Page 54 of Valentine Nook
I don’t even knowwhyI left the donuts. But the look Icaught on Lando’s face when I asked him what he did for fun punched me in the gut.
I never want to see that look again.
Tugging open the door, I grab the bear and pull him out.
He’s much bigger than he looked sitting behind the front seat, bigger than me even. Heavy. I’ve never seen a bear in real life, but it’s possible he’s life-sized if a little squishier than a real bear would be. Softer too.
I need two hands to wrangle this bear. I manage to kick the car door closed with my foot and drag him over to the gate, where I have to set him on the ground so I can flick the latch. Then it’s a tussle to fit us both through the narrow opening and up the path to the front door, where he gets dropped again.
All in all, it takes five minutes from opening the car door to setting him in my kitchen.
I had plans to follow my run with a small workout on the yoga mat in the backyard, but carrying a fifty-pound stuffed animal twenty yards has me pooped. While I’m deciding on a permanent place to keep him—because there’s no way in hell I’m carrying him around with me—I flick on the coffee machine and open the fridge.
Another five minutes later, I’m on the back patio, coffee in hand, with a plate of eggs in front of me while the bear sits on the opposite bench. He’s staring at me as I lean into the squashy outdoor cushions and take a sip of my coffee.
It doesn’t take long before my eyelids feel heavy again. I’m convinced the birds chirping in the trees have me drifting off. It’s like a white noise machine, only more effective, and I’m tempted to take a nap.
It’s almost noon, and I’ve done nothing except go for a run.
When I’m working, Ashley manages my schedule, which usually begins with a pre-dawn visit to the gym. Currently, she’s handling everything in my absence, overseeing my affairs in LA, looking after my place, and keeping me informed onlyon matters Ineedto know, so I receive a brief, non-urgent email summary to review.
Aside from that, I have a handful of other things to do, but for someone who’s used to her day being planned to the minute, it’s amazing how little I can fit in if I really put my mind to it.
I could make them stretch out the whole week.
It’s hard to decide which one to do first, especially with the time difference.
My parents won’t appreciate a super early wake-up and neither will Tanner.
There’s a book I keep starting and putting down. I also need to review the contract terms with my lawyer so I fully understand them when Marcy flies over.
The fruit trees in the backyard are ripe enough to pick, and Pierre said he’d teach me how to make an apple pie if I brought them. I also need to practice the donuts.
But what I really want to do is something I probably shouldn’t.
I’m trying to figure out how I can see Lando when a goat hops over the hedge at the end of the backyard.
From the way he trots up the path toward the apple trees, I can tell this isn’t his first time here. However, after he stops and stares, opens his little mouth and lets out a bloodcurdling scream, I assume he’s never seen a stuffed bear before.
Then he falls over, stiff as a board.
“Oh fuck.” I scramble out of the chair so fast it falls over and so does the coffee. “Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.”
Dealing with a dead goat was not on my list of things to do today. Or ever, if I think about it.
But then, as quick as he fell down, the goat’s eyes blink open, and he jumps up, at which point I wonder if maybeI’mhaving a heart attack. Especially when he trots over to theapple tree, rises on his hind legs, and munches away at the first one he finds.
Some days, I think I could easily move to England and live an idyllic life in the countryside, and then other days, when I may or may not have killed a trespassing goat, I want to board the first plane back to LA.
What the fuck is happening?
And not that I care so much, because who am I to get between a goat and his five-a-day, but he’s eating all the fruit I was supposed to be making pies with, and I can’t stop him on my own.
I dial Clemmie, the first thing I can think of doing.
“Hey, what are you up to? Want to come for a swim?” she says before I can get a hello in.
“Sure. But first, I should tell you there’s a goat in my backyard, and it may or may not have had a heart attack. Or a stroke. Is that something goats do? Now it’s eating the apples.”
