Valentine Nook: Chapter 4

“And he was naked?”

“Yeah. Naked.”

“Totally naked?”

“Totally naked.”

“You saw his⁠—”

“Yup, everything.”

“And?”

I shift on the unicorn float and lift my glasses up so I can properly see Clemmie’s face. She’s lying in the middle of a fire-engine float, and as I thought, her expression is as eager as her tone. She wants all the gossip.

“And what?”

“Well, before we try to figure out who he is, I want to know if he’s worth figuring out. Was he hot?”

Swinging my legs around while trying to maintain my balance, I paddle my hand through the water until I reach the side, and the tanning lotions neatly stacked in a little wicker tray. The scent of coconut and sunshine permeates the air as I spray it over my legs and rub it in.

My preconceived ideas about England always being cold and rainy have been proven incorrect because the past few days have seen heat similar to California but with added humidity.

It’s also without the AC, but that’s a totally separate issue that I’ll have to deal with another day.

For now, I’m content lying on this unicorn float, sipping cocktails, and soaking in the rays. It’s glorious.

I hadn’t planned to come and hang out with Clemmie again so soon, but after two days of unpacking almost everything and sweating my ass off, I caved the second she invited me over.

Anything to stop myself from going back to the waterfall.

I haven’t dared, yet I can’t stop thinking about it.

My legs are still scratched from the brambles catching me as I ran away. By the time I reached my cottage, chest heaving from exertion, I didn’t know whether to collapse or laugh.

“It was hard to tell. He was standing under the waterfall. Dark hair, beard⁠—”

“Any tattoos?”

I shake my head. “No, but there was a lot of chest hair, so maybe underneath.”

“He was hairy? Gross. I hate hairy men.” Clemmie shudders dramatically. She picks up her plastic cup with the curly watermelon straw sticking out of it. The sun bounces off her pinkie ring as she attempts to swing the straw into her mouth. “What else?”

“Nothing. I ran off.”

“Hmm.”

I leave out the bit about his powerful thighs and rock-hard chest, stacked abs. I don’t tell her this guy looked like he swung tires over his head and threw hay bales for fun. Just because he could. Even in the few seconds I stood there while the water poured over him, I could tell his wasn’t a body carved from spending hours in the gym, not like the guys I knew anyway. Movie guys.

It wouldn’t occur to this guy to watch what he ate. He’d burn it off by wrangling a few cows. Or by spending a hard day in a saddle. Whatever guys did around here to keep fit, anyway.

“What was his dick like?”

The mouthful of margarita I’ve just swallowed is inhaled with my laugh, and it takes all my strength not to topple off the unicorn. As it is, I have to grab the horn and lower myself back to lying down.

Even though this is only the second time we’ve hung out, I’ve decided the best thing about Clemmie is she says exactly what pops into her head.

My mind flashes back to the waterfall guy and his little trail of dark hair leading down from his belly button, and it takes effort to push it away. Discover more novels at find⦿novel.net

“I mean . . . I don’t think a girl would be disappointed, let’s say.”

“He doesn’t sound familiar.” She giggles before her tone takes on a more serious note. “I don’t know everyone who works here, but I’ll find out who it was. He could have been dangerous. Definitely a pervert. He could be a streaker or a sex pest.”

“He didn’t seem like a pervert. I was the one who walked in on him. I don’t think he knew I was there. He seemed shocked to see me.”

“Can’t be too careful these days,” she mutters, and this time, I stay silent because I know exactly what she means.

In my early days as an actress, I had experiences I don’t want to relive, which makes me all the more certain this guy was doing nothing except enjoying nature as it was intended.

But thankfully, she changes the subject. “How’s the cottage? Are you all unpacked?”

“Nearly. You should come over for dinner. I’ll warn you now that I’m a terrible cook, but I can dial a mean takeout.” I grin wide. “And I can get early screeners of movies if there are any you want to see. We can have a girls’ night.”

Clemmie lifts her head. “I would love that. I haven’t had a girls’ night in yonks. Growing up in a house of boys, I missed out on a lot of that. And having been away at boarding school, my friends are scattered all over the country.”

I don’t fail to notice the sadness in her tone. I feel it too. I wasn’t at boarding school, but I know what it’s like to have your friends scattered around. The closest girlfriends I have are my twin brother’s wife and her best friend, but they live in New York.

