Page 5 of Valentine Nook
“An agent? What sort of agent?”
“I’d need to check her name, but she’s an actress. Quite well-known, I believe.”
“Anactress?”
“Yes. American.”
“AnAmerican? Has my mother run out of women in England?” I scoff, although the entire scenario sounds more ridiculous by the second. Hamish groans loudly in agreement.
James shrugs. “Possibly. She’s from Hollywood, according to your sister. Won an Oscar this year.”
I turn to him, and his face remains as impassive as always. But usually his left eye twitches ever so slightly when he’s joking, only not this time.
It has to be, though.
“Are you joking? Is this a joke?”
“No. It’s not a joke.”
“You’re telling me my mother has moved an actress into Bluebell Cottage. She’s trying to set me up with an actress?”
“I’m not sure that’s?—”
“That’sexactlywhat’s happening here. Stop being so diplomatic. She can’t hear you.” I laugh, and suddenly, like the sun breaking through dark rain clouds, my mood lifts, and a smile beams from my face.
My mother has truly outdone herself this time.
“AnAmericanHollywood actress?” The laugh rumbles up my throat from deep in my belly, followed by another, until I’m laughing so hard I roll back on the stairs. “An actress? Dear god. Really, James, you should have led with that. More fool my mother, I say.”
“Lando . . .”
“There’s no way I’d ever date an actress. Come on, let’s saddle up the horses and ride over to the pub.”
CHAPTER 1
Holiday
I’ve made a terrible mistake.
“Ashley, the house is made of straw.Straw. Like I’m one of the three little pigs. And it’sleaking.”
I pivot my phone so my assistant can see the drops of water slowly seep through a crack in the ceiling and fall into the saucepan I’ve placed on the floor of my bedroom. A small pool of rainwater collects in the bottom and splashes with every new drip.
Drip, drip, drip.
“Isn’t it only the roof that’s made of straw?”
“Yes. A roof that’s supposed to keep me dry.”
Iknewthis would happen. Roofs are not supposed to be made of straw. They should be brick or tile or, if you’re the Chrysler Building, hubcaps, but notstraw.
“Okay. Do you want me to find you somewhere else?” she asks, pulling the face she does sometimes when she’s really trying to look concerned for me.
It’s a look that could also be misinterpreted as judgment because I’m behaving like a brat and being a pain in her ass. It’s almost like I don’t pay her a generous salary.
I fall back onto my bed with a loud groan and try to ignore how I sink into the incredibly comfortable mattress. I’m loath to admit it might be the best mattress I’ve ever slept on.
It’s one of the many surprising things about this quaint English cottage and its leaky straw roof that looks all kinds of ramshackle and whimsical from the outside, with wisteria creeping across the walls and a rose-lined path leading to the powder-blue front door.
