Her Mistletoe Bachelor
Author
Carolyn Hector
Reads
16,0K
Chapters
12
Chapter 1
“Donovan, I can’t thank you enough for letting me film this,” said Amelia Marlow Reyes, field producer for Multi-Ethnic Television. “Pieces like this are going to drive the website clicks up the charts.”
Shrugging, Donovan Ravens scratched the back of his head. As CFO of the globally successful Ravens Cosmetics in Miami, he understood why people were interested in the dynasty—the family, though, not him. Donovan ran numbers, approved budgets and attended company functions. These events, it just so happened, took place at fashion shows and photo shoots. With the company celebrating over fifty years in the business, marketing and advertising had changed. This social-media-savvy generation wanted an up-close look at the entire family through their website. It used to be family photos every other year and placed in traditional magazines like Ebony, Essence and Jet. Now the world wanted to meet each member of the family on a daily basis through Instagram, Twitter and reality TV. The updated website for Ravens Cosmetics offered short videos with a candid look into the life of each member of the family. “I guess. There’s not much interesting about my life.”
Amelia swatted him on the shoulder. She didn’t hit as hard as his sisters did, but the blow did sting through the thick blazer of his tan jacket. “Are you kidding me? The world is infatuated with you. You’re the mystery bachelor brother.”
“All right, Amelia,” Donovan chuckled, knowing she was being kind by not calling him a playboy. As much as Donovan resented his celebrity status, he did not let it stop his dating life, and Amelia knew it. “You already got me to agree to this, you don’t have to butter me up.”
Amelia pretended to be shocked and lifted her left hand to her heart. Her diamond wedding band flashed under the hallway lights. Donovan heard she’d gotten married a while back to a great guy named Nate Reyes. Given the smile she’d sported all day, Donovan would have guessed she was a newlywed. Amelia’s large brown eyes stretched wide, her mouth forming a perfect O. “You can’t take a compliment, can you?”
“Let’s be honest, I’m not the average pretty boy like Marcus or Will.” To prove his point about his brothers, Donovan aimed his long index finger toward the scar that ran down his face, from his left eyebrow to his black beard.
Amelia rolled her eyes. “That only adds to your mysteriousness.”
“Whatever,” Donovan mumbled before handing over the keys to his two-story condo to Amelia’s film crew.
A bulky man with a camera strapped to his shoulders entered the foyer. Another crew member, a woman, carrying a long stick with a furry thing at the end—a boom—followed. Amelia filled the delay with chatter about the next step of filming. Some dude named Vickers tried to contradict everything Amelia said, seemingly pissed off she was there.
Donovan shrugged, still not caring what the old man wanted. Amelia was a friend of the family and the only person he’d agreed to work with on this ridiculous spotlight his sisters, Dana and Eva, thought would be good for the company. The plan was for every member registered to the RC website to gain access to the family via day-in-the-life videos of each one of them. The new line of men’s lotions and shaving creams needed to be promoted, and what better way for product placement than in the home of a family member who was also an executive at the company?
“It is tedious. I understand. But to pick up seamlessly from earlier, we need to get your full facial expression as you come inside,” Amelia explained.
Someone inside his apartment knocked on the door.
“Wait,” said Vickers, “your girlfriend is in there, right?”
The term girlfriend made him queasy—flavor of the month, sure. They’d dated on and off again with no commitment in sight. Tracy needed a place to crash while her apartment was being painted. She knew the camera crew planned to be here this morning but she swore she’d be gone. Since they dated more on than off and he allowed her to stay at his place unsupervised, he shrugged his shoulders, acknowledging the G word might be appropriate. “I guess,” Donovan mumbled.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if you were to propose to her on camera?”
Fusing his brows together, Donovan took a step back. “Hell no. Amelia?”
Amelia wedged herself between the producer and Donovan. “We agreed—no staged surprises,” she said to Vickers.
The dark brown–skinned man adjusted the gold-wired glasses on his face. “Think of the ratings.”
