Valentine Nook: Chapter 19

Lando 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 pâtissier, 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?” Official source is find⁂novel.net

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.”

Lacing my fingers into his free hand, I squeeze. “I’m sorry he never got to.”

“CLOVER, CLOVER, CLOVER,” Max screams as the next chukka gets underway.

“Miles’s pony,” Lando whispers unnecessarily. “The lucky one.”

The luck works.

By the end of the first half, Miles’s team leads their opposition by three goals, and Clemmie grabs my hand before the ponies leave the field.

“C’mon, let’s go and stomp divots. But first, I must pee.”

“Sure, why not? I could do with a bathroom break too.”

She takes my hand and leads us out of the stand, through the crowds, and into the VIP tent. She’s keeping her head down, trying to squeeze past unnoticed, and I follow her lead. Sunglasses on. If she doesn’t want to be seen, then neither do I.

I assume we’re following the signs for the bathrooms, only we turn left before we get there.

“Clem, the bathrooms are over there.”

“We’re going to different ones. Too many people,” she replies as we head back out into the sunshine on the other side of the tent and along a narrow pathway lined with bushes.

Clemmie’s eyes are down, and I see him before she does. It’s possible she didn’t see him at all, from the way she collided with his chest. If I hadn’t pulled her back, she’d have fallen over.

I’m about to apologize when I catch sight of Clemmie’s face. Her mouth’s open, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she seems anxious. Her shoulders are stiff with tension.

Then I take a look at the guy.

He’s the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. Thick brows, chiseled cheekbones, shaded by the ball cap he’s wearing, and eyes so brown they’re almost black as he stares right at her.

It has all the makings of a meet-cute, an accidental run-in, except I get the impression there’s much more to it.

He looks like he should be annoyed, but the way his lips purse makes it seem as if he’s holding down a smile. Especially when his head dips with a curt nod that feels more taunting than sincere.

“Lady Burlington,” he says, an American drawl that sounds both foreign and immensely comforting after two months in England.

My eyes bounce between them. I wait for Clemmie to say something, but I’m not expecting, “We have to go.”

My glasses are dark enough that he can’t see me look at him as she drags me off. Not an iota of surprise on his face, and the smile I knew he was hiding tips up.

She’s still not said anything by the time we reach the bathrooms—which happen to be near the players’ quarters. We pee in silence, then make our way out to where the hordes are.

I thought I’d done well in avoiding the small number of press in attendance, but the moment Clemmie and I step foot on the field, they swarm. We’re new blood among all the other celebrities present, cheering on the teams.

Our photos are taken, and I avoid all questions about who I’m here with. Several people come over to speak to Clemmie, then linger as we replace the turf kicked up from the ponies’ hooves and press it back into the ground. Twice I’m asked for a selfie, along with a request for my number and several offers if I ever need a tour guide in England, all of which I politely decline.

The whole time, my eyes jump back to the stand where Lando’s laughing with Max and Alex.

It’s distracting enough that I almost forget about the encounter on the way to the bathrooms until I look up to find the same guy leaning against the stands, watching us. And the moment Clemmie turns her back, I know she’s spotted him too.

“Who’s that guy? The one we bumped into.”

Her cheeks flush an uncharacteristic shade of pink, eyes darting to either side. She’s concentrating very hard on replacing the divot I already trod in. “Santiago Torres.”

“He’s hot.”

Her shoulders slump with a deep sigh. “Yes, very.”

“Who is he? He sounded American.”

“His mother is American. His father is Argentinian. He played polo for Argentina before he got a two-year ban for an illegal bump, which nearly killed Miles. Miles hates him. I’m surprised he’s here.” Her tone becomes tinny, hollow almost, enough for me to want to give her a hug.

“Wow.”

She nods, and I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. Instead, she sucks in a quick, deep breath and changes the subject.

“I’ve just realized you’ll be here for the Fall Ball.”

“What’s the Fall Ball?”

“It’s so fun.” Her eyes light up, relieved I’m not pressing her on the scowling mystery guy. “We hold it every year around Halloween in London. It’s dinner and dancing, all done in masquerade. We raise money for Lando’s charity, which supports helping children grieve when a parent dies. He started it about fifteen years ago.”

Now I’m the one pressing in a divot I’d already pressed in because I don’t know what to say.

I help with charities. I try to do my bit every year by donating or whatever’s required, but truthfully, they tend to all blend into one. But this charity, Lando’s charity, is a stark reminder of how exactly he came to be the person he is today. Suddenly, I’m fighting the urge to cry.

“Count me in.”

“Excellent, and that means we’ll have to go shopping.”

“How do you raise the money?”

“Donations, ticket price, auction. One year, Miles decided to auction himself. Raised nearly a quarter of a million just for him, but it also ended up in a fight between the three highest bidders outside the venue, which was splashed all over the front pages the next day. We didn’t do it again. Safer to stick to one-of-a-kind experiences.” She grins, and a giggle bursts out, which sets me off too.

“Why does that seem so Miles?” I snort. “But I’d love to help. I can definitely find something worth donating.”

When the bell goes off, announcing the end of halftime, Clemmie loops her arm into mine. I notice that her eyes keep darting over to where that guy was standing, only he’s gone. When I turn back to the direction we’re heading, Lando’s walking toward us.

His eyes are glued to mine. I don’t think he’s even noticed anyone else. But he has an air about him that compels people to move out of the way when he passes, and for a second, I marvel at him.

By the time he reaches us, a smile stretches across his face. “What are you two gossiping about?”

“I was telling Holiday about the Fall Ball.”

I nod, peering up at him. “I’ll find something cool to donate for the auction. Maybe a trip to a movie set?”

Lando wears a curious expression, both thoughtful and amused.

I’m wondering what it means when he drapes his arm around my shoulders and twists me into him enough that he can press a full kiss to my mouth with little effort.

It’s brief but not too short and gives absolutely no doubt to anyone watching us that we’re in a “relationship” at the bare minimum.

“Thank you, Hollywood. That’s very kind.”

I sense the snap of a camera. There’s no way he doesn’t either. But we walk off the field and back to the stands like we haven’t noticed and don’t care.