Page 64 of Valentine Nook
Last night was spent at dinner catching up with friends who are in town filming. This morning, I was pampered from head to toe in the spa before my meeting with Marcy, and this evening, I’m supposed to be catching a show in the West End, but as soon as we wrap up, I’m calling time on London and heading straight back to Bluebell Cottage.
“Okay, honey. I gotta go. I need to get this finalized and sent over to the lawyers before a call with the West Coast. Expect me to confirm the schedule by the end of the week —”
I stand as Marcy gathers everything up—papers, pen, phone, laptop, you name it—and shoves it in her bag, which must now weigh ten pounds.
“Thanks, Marce. I appreciate you,” I tell her, giving her a hug.
“Yeah, yeah. And once I’m done with this, we can discuss what you’re working on next. You’ve only got a couple of months until we have to ramp things up before the junkets in November and then . . .”
God, even listening to her makes my brain ache.
It sets off a swirl of unease that sits right in my chest. Allthat relaxation from my morning massage lasted about thirty minutes.
“But I’ll see you in Paris.” She squeezes me hard, waves goodbye, and powers toward the elevators.
A million miles an hour is the speed at which she runs. There’s nothing else.
It’s what’s made her one of the most successful agents in the business. But it’s what’s going to kill me if I’m not careful.
Slumping back in my chair, I drain the rest of the champagne in my glass, knock back the espresso the server brought over, and ask for the check.
My eyes are closing when my nose catches a scent that has my heart beating fast. I’m too tired to compute why my body is on high alert until he’s standing in front of me.
It’s not the server.
My tiredness is forgotten.
It takes me far longer than it should to realize it’s him. And it’s not because we’re in the Claridge’s tearoom instead of a field, it’s because he lookscompletely different.
Over the past month, there may have been an occasion or two when I wondered what Lando would look like in a suit accompanying me on the red carpet. Sophisticated, I assumed, because what guy doesn’t look good in a custom suit?
I was way off.
Some guys look good in a suit, and some guys make the suit look better.
Lando is the latter.
Dark navy slacks, a cream button-down cut exactly to his body, wide shoulders, narrow waist. The jacket’s hanging off his finger, and I notice the cufflinks have the same emblem as his pinkie ring, the one Clemmie also has.
His beard, which was thick only a few days ago, has been trimmed down to long stubble, enough that I can see the dimples pulling at his cheeks.
But as mouthwatering as he looks, it feels all wrong. I can’t see this guy galloping over the fields on Thunder or birthing a calf.
Yet I can’t look away.
“I thought that was you.”
His deep baritone reverberates over my skin. If I hadn’t already woken up, that would have done it.
“What are you doing here?”
“I come in for a couple of days every month or so. Investment meetings and so forth.”
Yeah. Investment. That’s exactly how he looks. Like a city guy.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came up yesterday. My agent’s here.”