“Think about me walking away from this project right now,” said Donovan. He took a step back but Amelia turned to face him and grabbed him by the front of his pin-striped Oxford shirt.
“You’re not going anywhere, Donovan,” she said then turned her attention to the other man. “We’re not pulling any surprises. Vickers,” she snapped. “Didn’t you do your research? The women in his life never make it to girlfriend status. He’s only been with Tracy for, like, two months or so.”
Six weeks, Donovan mentally corrected her. Once more than a month had gone by without Tracy asking for a spot in a fashion show or a photo shoot in a magazine or asking about getting involved in the family business, Donovan had allowed her to spend the night with him there. Typically, after an evening together, he made sure to send a woman in a waiting limousine filled with roses without a promise of a second date. The D word. Donovan did not take women out to fancy restaurants but rather met them out and about. He avoided being photographed as well as being seen with the same woman twice. Better to end things with them sooner than later once they realized that they didn’t want to be tied down to a scarred monster.
When Donovan first received his permit at sixteen, he made a foolish mistake trying to avoid an object in the road and ended up overturning his car. He was fortunate to walk away alive, but his head hit the driver’s side window, shattering the glass, and then his face slammed into the steering wheel, leaving him with a gruesome scar down the left side of his face. Donovan scratched his face and recalled the first time a girl he liked had told him the truth. No one would ever want to wake up to a face like his every day. Once, on a blind date, he’d overheard a woman complain to her friend for setting her up with Scar but then console herself with the idea of getting access to the Ravens fortune if she became pregnant. Donovan knew he’d never trust that a woman would want him for him, not his family’s fortune. Knowing he was a Ravens, women still threw themselves at him. Who was he to turn them down?
So maybe women didn’t want to see his scarred face every day, but as he got older and more serious about the family business, women aggressively pursued him. Usually they wanted a modeling job at Ravens Cosmetics, an office position or the chance to marry into the family. He was well aware of the fact that being seen with him brought notoriety and other modeling competitors. The way he saw things, it was a win-win situation.
And then came Tracy. They’d met at a fashion show. She’d walked in with her own fan club. She hadn’t wanted Donovan for what he could give her and had even turned down the opportunity to participate in this MET reality special. After four weeks of dating, he guessed she sounded like a winner to him. Last Friday when Donovan had flown out to Michigan for business, he’d allowed Tracy the chance to stay at his place alone. The weekend had been the first step in trust...not something worthy of a proposal. If she passed this step, Donovan planned on getting out of the city with her for the upcoming holiday week.
One of the guys who’d entered the condo before him cracked the door open and asked to speak to Amelia.
Vickers pulled Amelia back by the corner of her blazer. “Let’s not forget,” he warned in a low voice, “I am the on-site producer here. When this assignment is over, you’ll go back to Southwood.”
Not liking it, Donovan stepped forward and wagged his index finger in warning at the man.
Amelia shrugged off Vickers’s touch, stepped back and shook her head at Donovan as the other producer disappeared inside. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Why do you put up with him?” Donovan asked. “Does Christopher know how he treats employees?”
Christopher Kelly, his close friend and scion of the Kelly political dynasty of Miami, had opted to invest in the entertainment world with Multi-Ethnic Television, opening his high-rise building to MET and several other successful businesses in Miami. They had bonded over being offspring of famous parents. And Donovan knew Christopher would not appreciate this behavior.
“Leave it alone,” said Amelia with a shake of her head.
The door cracked open again. This time a hand reached out with a thumbs-up. Amelia patted Donovan on the back and nodded to the cameraman behind them. “Now, you open your door and the film crew will start rolling from there. We’ll edit it later and splice it into a smooth cut.”
Still not knowing all the terms, Donovan crossed the threshold of his place. He’d already been told to ignore the camera and just act natural. “Natural” meant he ripped off his monkey suit and strolled around his apartment in his boxer briefs, but this was not that kind of show. Donovan set his keys on the half table by the door and headed up the curved stairway to his bedroom. One cameraman walked backward, filming him from the front. What happened to the other guy who’d come in first? Weren’t there a total of three of them?
