Valentine Nook: Chapter 23

When 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.”

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.” Get full chapters from Find★Novel.net

“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.”

Ihave 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.

For two minutes, no one speaks. The only sounds are the knocking of silverware against china as vegetables are scooped onto plates, people deciding between chicken or beef, and Max hungrily chomping away. I have yet to put anything on my plate, but I’m getting a perverse pleasure in watching everyone eat.

Finally, Clemmie swallows her mouthful and sits back. “I think this is the best roast I’ve ever had.”

“Are you allowed to say that if you’ve cooked it?” I ask.

“Yes, I think so.” She picks up her wine and turns to her nephew. “Maxy, what do you think?”

“I love it.” He’s taking another scoopful of potatoes, which has Hendricks shaking his head in dismay and moving the rest from his reach.

“Hey, Maxy, yours is the only vote I’m looking for.” I laugh.

“It’s the only one that ever counts,” Lando adds, turning to me with a wink.

Miles pats his stomach. “How have I only just discovered I have a neighbor who cooks like this, and she’s leaving?”

I pick up my wine, ignoring the lead weight I feel inside me. “It was Clemmie really, but I made the pie for later.”

“Where are you going?” Max asks.

I smile at him, taking comfort in Lando’s hand resting on my thigh. “Back to America, where my home is.”

Although now I’m not quite sure that’s true.

His little face scrunches up, and he leans forward. “But how will you kiss Uncle Lando in America?”

Lando splutters next to me, and I pray my cheeks are already rosy enough from cooking for anyone to see me blushing. Everyone else is openly laughing.

“A question we all want to know the answer to, Maxy.” Alex snickers.

“Al . . .”

“It’s valid. How will we all cope without our resident thespian now that we know she can cook too?” Miles adds, ignoring Lando’s warning tone. “I vote she stays.”

“Milo, you’re dramatic enough for everyone,” Lando snaps. “If it were between you and Holiday for an award, you’d win.”

I snort out a giggle because it’s true. I might be the professional actress, but Miles is the drama queen.

“You think?” Miles clasps his hands to his chest and gives me an idea.

“Wait,” I order, rushing out of my seat and up the stairs two at a time to my bedroom. “One sec.”

At the back of the closet is the box Ashley sent, which I never unpacked. Ripping off the tape, I ease out the biggest of the leather presentation cases and run back downstairs.

I hold it out to Miles while everyone else looks on curiously.

“Here. For tonight only, this can be yours.”

He cautiously removes it from my hands, placing it on the table in front of him. Pushing the clasp, Miles lifts the lid and peers inside. His eyes flick to mine, one thick dark brow raised.

Gripping his fist around the statue, he eases it out. “I’d like to thank the Academy⁠—”

Clemmie gasps, her hands shooting forward. “Holy shit, your Oscar. Miles, gimme.”

He snatches it out of her reach. “Nope. It’s mine. Holiday gave it to me. You all heard her.”

“Milo, come on. Let me have a turn.”

“I have a BAFTA and a Golden Globe upstairs too, if either of those work.”

Clemmie’s eyes widen. “Ooh, Golden Globe.”

Laughing, I run back upstairs and retrieve the rest, then place them on the table. I watch everyone fight over who gets what first, and it’s so much fun. A familiarity about it reminds me of my own family—the bickering, the warmth, the love.

Not that Lando could move to America anyway because he has Burlington to run, but I can’t imagine him ever leaving his family. Even the idea of us meeting somewhere in the middle for a month at a time seems far-fetched as I sit here and zone out. I’m once again thinking about the list of options I mentally pulled together before Lando woke up this morning and strike half of them off.

“You’re so talented, Holiday. You really deserved these,” Clemmie says, holding the BAFTA mask up to her face.

“Thank you.” I smile at her, but it’s fake. I want to cry.

“I agree. New York was a masterpiece.” Lando takes my hand and brings it to his lips. “And you were pivotal.”

My head spins around. “You watched it?”

