Page 65 of Valentine Nook
Lando glances at the chair Marcy vacated. “Ah, the contract.”
I nod. I’m still positively speechless. I want to ask him to sit down and join me for a drink, but I’m staring at him too hard to remember the words I need to form.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you in Valentine Nook,” he says when it becomes clear I’m mute.
“You’re leaving?”
He pauses, his hand on the back of Marcy’s chair. “Yes. You?”
“I’m leaving too . . . for Valentine Nook.”
“How are you getting there?”
“I have a car service.”
Lando’s face splits with a smile that almost has me melting. “Well, now I’m even happier that I bumped into you. If you cancel the car, I’ll drive us both.”
I snatch the check from the server as he hands it over, and I can’t sign it quickly enough. “I have to collect my things. Can you give me twenty minutes?”
I glance up to find a pair of radiant blue eyes staring at me,edges crinkled in happiness. “Now that I know we’re going home together, I’ll give you as long as you need.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve checked out. Lando’s waiting for me at the hotel lobby while a valet brings his car around.
I expect his muddy Land Rover to pull up, but instead, a sleek Aston Martin arrives. It’s black everywhere—black rims, black chassis, black leather interior.
I’ve never been into cars. I have a Range Rover back in LA, and that’s only because I told Tanner to find me a car that wasn’t too flashy or complicated to drive.
But now I’m wondering if maybe Ishouldget into cars, because just like his suit, Lando makes this car look good. No, Lando makes this car looksexy.
The valet hands the keys to Lando, switching them for a wad of notes. “See you next month, Your Grace. Hope you enjoyed your stay, Miss Simpson.”
“Thanks, Henry. See you soon,” he replies, holding the passenger door open and gesturing me inside. “Hollywood.”
“Whose car is this?”
His head quirks. “Mine. Why?”
I shrug because I don’t even know why I asked, but as I slip into the cool interior, I realize I’m seeing an entirely different side to Lando I never imagined existed. Lando, with his bespoke suit and sexy car, who visits Claridge’s often enough that he’s on a first-name basis with the valet.
The engine roars as we pull away, and my eyes are drawn to his hands around the steering wheel. I’ve seen his forearms dozens of times and watched his fingers thread through the leather of Thunder’s bridle, but now that he’s removed his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves up, there’s a decadence to them.
I can’t stop watching the way they flex.
I’m so engrossed in the movement I don’t realize he’s talking to me.
“How did your meeting go?”
“Good, we went through the contract, and Marcy—she’s my agent—will now redirect all my queries to my lawyer before it goes back to L’Oreal. It takes a while.”
“Yes, because how else would lawyers earn their keep?” he drawls, making me laugh.
“Exactly.”
“But you’re happy with it?” he asks, turning left onto a busy road behind one of London’s red double-decker buses.
Except this one has an ad on the side of it, a Gucci ad featuringmyface from the campaign I shot earlier in the year.
I’m stretched along the length of a dark green velvet couch, wearing nothing more than a bra and panties.