Thighs burning from taking two steps at a time, Donovan made a mental note never to skip leg day again. Employees of Ravens Cosmetics took advantage of the gym around the corner of the building. He needed to do so again. The door to Donovan’s bedroom was slightly ajar. He heard whispers inside. Was Tracy awake? Did the cameramen wake her?
Pushing the door open farther, Donovan’s eyes adjusted to the bright sunshine creeping in from the balcony. His foot hit a bottle and then a pile of clothing. He shook his head at the mess his housekeeper was going to have to clean, then let his eyes wander to a hairy leg poking out of the comforter. The movement in the bedroom didn’t disturb the sleeping couple in his bed. Tracy rolled over and wrapped her legs around her partner. The fact Tracy slept with another man did not bother Donovan. His disappointment in himself for beginning to think he could trust someone did. The audacity of her bringing this dude to his place: sheer disrespect. Donovan balled up his fists to keep from flipping them off the mattress.
Whelp, so much for those holiday getaway plans, Donovan thought to himself. Relationships were not in his future.
* * *
British Carres flipped her agenda page for the next item up for discussion and her heart jolted. Finally! The Southwood School Advisory Council was going to acknowledge the growing need to fund Science, Technology, Engineering and Math for Girls Raised in the South—STEM for GRITS, an after-school program she spearheaded, involving twenty-plus girls attending Southwood Middle School. Her new robotics group received the hand-me-downs from the boys and it was time for a change. The male robotics team monopolized the lab Mondays through Thursdays, giving British’s team only one day in the lab for experiments. The local community collected money currently to distribute to the students in need and after they were all taken care of, a nice pot was up for grabs. Since the language arts, social studies and math departments received a bonus a few years ago, the sciences were next in line. As one of the lower level science teachers at Southwood Middle School, British felt like she had to work twice as hard, putting her degree in chemistry and science from Florida A&M University to good use. STEM for GRITS deserved some of the funds available.
The gray tables in the basement of city hall had been set up in a square so that all the committee members of the school board could read each other’s faces. This was the biggest challenge of all. She needed to channel her inner beauty queen and learn to compose her face.
Seated across from her was the thorn in her side, the director of the science department. Dr. Cam Beasley was a “good ole boy” who felt the best place for a woman was in the kitchen. The man loved to point out that British had taken a job as the home economics teacher when she’d first started out, further proving her point of the need for the science club for girls. Cam often forgot science was in everything taught in home ec. British had endured the sexism in the field while attending college. She hated the idea that a new batch of budding scientists could be being held back by some lab-coat-wearing, chauvinistic pig.
Whatever, she thought and looked back down at her paperwork before Cam made eye contact and tried to smile. She feared she wouldn’t be able to offer a friendly response. British fiddled with a section of the two-page document where the silver staple bound the papers. Her portion of tonight’s discussion was the last on the agenda before they took off for the Thanksgiving break. The bonus money would pay for accommodations, travel and supplies if the STEM for GRITS attended the district science fair, where they’d compete against several schools in Southern Georgia.
“You’re not going to get anywhere if you’re frowning like that.”
Looking up, British watched her teacher’s aide, Kimber Reyes, pull out the empty black-metal folding chair beside her and take a seat. “Hey, we’re just about to start back up.”
“Convenient,” Kimber said, shaking her head. “I saw Cam run outside to put the top up on his convertible. He’s more afraid of getting the car wet than his dreadlock extensions.”
As a former beauty queen, British recognized false hair. She never judged anyone for their hair accessories, but Cam tempted her to start. He looked ridiculous with an extra piece of hair covering the spot where his heavy dreads exposed his bald spot. Though British laughed at Kimber’s sarcasm, a feeling of dread came over her. Across the square, Cam huddled with the principal and the superintendent.
