Page 51 of Valentine Nook
Ah yes, how could I forget? Even though I did forget. “I can’t just magic up a stuffed bear, you know. These things take time.”
She sets off walking again, Thunder following. “Not too long, I hope. Can’t a duke hurry things up?”
“It’ll take as long as it takes.”
Speaking of which, I really need to take Thunder back to the stable yard so he can have his breakfast and get fitted. I don’t have the time to walk back to the house because I have meetings for the rest of the morning. As it is, I won’t be able to take him out until later this afternoon.
Yet we continue along the fence line because it seems that both Thunder and I wish to enjoy Holiday’s company for as long as possible.
“What are you making in your first class?”
“I don’t know. Something easy, I hope.”
“Rice Krispies cakes?”
From the other side of Thunder, I hear her snort another laugh. “Not quitethateasy. I’m not looking to become a Michelin chef, I’d just like to know my way around a kitchen better than I do right now. I want to know how to bake a pie. The Fourth of July is coming up, and I’ve never made one.”
“You could bake your own celebration donuts,” I suggest. “Start a new tradition.”
“Icould.But the real magic of the celebration donut is having someone else make it.”
“Ah. I see.”
“What about you?” She peers around Thunder and shoots me a wry smile. “How does the duke celebrate?”
I’m silent for a second becausefor that second, I’m confused about who she’s talking about. Then I realize it’s me,the duke.
My birthright, my title, mylife—all of it momentarily forgotten about.
Worse still, I can’t answer her question because I can’t remember the last time I had something to celebrate.
Between running things around here, ensuring all aspects of Burlington Estate are staying efficient, meeting with my financiers, lawyers and advisers, seeing the year’s young are all born healthy and their mothers are taken care of, and attending the various Valentine Nook monthly meetings, I don’t have enough hours in my day.
“Gracie? C’mon, tell me,” she presses. “What do you do to celebrate?”
“Um . . . I don’t recall. Probably open a bottle of champagne. Something like that.”
“Okaaay,” she drags out, making it clear she’s less than impressed with my response. “Then tell me what you do for fun.”
That question is better but alsoworse.
It’s better in that I have an answer ready, like “I take Thunder through the fields, watch Miles play polo?—”
But worse, because it reminds me of every time Miles accuses me of having a stick up my arse, that duty comes before fun.
Because again, I realize I can’t remember the last time I truly had any fun.
Like uninhibited, falling-into-bed-after-having-the-best-day-ever fun. The most recent example of this would be last Christmas when my brothers dragged me off to Aspen on the day I was supposed to get married.
It was the week away I needed, even if I was hungover for half of it and mute for the rest, dreading my return to England.
“That’s cute.”
“What about you? What do you do for fun?”
“Hmm.” She pauses. “Well, I try to catch as many baseball games as possible. But I also like to start the day without a plan and see where it takes me. I’ll meet my girlfriends for brunch, and we’ll go from there.” The knowing laugh she lets out makes me want to beg to hear more. “Sometimes we end up dancing until the morning. But I also like learning new things . . . cooking, for example.”
“And we all know how you celebrate.”