The more well-known my face has become, the harder it’s been to make friends. Harder still is coming to terms with people only wanting to be friends with you for the association, for your connections, your time, and your money.

But with Clemmie, I don’t get any of those vibes, which is rare in itself. I love that she’s never once tried to impress me, and beyond her first declaration of being a huge fan, she hasn’t brought it up again.

“I’d love it too. Maybe make it a regular thing before I go back to work,” I reply. There’s heaviness in my tone.

“You mean on another movie?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Have you got anything scheduled?”

“I start on the press for part two of my last movie. I had another movie scheduled to begin at the end of next year, but I pulled out. I told my agent I wanted a real break before she brought me anything else.”

What I don’t tell Clemmie is that my agent said it would damage my career if I took time off, but I did it anyway.

It makes me too nervous to think about.

Turning her float next to mine, she pulls up beside me and shifts so we’re facing each other. Her legs swing on either side of the fire engine, and it looks like she’s riding on the top of it. “Do you know what you want to do next?”

“No,” I reply without a beat. “The last couple of movies I did were intense.”

“You won all your awards, though.”

“I did.” I omit that I found them in one of the boxes Ashley packed and left them in there.

“That must have been incredible.”

Clemmie’s smiling at me with genuine happiness because she thinks that’s what I must be feeling—happy. Because who wouldn’t? An Oscar is the ultimate goal. Instead, I’m chewing on my lip, pondering whether I admit out loud what I’ve only told my therapist.

The water slips through my fingers as I paddle, a metaphor for my life.

“It wasn’t as awesome as I thought it would be.”

“What d’you mean?”

I sit up, dangling my feet instead. “I worked my ass off for eighteen months, and before that, I worked eight years almost nonstop because I thought that’s what I needed to do to be recognized as a serious actress. By the time the nominations came around and the ceremony arrived, I was so burned out that I couldn’t enjoy it, but I kept smiling all night because that’s what people expected. I can’t honestly say I deserved it more than any of the other actresses nominated. All I could think about while I was being congratulated was how tired I was.”

Out of nowhere, the urge to cry burns my eyes.

I should be happy. I should be grateful.

“I haven’t told anyone that before.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Clemmie replies and flops back onto her float. “I know what it’s like to feel you have to live up to other people’s expectations, but it’s nothing like the weight of expectation you put on yourself.”

She sounds as lost as I feel.

I glance over at the house. House is a little misleading. Downton Abbey would be more accurate. I can imagine living here comes with more weight and expectations than most people could cope with.

We lie there in silence, floating and contemplating life choices.

“You don’t know anyone who can teach me to bake, do you?” I ask, thinking about my apple trees. I’d like to learn how to make a pie. “The kitchen in the cottage really deserves to live up to its potential.”

“No. But I can ask our chef⁠—”

“Do you think he’ll know someone?”

“No, I’ll ask him to teach you.”

“Oh.” My head turns toward the house again, and I wonder how many staff work here. Beyond the one who brought out the margaritas, I haven’t seen any.

“I’m sure he has way too much to do. I was thinking something smaller scale.”

“He’ll love to do it. He’s probably bored of his days always being the same. He taught me one summer.” She pauses, and a smile pulls on her mouth. “The basics anyway. I wasn’t a good student, but I do remember how to roast a chicken.”

“I like roast chicken.”

“Then I shall cook you one,” she replies, lifting the jug to fill our glasses, but it’s empty. “First, I’ll fetch more drinks.”

“That’s a better idea.” I laugh.

Getting off the floats gracefully is much harder than getting on them, especially with the generous levels of tequila in our drinks. She manages to step off hers onto the pool edge, but I’m not so successful. The cold water immediately refreshes and reinvigorates me. The wooziness I felt a second ago vanishes, so I decide to swim a few lengths as Clemmie ambles off toward the house.

I’m finishing my fourth lap when the gate in the middle of the rose bushes surrounding the pool area opens, and in walks the last guy I saw naked. Except this time, he’s clothed, and truthfully, he looks just as good.

His eyes flare as they lock onto mine, and he pauses mid-stride while my momentary panic stops me in the middle of the pool. At least I don’t swallow any pool water when I inhale sharply.

“What are you doing here?” he spits.

His long legs eat up the distance from the gate to the pool edge until he’s towering over me. If he wasn’t scowling quite so furiously, I might consider him good-looking. The ferocious thumping in my chest says he’s good-looking regardless.

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.