He grins from ear to ear. He’s as proud of himself as I was when we finished cooking lunch. “I’ve watched everything you’ve done. Took me a month, but I watched them all.”

My mouth drops. I’m speechless. I have no words. They’re all gone. He’s never once mentioned it. Not even a hint.

“My favorite is the one where you’re dating that guy from Boston, but you love rival baseball teams.” Clemmie giggles. “Best romcom ever.”

“Nope.” Lando shakes his head. “Hated that one. I like New York.”

“Only because there’s no kissing in it,” Miles shoots out, before adding, “It wasn’t my favorite.”

“What’s your next project?” Alex asks, filling everyone’s glasses.

No one notices how much he’s pouring because all eyes are on me for my answer. Even Clemmie’s, and she already knows everything.

“Um . . . well, I recently signed a beauty campaign that begins in the new year. I don’t know where the first shoot is yet, though. But acting-wise, there are no movies right now. I want to try my hand at theater, so my agent is looking for something suitable.”

I hope she is. She messaged me to say something potential had come to her and she’d let me know once she had more information, but that was over a week ago.

Under the table, Lando squeezes my hand.

“Well, count us in for the first night.” Alex smiles, though he’s looking at Lando.

“And in other news,” Miles says with a grin so wide his dimples disappear into crevices, “did you hear Al’s been on a shopping spree? He’s bought Haven’s place.”

From Clemmie’s gasp, I can tell this is new news to her. It’s new news to me too, but I’m not quite as invested in the story. Everyone’s heads turn to Alex, whose smile has turned to a glare directed at Lando.

“I didn’t say a word,” he protests with his hands held high. “I swear.”

Alex runs his fingers along the edge of his wineglass and lets out a resigned sigh. “Whatever, I don’t care.”

“I support it. That place will make a great yard. Get some winter polo in over there.”

“We’re not turning it into a yard. And I didn’t buy it for the company. I bought it privately, for me. Or will have once the paperwork goes through.”

Hendricks lets out a low whistle down at the other end of the table. “Have you heard from Haven? Does she know you’re buying it?”

Alex shakes his head. “Nope. And can we please change the subject?”

“Sure thing.” Miles turns his attention to his nephew. “Maxy, what do you want to talk about?”

Max taps his little chubby finger against his chin while he thinks. “Um, Hamish chewed Granny’s shoe, but I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

For a second, it’s silent enough that you can only hear the raindrops. Then Alex bursts out laughing, followed by Max, and like dominoes, everyone goes until we’re all laughing. And that’s how the rest of the afternoon continues, through more bottles of wine, apple pie, and all three tubs of ice cream until the sun goes to bed and the rain stops.

I have a feeling we could have gone for longer if it hadn’t been Max’s bedtime. Because they all came together in one car, they have to leave together too. By the time we say goodbye, I know it’s not just Lando I’m going to miss dearly when I leave this place.

Lando closes the front door and wraps his arms around my waist. “Bravo, Hollywood. I can’t believe you survived that and came out unscathed. In fact, I think my siblings would happily trade me for you.”

“I don’t know about that.” I chuckle. “I think they like you a lot.”

“I think I like you a lot. Even more than I did this morning.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and I’m immediately taken back to what we started but never finished.

The moment I peer up at him, I’m done thinking about how sad I feel or what I’m leaving behind. For now, I need to live in the present and keep my promise of picking up where we left off.

“Hey, I love your sweater,” I say, tracing a pattern on the front of his chest.

He glances down at the black ribbed cashmere. “This? Um, thanks.”

Sinking my teeth into my lip, I hit him with my best fluttering lashes and drop my tone. “Yeah, and I’ll love it even more on my floor later.”

A flash of Lando’s baby blues is followed by a panty-melting smirk. “It’s a good thing you’re pretty.”

“How pre⁠—”

My question turns to a squeal as Lando throws me over his shoulder and makes for the stairs.

“I’m about to show you, and this time, no one’s interrupting us.”