Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

  “The French women have no problem nursing in public,” he says.

  I glance around. Most of the tables are empty. It’s early.

  I unbutton the front of my dress. Donovan busies himself with the jam and bread, giving me the tiniest bit of privacy. My fantasy of pastries in Paris didn’t involve tussling with an infant in a sling. The only time I’ve nursed him outside of my own home was locked in the office of the Tasty Mango yesterday. It didn’t go well.

  I’ve never done it in public.

  I arrange the sling so I’m not totally out in the open and tilt Rebel toward me. Come on, baby, latch on easily.

  At first, his face screws up in confusion. He’s not used to this position. But his mouth finds the nipple, and soon he’s sucking happily.

  I let out a breath. I did it. I really did it.

  I glance at Donovan. He’s watching the baby, then his gaze moves to my face.

  “That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says.

  My whole body flushes. “I think so, too.”

  Our gazes hold. He’s unbelievable. His eyes are chestnut with flecks of gold, like the night sky dotted with stars. He smiles and his attention returns to Rebel, my swollen breasts, the expanse of skin visible only in his line of sight.

  And something turns in me, a slow shift of feelings. It’s not a hot night or a wild chase, like most of the men I’ve dallied with. And it’s not the aching love I feel for Rebel either.

  It’s something new. Something unexpected.

  And I’m ready to explore it.

  12

  Donovan

  While Havannah and Rebel settle in at the hotel, I make a few calls.

  We don’t have a lot of time in Paris, but I can see by the stars in Havannah’s eyes that she is smitten by the city. And who wouldn’t be? All the times I’ve visited for work, and I am always struck by the city’s beauty and style.

  Havannah wanders into the living room of the suite, this time wearing a pale blue sheath dress that coordinates with the striped sling holding the baby. Her hair is twisted high, sunglasses atop the sleek updo. Her makeup is neutral, other than a dash of eyeliner and long lashes. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine.

  “You will have all the other Parisian mothers positively green with envy at your style. Will you be comfortable enough?”

  She kicks out a leg, showing off her chunky sandals. “I could walk twenty miles in these.”

  “Good. It might feel that way by the end of the day.”

  She picks up the diaper bag from the coffee table. It is out of sync with her chic outfit. I take it from her. “You have enough to lug around.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “Hopefully I have stashed away everything we might need today. Where are we going?”

  “Shopping first. Then lunch. Maybe a bit of sightseeing.”

  “For as long as we hold out,” she says.

  “For as long as we hold out.”

  We head down the elevator. The car is ready for us outside the massive entrance of the hotel. As we drive along the Parisian streets, it’s more entertaining to watch Havannah than the sights. Rebel is back in his bucket seat, and she sits on her knees, turned toward the window, not missing a thing.

  “It’s so much more touristy than I thought it would be!”

  “It’s Paris in the summer.”

  “So many trinket stands everywhere.”

  “We’re in the thick of the best sightseeing. We can escape it and go to more far-flung parts of the city if you like.”

  “Not this time. If I’m only here for a day, I would like to see all the things you think of when Paris comes to mind. And shop!”

  “The stores we’re visiting won’t be very busy with the traditional tourists. They’re too exclusive.”

  She turns to me. “I’m quite sure I won’t be able to afford a thing. But it will be great fun to look.”

  “The day is yours, my dear. Choose what you like on me.”

  Her eyes meet mine for a moment. “I might feel like I’m in debt to you if too much is exchanged.”

  I shrug. “I’m not a man to call in a debt like that. But I do enjoy having people indebted to me. I hope you’ll do me the honor of allowing you to be extremely indebted to me.”

  Her gaze remains on my face for long moments. “I’m not sure about that. But we do have to buy a different diaper bag if you’re going to carry it. It’s unseemly for the head of a dozen huge companies to be wandering around with llamas on his shoulder.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I am happy to carry your llamas. But we can stop at a baby shop first. We can outfit Rebel like a true Parisian child.”

  Her whole face lights up. “Parisian baby store. That sounds so perfect. Let’s do it!” Apparently baby purchases fall outside of personal debt.

  She fairly glows as we continue down the streets. We enter another giant roundabout, and she squeals as usual as the driver maneuvers his way into the circle and back out. “I’ll never get used to that!”

  We arrive at the line of shops I had in mind. As expected, the traffic here is low, and there are no souvenir stands. The clientele is mostly local, and extraordinarily well dressed.

  Havannah observes all this as well. She peers out the window as she moves the sling across her shoulders. “I’m glad I changed. That cotton sundress wouldn’t have cut it here.”

  She turns to the bucket seat, where Rebel is starting to wake up now that the lulling movement of the car has stopped. “Come on, baby boy. Let’s see what we can find for you.”

  The midmorning sunshine has begun to break through the gloom as we wander the sidewalk and peer into shop windows. Havannah keeps one hand on the baby for support, but with the other, she takes mine.

  As I close my fingers over hers, an unfamiliar calm takes over. I’ve certainly never walked the Paris streets with a baby in tow.

  The elegant shoppers glance from me to Havannah, then to her baby with soft smiles. We are the picture of family bliss.

