Page 8 of Wylder Ranch
“Okay, let’s go.”
We rush outside, and I’m expecting to see his car—a ridiculous red Ferrari—but there’s nothing in the courtyard.
“Where’s your car?”
“At home. I ran.”
“You ran from the pub?”
He nods and checks his watch. “Eight minutes. . . not bad.”
No wonder he was so out of breath. It’s nearly two miles over the fields. I’ve never done it that quickly. “I’m not running back. We’re driving.”
I pull the keys from my pocket only for Miles to snatch them out of my hand. “I’mdriving. You move like an old lady.”
I don’t bother to argue because Miles is back in hishyper-speed mode, and he’s started my Range Rover before I’ve jumped in. I don’t even get the chance to buckle my seat belt before he’s accelerated out of the yard and around the corner at a terrifying speed.
“Miles, slow down,” I say. “I’d like to get there in one piece.”
“Calm down, grandma.”
My knuckles are already white by the time we exit the Burlington Estate onto the country lane heading into Valentine Nook. Miles—much like his driving—runs at a hundred miles an hour, whether that’s on a polo pony, on foot, or behind the wheel. He doesn’t have another speed, and because of his lightning reflexes, he thinks he’s indestructible.
I, however, like things a little slower. Controlled. Thought out.
Especially driving.
I’m not an old lady, as Miles says, but knowing our father died in a car accident will always be in the back of my mind, no matter how much my brothers take the piss out of me.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” I ask, gripping the hand rest as he corners a tight bend.
“Not sure exactly. Clemmie’s there now, trying to get the lowdown.”
“Where’s Lando?”
“On the plane heading to LA.”
My entire body twists around, and I forget we’re hurtling along the road. How long was I in my meeting?
“Lando’s going to LA?”
“Yes, that’s what I said. He’s going to getHoliday back.”
“When did this happen?”
“About an hour ago.”
I turn back to the windscreen, squeezing my eyes closed as Miles maneuvers around a tractor, right before the lane narrows even farther and we pass Bluebell Cottage, next door to Miles’s place. We only have another half a mile before we reach the bridge by the Valentine Nook fountain, and we’ll have made it alive.
“Which pub are we going to?” I ask because there are two in Valentine Nook, situated at opposite ends of High Street.
“One True Love,” he replies, screeching to a halt by the doors.
Miles jumps out, not bothering to wait for me. I’m scrambling to catch up with him, wondering what I’ll find when I walk in. Adrenaline from the drive over floods my veins enough that there’s no room for nerves.
But when I walk through the doors, my stomach drops.
Holy shit.