A feeling of doom washed over British the moment the superintendent, Herbert Locke, greeted Cam with a pat on the back and whispered something in the science director’s ear. The two bent over in laughter of the slap-happy-inside-joke kind. Of course these two were buddies. They probably just made arrangements to visit each other’s hunting camps, considering deer season was about to kick off. British needed these funds and she had to get the board to recognize it.
“All right, if we can finish up here,” the president of the Southwood School Advisory Committee said, clearing her throat. “I am sure we would all like to get home and start cooking for the Thanksgiving holiday before this storm breaks and leaves us high and dry.”
As if on cue a crack of lightning lit up the rectangular windows of the conference room. Everyone groaned.
“Excuse me,” British said, standing as others began to gather their belongings. “I believe we missed my part of the agenda.” She was never one to bite her tongue and she wasn’t going to start now.
Someone sighed in annoyance.
Two of the high school teachers plopped their purses back on the table.
“Sorry to take five minutes out of your evening, but this has been put off long enough and now that we have Superintendent Locke here—”
“You’re already two minutes into your time, Home Ec,” Cam interrupted and chuckled.
British’s upper lip curled, hearing the nickname; she twisted the pear-shaped diamond engagement ring she still wore on her finger. Bravery ignited, she cleared her throat. “I don’t see how laughing about STEM for GRITS is funny.” But as she said the words the rest of the advisory board laughed. Heat filled her cheeks, reminding her of the time when she realized she loved science and the science fairs. She’d been so excited the year she was old enough to make an exploding volcano that she practically ran over to join the boys. Her ears still rang from the laughter of the class when the boys told her she could only clean up after them and handed her a broom. None of her girlfriends, friends who didn’t grasp the science behind creating their own lip-gloss flavors, wanted to speak up in fear of how the boys would respond. British knew then there needed to be a better support group for girls.
“Why do you think your girls deserve the bonus funding when we already have a legitimate robotics team that can use the funding?” Cam asked, elbowing the superintendent.
“Because the boys on the robotics team are either distracted by the girls or they’re not inclusive.”
Locke raised his hands in the air. “Which is it?”
Cam spoke first. “Maybe if your girls dressed—”
The women who’d slammed their purses down gasped at the absurdity.
“The trends these days...” Cam sputtered and tried to recover. “Look, when I was growing up, girls had to cover up and wear long skirts. Shirts were damn near turtlenecks. Nowadays they’re wearing basically neon signs for boys to look.”
“How ’bout you teach your boys to not stare?” British tapped her paperwork with her pink-polished nails. Maybe today was not the greatest day to wear this cotton-candy color. “May we please focus on the agenda?”
And then the weather spoke for her. A loud boom cracked outside on the lawn; the lights flickered and the air went off. Ear-piercing silence filled the room. Once everyone registered what had happened, they began talking at once.
British could feel her funding being pushed to the next meeting. “Before this meeting adjourns, can we please vote to approve who gets the donation from the city? Maybe the Christmas Advisory Council can weigh in on the matter?”
Miss McDonald, the school’s librarian and the parliamentarian of the council, banged her gavel at her end of the table and commanded order just as she did in the library.
“What?” British asked. “We’re not going to meet next month and, before the year ends, there’s a chance my girls can make it to the Four Points STEM contest. It is imperative to nurture young girls at this impressionable age. We need to continue to encourage their creative minds in science and math, as well as everything else. We need more geochemists like Ashanti Johnson, zoologists like Lillian Burwell Lewis and, of course mathematicians like Katherine Johnson. Is the school willing to sponsor both teams?”
As British spoke she recognized the eye-rolls. She was losing her audience. Everyone wanted to get home. They wanted to be with their families. For the first time this year, the schools planned to be closed the entire week of Thanksgiving instead of the last three days of the week, which was fine, British guessed. She tried to avoid her family this time of year.
“Why didn’t you put in your request sooner?” the treasurer asked, flipping through a black binder. “I see no notes here.”
“Strange.” British glared across at Cam. She twisted her wedding ring round her finger for confidence. “I could have sworn I had submitted it at least every other week since the beginning of the semester, once I heard about the extra funding. Actually, I gave it to you again before the school day started.”
