Page 7 of Valentine Nook
“Thanks,” I add before ending the call.
Tossing my phone on the bed, I peer around and drum my fingers against my cheek while I decide what to do.
What Ireallywant to do is speak to my twin brother, Tanner. My favorite person in the whole world, and the one I always miss the most when I’m traveling. He’s the best person at talking sense into me.
But it’s still early in New York, and he’s recently become a dad, so if he’s not asleep, he’s probably attempting to soothe my gorgeous nephew back to sleep.
I pad through to the bathroom and stare at myself in the wide mirror above the sink. The dark circles under my eyes seem a little less prominent than they did when I arrived but still mauve enough to tempt me back to bed.
I should probably unpack.
The couple of days I’ve been here have been mostly spent sleeping, and my unpacking so far leaves a lot to be desired.
Two of my four suitcases are open on the bedroom floor and, considering I’ve existed solely in pajamas or sweats, are virtually intact with everything I brought still neatly folded. The closets are waiting to be filled.
I also have to unpack a couple of boxes Ashley shipped from home—trinkets, prints, my favorite cozy blanket—that I like to take with me when I travel to make everything seem more familiar. It was a trick I learned a few years ago when I was on location in Vancouver for three months. And even though Vancouver is only a couple hours’ flight from LA, having my own things made it feel a little bit closer, so now I do it wherever I go.
Scraping my hair back, I secure it with the tie that’s almost permanently on my wrist and pick up the coffee I made before Ashley called. It’s time to roll up my sleeves and get my shit together.
I’m about to start on the first suitcase when a loud knocking stops me, and I forget I’m not at home for a second. This cottage doesn’t have an intercom—just a good old-fashioned door knocker.
I’m singing Ashley’s praises with every step I tread down the super-narrow and very steep, uneven stairs, trying not to add to the bruises on my shin from where I’ve already fallen twice.
But when I open the door, it’s not a maintenance man standing there. Well, as far as I know, this isn’t what maintenance men look like in the English countryside.
A tall woman about my age, maybe a little younger, stands there in muddy dark green rain boots, a pair of denim cutoffs, a navy sweater, and a wax rain jacket that looks a hundred years old. Dark blond hair falls over her shoulders in thick waves that look so natural I’m tempted to ask her where she gets them done and how she manages them.
She’s incredibly pretty, wearing a broad smile, and her blueeyes are so wide with excitement that it immediately makes me a little anxious.
Back in the US, I never open the door to strangers.
I have gates on my property in Los Angeles that Ashley always answers. Where I lived in New York while filming my last project, there was a buzzer and a concealed entryway so no one was allowed in without being seen first. While this charming English cottage has a large-ish hedge and a tall gate, clearly neither deters people from walking up the path. Thisgirldefinitely isn’t a maintenanceman.
But her expression doesn’t say I look different in person from how she expected me to. That I’m shorter, taller, fatter, or less pretty.
Which also happens.
It’s not that I’m not used to people staring at me like she is, because I am. Just not on my doorstep, and I figured it would take the public a lot longer to find me here.
“Hello?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous or too standoffish, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Hiii,” she draws out, pulling down the hood of her rain jacket. “Oh my god. Hel-lo.” She wrestles an enormous bunch of pale pink roses from one hand into the other and tucks a bottle of champagne under her arm. The basket of eggs she’s also holding rattles precariously as she stretches out her free hand. The eggs are all different—some large and brown, some small and white, and a couple are the exact shade of pale blue as the front door. “I’m Clementine Burlington . . . call me Clemmie. I’ve come to welcome you to Valentine Nook.”
My shoulders drop a little. Despite her smile making her look somewhat crazed, Clementine has the face of a person I intuitively know I’ll like.
I have two options.
I can either invite her in to get out of the rain or politely excuse myself and go back to unpacking. However, I’ve rentedthis place for six months—assuming it stops raining—and it occurs to me I’ll need to make friends.
In two days, she’s the first person I’ve spoken to in real life.
Therefore, I take her hand and shake it. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“These are for you. They’re from the Burlington rose garden,” she says in a confident tone like I’m supposed to know what that means as she thrusts them at me. “And these are freshly hatched this morning.” She holds out the eggs.
The roses are incredible. Huge silky petals give off the most intoxicating scent, mingling with the warm, rainy air. It’s the first time I’ve been outside today because opening the window earlier doesn’t count, and despite the damp, it’s glorious.
“Wow, these are awesome. Very thoughtful of you. Thank you . . . um . . . would you like to come in?” I ask, trying to mirror her smile. “I’m Holiday, by the way.”
