Page 114 of Valentine Nook
My mouth mashes together. He’s so close I can see myreflection 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 aboldundertaking.
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 onlymakes 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 knowhowI know that?”
“How?”
“Because I’m here with you.”
I stifle a giggle. “Wow. Smartandcheesy. Isn’t it a bit early to be using lines like that?”