Cam shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I handed in another proposal a week ago.” British’s nails scratched at the top of the table. Kimber patted her on the back, easing her down.
“Last week, when my football player got hurt during practice?” Cam asked and laughed. “I apologize if taking a student to the ER trumped filing your request.”
British’s eyes narrowed on the director. “I’m ten seconds away from filing a complaint.”
The superintendent stood. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carres, with limited funding, my hands are tied here. Only one program in the school applied for the bonus.”
Kimber spoke up. “What about an after-school group?”
The lights flickered once again and gave everyone a glimpse of intrigue on the superintendent’s face. “You have an after-school group? I don’t recall a budget for one.” He looked over at the principal of Southwood Middle School.
“Mrs. Carres uses the recreation center located directly off the school,” Principal Terrence advised, beaming. He offered a wink in British’s direction.
“All of its members are from the school?” Herbert Locke asked British.
British nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Who funds this project?”
“I do,” admitted British. A lump formed in her throat. When her husband, Christian Carres, died five years ago due to complications from a car accident, he’d left her a lump sum of money. There was nothing she’d wanted more than to help the girls of Southwood, Georgia, so she’d poured the money Christian left her into equipment, safety features, you name it.
“Interesting.” Herbert stroked the patch of red hair growing on his chin.
“You’re not seriously contemplating her request?” Cam squawked.
“If Mrs. Carres turned in her paperwork and you failed to turn it in—” the superintendent went on “—I don’t feel comfortable not supporting them.”
“But my robotics team,” Cam said through gritted teeth. “We already made plans. I’ve seen the competition from Black Wolf Creek and Peachville. We’ve got this in the bag.”
“And how do you know?” asked Coach Farmer. He rose from his seat. The hem of his white pullover shirt acted like a hammock for his protruding belly, which lapped the waistband of his red shorts. He spoke in American Sign Language, which he’d initially learned to communicate with the quarterback. For practice and perfection, he always signed now. “Are you spying on the competition?”
Cam sputtered. His bright face reddened. “Competition? What competition?”
Whispers of doubt spread among the committee. British loved to argue her point but if she stood here and let Cam explain himself, she didn’t have to say a word.
“So you’re not worried about them,” baited British, “but you’re worried about my girls?”
“Stop trying to make me out to be some sexist, Home Ec.”
“Hold on, now,” said one of the high school science teachers. “We have a couple of STEM and robotics teams at Southwood High that stepped back for the middle school to receive the funding, but if we’re opening the door, we don’t mind stepping up to the plate at the competition.”
A disgruntled conversation began. All the science teachers, including at the elementary level, wanted a shot to go to Districts.
“All right. All right.” Herbert motioned for everyone to settle down. “I have one pot of money—we can split it evenly or winner takes all.”
“Winner takes all,” British and Cam chorused.
“Sounds like we have a Southwood competition.” Herbert clapped his hands together. “Two weeks from tonight. That will give everyone enough time to enjoy the Thanksgiving break, have time to spend with their families and then get back to the labs and find something interesting to entertain the Christmas Advisory Council. We’ll let them decide the winner. Half of the group is made up of organizers for the school drive, and they may just want to have the CAC do this every year if there’s leftover funds.”
Thunder rumbled outside at his final words. The school district board members gathered their belongings and attempted to file out the double doors in an orderly fashion. British lingered behind the glass doors of city hall, Kimber keeping her company.
“Don’t you guys need to get on the road and head for Villa San Juan?”
“Yeah, Nate and Stephen already left with their families,” said Kimber. “I wanted to come out and support you.”
British linked her arm through the younger girl’s. They locked elbows and began walking out the double doors. Rain pelted the brick walkway. “Did you bring your umbrella?”
“Of course not.” Kimber laughed. “But I love walking in the rain.”
“I can give you a ride, Kimber.”
Kimber tugged on British’s arm. “Key word being love, as in the fact I enjoy it,” she giggled.
