Wylder Ranch (The Valentine Nook Chronicles #2)

Prologue

ALEXANDER

TEN MONTHS AGO

Aglass of champagne I didn’t ask for is placed on the table in front of me.

When I glance up, a server is smiling at me through a set of full, glossy red lips.

It’s one of those smiles that could end with the pair of us in a broom closet—the sort of behavior Miles would approve of.

But instead of taking her up on the less-than-subtle offer, I thank her for the drink and turn back to the window to watch planes leave one by one.

Snow is piled up on either side of the runways. The twinkling lights of the Christmas trees reflect in the glass—an unnecessary reminder that it’s the time of year I try to avoid at all costs.

The one saving grace of the first class lounge is that it’s not playing Christmas music like the rest of Denver Airport. Here, it’s calming classical music, which is bearable. I’d even take Slipknot over another rendition of Mariah Carey screeching at full volume about whatever she wants.

The thought has me chuckling to myself as my brain jogs with the memory of the last time I complained about Christmas music—and was offered Slipknot instead. It feels like forever ago, and not the seven days it’s actually been.

For the first time since my brothers and I left for America, I’m on my own.

Between distracting Lando from his near-miss wedding and meeting Haven, the festive season has almost breezed past me.

Christmas hasn’t felt as acute as usual.

Or I haven’t noticed it quite so much, because I’ve been too busy to languish in my typical vortex of despair.

Now everyone’s gone, and I’m sitting alone with my thoughts. The festive cheer is hitting me ten times harder.

I hate Christmas.

Heaviness drags in my chest, as the miserable memories this time of year brings overwhelm me. I’d cut my left arm off right now if I could. Anything for a distraction.

My phone taunts me from the table, where it sits next to my untouched glass.

Christmas isn’t the only thing I need a distraction from, but in this instance, it’s not because I don’t want to remember. It’s because I can’t get enough.

I’m too weak to play it cool any longer. She didn’t pick up the first time. Therefore, logic dictates I can totally deny making a call before this one.

“You’ve reached Haven at Wylder Trees. I’m too busy to come to the phone right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Merry Christmas.”

The bubble of hope I had pops like the fizz of champagne as it reaches the surface, and I end the call instead of leaving a voicemail.

How could I have been so fucking stupid? Why didn’t I get her cell number?

I want to message and tell her what an incredible week I’ve had with her. That I can’t stop thinking about her. How I can’t wait to see her again, and I don’t want to wait. Certainly not the year we agreed.

It took thirty seconds of being out of her sight for me to understand a year was far too fucking long.

Another thirty seconds for me to realize we never swapped numbers.

I’ve never used my initiative faster. I knew where she lived and where she worked, and after a quick Google search, I found the number of her store.

For the length of my flight from Aspen to Denver, I stared at my phone screen and wondered if I was about to do something stupid.

The jury’s still out, but I know I’m not going to spew my feelings out loud on her store answering machine that anyone could listen to, assuming she’s in there serving her customers.

Or perhaps she’s not picking up the phone because she’s where I left her, on the sofa, sleeping off our week of incredible fucking.

My groin stirs at the memory. It’s been four hours since we said goodbye, and from the moment the gates of the house closed behind me and the car drove away, I haven’t stopped thinking about Haven Wylder.

I wish I didn’t have to leave.

I would have stayed, but tomorrow is the anniversary of my father’s death, and I always spend it with my mother and siblings.

Fucking Christmas.

It’s probably for the best that she didn’t pick up.

Living five thousand miles apart isn’t exactly a good starting point for dating.

I struggle with relationships when the distance is only the hundred miles between Valentine Nook and London.

My role in the family business requires me to travel all over the world, and I’m rarely in one place long enough to catch up on jet lag, let alone find time for a hookup.

And that’s how I like my life. Structured and busy.

But a tiny voice in my head tells me that I’d give it the best shot where Haven Wylder was concerned.

From the moment we met at the jukebox, I’ve been under her spell. As much as I might want to convince myself otherwise, she was more than a hookup during an intense week where I did my best to bury my feelings about this particular time of year.