  A space in my chest opens and expands. I never thought an outing such as this would create so much pleasure.

  “Oh,” Havannah breathes, pausing by a shop window. It’s the baby store, and a beautifully designed window display shows off an entire suite of charming outfits, shoes, and coordinated accessories. “Let’s go,” she says.

  I hurry ahead of her and open the door. The store is two stories tall, most of it wide-open space. A young woman approaches, her khaki skirt and blue blouse perfectly coordinated with the store’s color palette. “Bonjour,” she says. “Who do we have here?”

  “Bonjour,” Havannah replies, her voice uncertain. “This is Rebel.”

  “What a beautiful baby. So little. Two months?” The shopkeeper’s English is heavily accented with French.

  “Almost seven weeks,” Havannah says.

  The woman claps her hands. “C’est gentil! We have so many things. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  Havannah shakes her head. “It’s all so beautiful.”

  “Look around. I will be here for any questions.”

  Only after this entire conversation is complete does the woman consider me. “You must be Dad.”

  Havannah and I exchange a glance. “I’m here to carry everything,” I say easily.

  The shopkeeper giggles. “Very well. We will give all the bags to you.”

  Havannah circles the store. Everything she pauses on, everything she touches, I give a nod to the shopkeeper. She confers with another woman, who follows discreetly behind and covertly picks up all of the items in Havannah’s wake.

  “Look at this,” Havannah says, lifting a blue overall set with a handsome button-down shirt beneath. It includes a tiny bow tie. “This would be perfect for the wedding.”

  “Definitely,” I say.

  “We have some shoes to go with that,” the woman says, leading Havannah over to a shelf full of the tiniest footwear.

  They review the cho
ices, and I move close to the woman who is collecting items for the bigger purchase. “Send everything to Le Meurice hotel,” I tell her. She nods.

  Havannah returns with a pair of tiny brown loafers. “Aren’t they precious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Havannah moves on to the accessories. “What about this bag?” She holds up a diaper bag similar in size to the one she currently has. But this one is simple brown leather, and the pockets and flaps are functional, yet discreetly placed.

  “Love it.”

  The shopkeeper steps forward. “Would you like me to repack your bag here?”

  “Oh,” Havannah says. “Well, sure. I guess that would save us some time.”

  I pass the llama bag to the woman. “Thank you.”

  “Keep looking around,” the shopkeeper says.

  Havannah runs her hands along the front of a baby sleeper. “So soft, but he has so many.”

  I stroll up to Havannah. “Are you going to pick a few things in larger sizes so he has Paris outfits as he grows?”

  She glances around. “Maybe one. I can’t believe this sleeper has a set of matching pacifiers.”

  The shopkeeper opens the package. “And look, they attach with a fastener that matches as well.” She clips the pacifier to a special snap already built into the sleeper.

  “I love it.” Havannah glances up at me. “Should we get one anyway?”

  “Get three sizes,” I say to her. “That way you keep that feature for longer.”

  The shopkeeper nods and pulls three sets plus the package of pacifiers.

  “I think that’s quite enough,” Havannah says. “We’ve done some damage.”

  The shopkeeper tilts her head. “Done some damage?”

  “It’s an expression,” Havannah says. “We’ve bought a lot. Damage to our bank account.” She realizes she’s said our, and bites her lip, glancing up at me with a shrug.

  I pass a credit card to the shopkeeper while the other repacks the bag. “You might want to supervise that so you know where everything is,” I suggest to Havannah.

  She moves down to the end of the counter, which makes it easier for me to pay for the additional packages without her knowing.

  “We will get these sent over straight away,” the shopkeeper says. “Do you want the old diaper bag in your car?”

  I shake my head. “Send it with the other things.”

  Havannah has the woman tuck the sleeper plus a pacifier into the new diaper bag as a backup outfit. When we walk back outside, she takes a breath in. “That was very fun. Thank you so much for the gifts.”

  “We will have the best-dressed baby at the wedding,” I say.

  I extend my elbow, and she takes it.

  “Where next?” she asks.

  “How is Rebel doing?”

  She shifts the fabric of the sling. “Out like a light.”

  “Very good. I think if the baby gets a new outfit for the wedding, so should Mom.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t.”

  I give her a wink. “I bet you can.”

  She smiles up at me, her eyes bright with excitement.

  “Okay. Maybe one little thing.”

  13

  Havannah

  Donovan thinks he’s pulled one over on me, but I saw the pile of baby things collected in my wake at the store. As we settle in the limo so I can nurse Rebel before hitting the next shop, I consider whether I should accept any more gifts.

  He’s taking a call at the far side, facing the window to give me privacy as I struggle with Rebel. The baby is so over the sling, so I’ve decided to lie down on the long bench and nurse him beside me.

  So basically I have a soggy boob splayed out over the leather. Thank goodness for the darkly tinted windows.

  I watch Donovan talk. His voice maintains a steady, unfazed quality. But sometimes his hands clench into fists, and I can tell he’s working at keeping his cool.

  He must not have trimmed his beard today, because he keeps passing his palm over it as if it’s unfamiliar terrain.

