge of retorting, but instead, he silently turns on his heel.

I watch him storm off. My eyes linger on his ass for way too long.

So he’s my landlord.

Fan-fucking-tastic.