Haven is the first person who’s understood how I felt. Someone who didn’t judge me when I told her why I hated Christmas. That losing my dad was a weight I would always bear, no matter how many times I was told it wasn’t my fault.

Haven had also lost her parents, but she chose to celebrate them instead of wallowing in self-pity. In the time since their passing, she’d almost worked herself into the ground to keep their legacy alive and their business afloat, and there wasn’t a part of her that resented them for it.

Haven and I are opposite sides of the same coin, brought together by a mutual loss.

My sister, Clementine, would call it fate.

But it’s hard to find the positive when you’re consumed by a decades-old guilt that you inadvertently caused your father’s death.

If it hadn’t been for me, my mother would still have a husband, and my younger siblings would have grown up with a dad instead of remembering him through photographs sitting on shelves.

But my melancholy is interrupted by a reflection in the glass, and I turn to find the same server making her way over to me.

“Lord Burlington, your flight will be open for pre-boarding in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you,” I reply with a smile and a nod. Genial, but not enough to make her think I’m interested in a quickie before my flight.

The untouched glass of champagne fizzes away as I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and walk out of the British Airways lounge into a terminal teeming with people.

Couples ready to spend the holidays together. Families heading off for Christmas ski trips. Loved ones.

Christmas trees. Decorations. Music.

I’m lucky I haven’t broken out in hives by the time I reach the gate and hand over my passport to the airline steward to scan with my boarding pass.

“We hope you enjoyed your time in the United States. Come back and visit soon.”

Taking my documents back, I manage a smile and walk through the gates. “That’s the plan.”

In front of me is a vaguely familiar guy dressed all in black and wearing sunglasses, and I follow him onto the plane, where I’m guided to seat 1A.

Easing my bag into the overhead locker, I settle in for the long haul.

Somewhere in the distance, a baby is crying, and I thank God I’m sitting up front.

It appears to be child-free, though I’m exhausted enough that I’ll crash out the second we’re wheels up.

I rarely fly commercial, and I had forgotten how long it takes between boarding and takeoff, while you wait for the plane to fill with the rest of the passengers.

It’s a minimum of thirty minutes of restless energy you need to expel when you could already be on your way.

Sunglasses guy sitting across the aisle from me has the right idea, ordering a double whiskey from the steward, so I do the same.

I fall back into distraction mode, flicking through the movies available and pretending to check the menu for dinner, but I barely pay attention. I’m too fidgety, and I can’t stop thinking about Haven. It doesn’t help that I can still smell her on my skin, like she’s buried herself under it.

The smooth metal of my phone slips between my fingers as I turn it over and over. The air steward has been by twice to check I’m okay and see if there’s anything else I need, but by my calculation, we’re still fifteen minutes out before the doors are shut.

That’s fifteen minutes of self-torture to endure. Fifteen minutes I need to fill. Sunglasses guy has replaced his eyewear with a sleep mask.

I glance down at my phone when it vibrates, for a split second forgetting Haven can’t message me because she doesn’t have my number, and my heart splutters and sinks.

LANDO: It’s your lucky day, I’ll collect you from Heathrow in the morning. Have a good flight.

ALEX: I’m honored, Your Grace.

I stare at the screen in my hand while my brain and heart war with each other over what I should do.

I’ve called her twice.

Perhaps the third time will be a charm.

I can’t help it. My heart wins out. I try Haven one last time, only to have the same voicemail pick up.

Fuck it.

“Hey, Haven. It’s me . . . Alex. This is . . . um . . . I know we said we’d meet in a year . . . call me crazy, but I can’t wait that long. I was thinking . . . how are you fixed for New Year’s Eve?”

I don’t even know where that came from. But I can’t take it back now. And honestly, I couldn’t think of anything I’d like to do more than spend New Year’s Eve with Haven Wylder.

In the end, after the world’s longest pause, I decide to finish the message by reciting my phone number.

With any luck, she’ll have returned my call by the time I’ve landed.