Cars began leaving the parking lot. Rain fell harder before their wipers could wipe it away. British sighed and glanced at the dark sky. Not even a single star in sight. “You think anyone would notice if I slept here?”
“You can come over and stay at my place tonight,” Kimber offered. “I have a nice bottle of wine we can try out.”
When British came to Southwood to work as an aide, she did so at Southwood High School, four years after graduating from there herself. She’d been the youngest aide so far and she’d found it hard to gain the respect of the students, until popular Kimber Reyes had spoken up and vouched for her. Five years later she was here with the same girl, who was all grown up. Well, almost.
British shook her head. “No, thanks. I don’t like the idea of drinking alcohol with you.”
“I am almost twenty-one and it’s nonalcoholic.”
“Fake wine,” British said with a frown. “I can’t drink fake wine with you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” asked Kimber. “C’mon, we can go across the street and get drinks. Hot cocoa.”
Across the street, the red lights of a sports bar flashed in the evening light. Sprinkles of rain blew through, dampening the front of British’s pale pink shirt. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was to spend the evening in a bar with half-drunk men hitting on her because of her suddenly thin wet T-shirt and lacy bra. She missed simpler times when Christian met her during a rainstorm with an umbrella. Funny, she thought with a soft smile, how the memory of him made her feel safe. “No, I’m going to brave the weather.”
The committee members had all pulled out of their spots, the twin streetlights brightening the empty parking spaces. Kimber craned her neck. “Where did you park?”
British lifted her hand and pointed adjacent to city hall. “I have been parked by the rec center all day. I came straight here after everyone left to go home.”
Lightning struck across the high school’s football field, illuminating the twin field goal posts. How many Friday nights during junior and senior years had she spent watching Southwood High’s game-winning field goals take place over there? Too many to count. British half smiled and shook the fond memory away.
The rain lifted enough so they didn’t have to shout between one other.
“You ought to get going,” British urged Kimber. “I’m going to try to make a break for—”
The words died at a loud crack. A clear, sharp, lightning bolt lit the dark sky right over the rec center. A transformer blew, sparks doing their best imitation of Fourth of July fireworks, and two seconds later, regardless of the downpour of rain, a fire broke out.
“Did that seriously just happen?”
Neither of the ladies moved. They both clung to each other. The building went up in smoke, much like British’s dreams.
* * *
Sunday morning, British found herself seated on a bicycle just outside the gates of the Magnolia Palace hotel. She’d been here before, competing in a few pageants when the roof on Southwood’s theater had leaked. There was something to be said about the old structures of her hometown. British inhaled deeply with pride, as if she had a connection with the building.
The fire at the rec center hadn’t just ruined an after-school hangout but also displaced a few of the neighbors next to the building, homes of the girls who were part of British’s STEM for GRITS.
Ramon Torres, owner of Magnolia Palace, had graciously offered up rooms at the boutique hotel for them to stay until their homes were fixed. The mayor-elect had recently won the hearts of the town but, more important, British’s close friend Kenzie Swayne’s, too. The two had married last summer.
British understood there was only one guest booked for the Thanksgiving week. More than likely, the man wanted his peace and quiet over the break and having a group of teenagers running through the hallways was not the ideal vacation. British wanted to soften the blow. The phone inside the pocket of her gray hoodie began to ring. British hopped off her bike seat to answer it, her pink fingernail sliding across the screen.
Kimber’s face appeared bright and cheerful, as usual. “Hey, my app says you’re at my uncle’s place.”
“That’s just creepy.”
“Creepy is having to get the girls together in some back alley looking for cans to collect for that STEM steamboat experiment in order to impress the judges,” said Kimber. “You’re standing outside the door waiting to ring the bell, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Uncle Ramon gave you permission to also use the hotel’s facilities so the girls can have space to work and concentrate without interruption. You don’t have to explain that to the other guest. I’ve texted you the code to the gate—only guests and employees have the info. The doors lock after midnight until someone is up and unlocks them or, great idea, a person with the code uses it.”
