Page 97 of Valentine Nook
We are making the most of it.
For two weeks, we’ve been inseparable.
When it’s rained, we’ve stayed in. When it’s been sunny, we’ve ridden out. I am now fully confident back in the saddle, as long as it’s Sunday underneath me and Thunder keeping him focused.
I learned that we’re not morning people even though Lando has to be up early most days. So on the weekends, we sleep late.
When Lando’s worked, I’ve hung with Clemmie, practiced yoga, or jogged alone because she refuses to jog with me.
Pierre finally decided I’d mastered the art of good pastry (my words,nothis), and I’ve graduated to working with chocolate, a subject I’d only previously known how to eat. Somewhere along the way, during the weeks he’s been teaching me, he’s decided I need to learn everything about becoming a pâtissier, whether I want to or not.
I’m on the fence, but I guess, at the very least, I’ll finally have something to contribute to the Fourth of July and Thanksgiving.
Obviously, Lando appointed himself chief taster, a role he’s taken very seriously.
I’ve spent more and more time in Valentine Nook, enough that I’m now on a first-name basis with Claudia from The Beanery, where I begin my days with a coffee because once Lando leaves, I can’t get back to sleep.
Sometimes I sit and eat breakfast on the chairs set on the cobbled street outside, or I’ll perch on the fountain wall and watch the morning pass by. I check my daily report from Ashley, which is getting shorter and shorter, and I try not to think about the day I have to start taking calls again, because it’ll mean I’m no longer in Valentine Nook.
My shoot in Paris looms, and for the first time ever, I’m not looking forward to seeing Marcy.
In the evenings, we have dinner at the different restaurants in Valentine Nook, where it’s become clear how much everyone in the village adores Lando, but none more so than Eddie, who we always stop in and see on the way home.
And while we’ve been seen around the village, and there’s an awareness of Lando and me spending time together, I hadn’t realized how fiercely he was protected until no news sightings were reported of us.
My media update from Ashley started and stopped with the photo outside Claridge’s.
ButI have a feeling that’s all about to change today.
“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, MILO, BACK. WATCH YOUR FUCKING BACK,” Hendricks screams at Miles, thundering down the far side of the polo field.
There’s a lot of yelling. Mostly Hendricks, but also Alex, who both seem to be under the impression Miles can hear them across a space the equivalent size of eight football fields.
“Hen, watch your language,” Clemmie snaps, her hands shooting up to cover Max’s ears.
It doesn’t appear that Max is paying the slightest bit ofattention to his father. He’s far too busy watching his uncle, tiny fists gripped around a pair of binoculars, as he gallops toward the goal with four angry-looking riders chasing him.
I’ve seen Miles in a new light.
Gone is the guy with the permanent smirk and roving eye. He’s been replaced by a serious athlete with focus and dedication, tearing down the field. His face is a mask of determination and control with instincts so sharp he’s nothing short of dangerous.
It happens so quickly I don’t fully understand how, but in a blink, Miles spins his pony around, blocks the ball with his mallet, and slams it between the posts, bringing the score to even.
It feels like I’ve witnessed a Tom Brady touchdown.
Foxleigh Park crowds go wild.
The stand we’re in—the Burlington family stand, which must hold one hundred people—goes even wilder. None more so than Max, who drops the binoculars, jumps up in his chair, and squeals, “WELL FUCKING DONE, UNCLE MILO.”
Hendricks is too busy cheering in excitement to notice his son chanting expletives. Lando turns away so Max doesn’t see him laughing. Alex ruffles his hair, Clemmie rolls her eyes, and I pick up my drink, feeling happier than I have any right to.
The smile on my face has been a permanent fixture for the past two weeks.
Play resumes, and the ponies get back into position. Hendricks sits and scoops Max onto his lap, leans down to where the binoculars landed on the floor, and loops them around his son’s neck.
“Daddy, when can I play like Uncle Miles?”
“When you’ve eaten all your vegetables.”
