Page 21 of Valentine Nook
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 areyoudoing 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 thebutton-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.