“I hear you,” British said with a half smile, “but I get what it’s like to want to be left alone. I just want to explain to the man, maybe even prepare him.”
Kimber huffed. “Whatever.”
“He’s a paying customer.”
“Whoever he is—” Kimber rolled her eyes “—he’ll get over it. What did he expect when he came to a hotel?” Someone in the background called her name.
Kimber looked over her shoulder and said something in Spanish. “All right, Brit, I got to get going, but I want to make sure you’re okay. I know the place is working with a skeleton crew since there’s only one guest booked.”
And here British was, about to interrupt this person’s day. Forcing a smile onto her face, British smoothed back the stray hairs that had come loose. “Thanks, Kimber. I’ll keep you updated.”
With that, the call disconnected and British inhaled the fall air. Finally, the rain had stopped. The last of the hurricane season rains brought in the cooler weather. Somewhere off in the distance someone was building a fire. British imagined a group of kids seated around the campfire, fluffy, fat marshmallows dangling from long branches and twigs, taunting the flames. One of the things British hated about living in an apartment. She couldn’t randomly make a traditional s’more.
Of course, she could head out to the country, to her parents’, for one, but that would end up with everyone fawning all over her. This time of year was difficult. The cooler weather meant hunting season and the memory of losing Christian earlier than she had ever expected. He was born with an enlarged heart, and no one had thought Christian would make it to his first birthday. He’d defied the odds, making it to twenty-three only to have a deer dart out onto County Road 17. British gulped down her bitter sadness. Given Christian’s congenital heart problem, the trauma had been too much. He’d survived the accident long enough to make a final joke about the irony and to assure British he loved her.
British cleared her throat and regained her bearings. She needed to secure the place for the girls. The children she and Christian never had the chance to have.
Bound with confidence from Kimber, British punched in the code to the gates and waltzed down the magnolia-lined path toward the old plantation-style home once owned by the Swayne family, now turned into a boutique hotel. Kenzie Swayne’s—British’s Tiara Squad gal pal—marriage to Ramon Torres right at the end of the summer had brought the home back into the family.
As children, everyone used to hang out here and swim in the lake behind the house. Ah, the memories, British thought to herself. The tires of her bicycle crunched on the fallen thick leaves of the magnolias. A wind howled through the tall trees and a shadow formed over the hotel.
“Time to face the dragons,” she said to herself. British parked her bike on the bottom step before grabbing the brown wicker basket filled with an assortment of cupcakes from the local bakery responsible for the extra curves on her hips. A couple of fall treats like the Cupcakery’s salted caramel pecan, stuffed spice apple, pumpkin swirl latte and the infamous Death-by-Chocolate cupcake always eased loneliness. And British knew that firsthand.
She took a deep breath, headed up the steps and reached for the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She remembered that the skeleton crew might not be working just yet.
Setting the wicker basket at her feet, British peered through one of the glass panels to the side of the red door as she pressed the doorbell. A chime set off across the polished hardwood floors of the lobby. The check-in station stood empty, the green lamp dark. Then she caught a glimpse of her reflection. She looked a mess in her bunched-up sweatshirt. How was she going to ask some stranger if he would mind her girls staying here during his vacation?
Fingers grasping the hem of the material, she pulled it over her head, but the hoodie locked around the thick ponytail at the back of her head. Groaning, she bent over and gave it a tug, slipping on one of the magnolia leaves scattered on the porch with the last breeze. Her left ankle hit the basket and, to catch herself, she stepped forward and walked straight into the door.
“Sonofabitch,” she hissed.
As the door latch clicked from the inside, British’s hands locked in their sleeves. The door opened halfway, revealing a square, masculine jawline of a man. Thing was, it wasn’t just any man. One jet-black brow arched in wonder while his full lips, surrounded by a close black beard, twisted upward with amusement. The muscle in his biceps twitched and emphasized the definition, making him appear as if a sculpted African god. Chiseled from copper and mahogany wood. The door covered half his face and body, but the exposed parts left her something that hadn’t happened in a long time...speechless.