  I wonder what it would be like to run my thumb across that rough cheek. He hasn’t approached me in any way since the kiss in my apartment before we left Colorado.

  I’m good at reading men. Really good. I know he’s interested.

  But he’s not making a move. He must be taking into consideration that our situation is complicated.

  And he’s right. The baby would be enough, but we also live thousands of miles apart. And the lifestyle differences are outrageous.

  He begins to tap his foot, the next level of his irritation. Tiny notes of impatience tinge more of his words. He turns away from the window, and I drop my gaze so he won’t know I’ve been staring. Rebel has fallen asleep, his jaw slack.

  Oh no, sweet boy. You have to take your entire meal right now.

  I roll over, facing the back of the seat so I can switch him to the other side. I’m concentrating on getting him latched again when I realize the phone conversation has stopped.

  I glance over my shoulder. Donovan lies back on the seat, his arm thrown over his forehead.

  “Tough call?” I ask.

  I like that we can have these casual conversations about his work and feel like something other than two near-strangers on this unexpected trip together.

  “Not my favorite client,” he says.

  “Who is your favorite?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, so I focus back on the baby. Still not well latched. He doesn’t like this side as well, never has. As we tussle, I try to keep the conversation going. “Hard to decide?”

  “I’m thinking. I guess there’s a delineation between who I like as humans, and which companies are my best investments.”

  “They’re never the same?”

  “Rarely. But there’s this toy company in Zürich I like a lot. Almost a century old. The people are great.”

  “Why did they need you?”

  “It was more like I needed them. I was trying to make inroads in a market, and owning this toy company got me access to other places.”

  “So you bought them just to use them?”

  “It was a win-win. They needed an influx of cash to launch more innovative lines, preferably without a heavy hand telling them what to do. And I needed clout.”

  “There’s no need for clout in the family deli business,” I say.

  “I think you did run into some trouble when Anthony first showed up on the Boulder scene with his deli.”

  That was true. The rivalry is what led to the whole debacle between him and Magnolia. “But that worked out well,” I say. “They’re getting married.”

  “Society’s oldest style of merger.”

  “Aren’t you jaded?” I tease.

  “I’m not, really. Phone calls like that can take the jollies out of anybody.”

  The leather beneath him squeaks, so I look over. He sits up and slides down the seat until he’s across from me on the other side.

  “What would be fun for you?” I ask. “Going frock shopping can’t possibly be your idea of a good time.”

  His grin sets me at ease. “It will be if you’re the one wearing the frocks.”

  In old Havannah land, this would be my moment to make an insanely sexy double entendre about taking off the frocks.

  But I’m not the same person I was before those two lines appeared on my pregnancy test. I’m not even sure these cranky parts work the same way they used to. I’ve heard the stories.

  More than once, as an insensitive, ignorant college girl, I cracked a joke with my clubbing girlfriends about the loosening up of our nether regions after childbirth.

  I regret that.

  Rebel falls off the boob again. I push on it. It’s pretty slack. He’s had enough.

  I tuck myself back into my nursing bra and wiggle around until I’m sitting up. I throw a burp cloth over my shoulder and lift Rebel to pat his back. When no burp comes out, I jiggle him, pounding harder.

  “That doesn’t hurt
him?” Donovan asks.

  “Nope. He likes it. I’m relieved he’s not an overachiever on spitting up. Some babies are volcanoes.”

  When Donovan scrunches his face, I regret providing him that image. But taking care of a baby isn’t exactly sexy.

  Rebel erupts in a burp that would make a sixty-year-old sailor proud.

  Case in point.

  And then, of course, because I said he wouldn’t, a long stream of white goo oozes out of his mouth. It catches in the strands of my hair that have fallen out of my updo. Great.

  “Uh oh,” Donovan says. “How can I help?”

  I carefully wipe Rebel down with the burp cloth, feeling embarrassed. “Maybe hold him a second so I can get this out of my hair before we shop any more?”

  Donovan takes the baby. “Should I watch for more spewing action?”

  I quickly grab a fresh burp cloth and tuck it under Rebel’s chin. “Sure. Could be all the car movement.”

  I search around for the wipes and use one to clean the spit-up out of the loose strands. I use the dampness of the wipe to help me tuck the errant piece back into the updo. If this isn’t a mom thing to do, I don’t know what is.

  “Well done,” Donovan says. “Should we shop? Hang out in the car longer? Take a respite at the hotel?”

  I lift Rebel to stare into his eyes. “You done, little man?” I can’t even look at Donovan. I’m such a mess. “Let me change his diaper, and I think we’ll be good. He should be content for a while.”

  Donovan doesn’t comment on what’s happened, simply passes the diaper bag over to me. “I had my assistant advise me on the best shops to try. I wanted to make sure we didn’t spin our wheels, since we don’t know how long Rebel will last.”

  I open the changing pad and lay Rebel down. “Now you’re thinking like a dad.”

  Once he’s clean and dry, I settle him back in his sling, and Donovan shoulders the new diaper bag.

  The sun came out fully while we were in the limo. I lower my sunglasses and check my hair in the shiny window. All good. Spit-up disaster averted.