Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

  I’m unused to these platonic encounters, especially here in a hotel room. I wonder if I should suggest a movie, or some way to pass the time, but Havannah says, “It’s great to sit here and be, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” She’s right. I have no meetings, no one expecting to hear from me after today. It’s time we’ve cleared for the wedding and surrounding events. I’m pleased I’ll get to spend it with her.

  She stares at the ceiling. “So what’s the plan?”

  “A leisurely breakfast, take the limo to the train—”

  “No,” she interrupts, dropping her feet to the floor and sitting up to watch my face. “I mean for us.” Her blue eyes hold my gaze.

  “I don’t think there’s a plan. You wanted to come. I found a way to make that happen.”

  She plants her elbow on the table and props her chin in her hand. Her attention is strictly focused on my face. “And then you buy me clothing and jewelry. With no ulterior motive.”

  I can’t quite hold back the quirk in my smile. “I believe we discussed indebtedness before.”

  Her gaze shifts to the ceiling, but most certainly not due to nerves. She’s in full control of herself. My groin shifts. I have no idea what this woman might do next.

  “I should tell you something about me,” she says, her eyes moving back to me, her long lashes emphasizing the blue. “You may have gotten the idea I’m a damsel in distress, or that I’m desperate.”

  I sit up. “I assure you I think neither thing of you.”

  She holds up a hand. “Okay, good.”

  “I hold you in great esteem. You put Rebel first. You’re a model mother.”

  She shakes her head. “We’ll see about that. But I think a woman with a newborn tends to evoke protective feelings.”

  I’m not quite sure what she’s getting at. “You can’t argue that life with a baby is more challenging than without.”

  “Certainly. But I get the sense you’re playing the role of the knight. I’m not looking to be rescued.”

  This stops me. Maybe I was walking along that path. I sip my scotch, not sure how to respond.

  “You didn’t know the Havannah I was before you met me. Before I was pregnant. And to be honest, Rebel has slowed me down, but I feel the same way inside as I did before he came along.”

  “And what is that?” Havannah has struck me as business-savvy and sharp with her observations. She’s funny and quick-witted, always willing to crack a joke. I can picture her on the day of the deli’s opening, dancing a jig, wobbling her belly back and forth.

  “I’m wild. Absolutely wild. I can’t seem to get enough crazy.”

  I set down the crystal glass with a thunk. “In what way?”

  She bites her lip and closes her eyes, drumming her fingertips on the table. “You know what, never mind. I’m going to go pump so I can have another drink of that.”

  She disappears into the other room.

  Well, damn.

  This night is going to take a lot more scotch.

  15

  Havannah

  Oh, that man doesn’t get it.

  I check on Rebel, then lock myself in the bathroom with my pump. The plastic pieces are set out on a towel, totally out of sync with the gold and marble splendor surrounding them.

  I sit on the padded vanity chair near an inset section of the counter. I face the mirror and slide the thin straps off my shoulders, lowering the sundress.

  I was risking it out there, braless, which means without nursing pads either. I could have easily started leaking. That would have been a nice bodily fluid addition to my dinner history with Donovan.

  But I didn’t. In fact, the boobs are getting more reliable on that score, tending to function as expected as long as I don’t go too long without a feeding or a pump. We’re off schedule today, for sure, with all the travel, but that’s meant extra feedings, not fewer.

  I assemble the pump parts, screwing the bottles on. Thank goodness I received the double pump with the heavy-duty motor as a gift. It can deflate these girls in less than ten minutes.

  I regret sitting in front of the mirror, though, watching my blue-veined breasts press into the clear plastic shields. Is this sexy?

  Maybe, if you’re a loving couple with a long history, and this period of your life is precious and sweet with a newborn adding to your family. Love multiplied.

  But outside this room is a very powerful and wealthy man, by all accounts used to the most perfect specimens, either by nature or the knife, and I doubt he’s ever seen a veiny, deflated boob in his life.

  What was I thinking? Me out there talking about getting crazy, like he would pull me into his lap, and we’d hook up faster than the contestants of Love Island.

  Which is totally what I want right now. Paris zips through my veins, the most romantic city in the world, the backdrop of many of my favorite movies.

  And here I am getting about as much action as the Mona Lisa, only there isn’t any security rope keeping Donovan away. Just my situation.

  I close my eyes to shut off the view of the pump squirting milk through the long plastic tubing. I guess those are my security ropes.

  But old Havannah, the one who got me into this mess to begin with, is starting to make unexpected appearances. I squeeze my thighs together, trying not to picture all the wild gyrations I could be doing with Donovan.

  My parts healed fine, and at the six-week checkup, I was given the all-clear for sex, plus I got a birth control shot like I intended to a year ago when everything went south.

  Donovan was on my mind at that doctor visit, of course, and I imagined all sorts of wild things. And now he is right outside this bedroom!

  There’s a second bedroom to the suite. We could go there and not disturb Rebel crashed out in his car seat in this one. I could make Donovan do all the things I’ve been thinking about since we met two months ago.

  The pump groans. It’s pumping dry.

  I shut it off and press my finger between my skin and the plastic cones to break the seal. Now my boobs aren’t just veiny, they are red from the suction, deflated as a three-day-old balloon, and my nipples could poke someone’s eye out.

  I can’t go out there like this.

  I rinse everything off, taking my time. Maybe if I’m too long going back out, Donovan will have retired to his room and this whole idea can remain a fantasy. If I go for it and get rejected, this trip will fall apart.

  I slide the sundress straps back on my shoulders. The stretchy top looks better post-pumping. I guess I’m fit for being seen. Besides, the fridge is under the bar. I can’t keep the milk cold in here.

  I screw on the bottle lids and survey the loot. That will get us through part of the day. If I feed him normally at two a.m., then feed and pump in the morning, I’ll have enough to supplement the public parts of tomorrow. I won’t have a limo to hide in on this leg of the journey.

  I tiptoe through the bedroom. Rebel is still out. When I arrive back in the living area, Donovan remains seated at the table. More of his shirt is unbuttoned, and his hair is mussed where he’s probably been running his hands through it. He sets his phone down when he sees me.

  “You okay?” I ask. “Bad business email?”

  “It’s almost close of business in New York,” he says.

  I circle the bar and tug open the small fridge. “Problems crop up?”

  “Nah. My assistant isn’t going to forward anything non-emergency at this point.”

  “Has she been your assistant long?”

  “He has been with me for three years. One of my roommates from undergrad. Smarter than me. Our positions should probably be reversed.”

  I slide back into the chair I occupied earlier. “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Donovan turns the empty glass on the table. “Imposter syndrome runs all the way to the top.”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “The idea or the feeling?”

  “The feeling. Imposter syndrome is for peopl
e who are successful and have doubts. I work in a family deli franchise that started thirty years before I was born. I can’t feel like an imposter over something I was more or less born into.”

  “Well, be glad.”

  He won’t look at me, so I soften my tone. “I don’t buy you’d feel it for a minute. You’re at the top of the food chain.”

  “Based on my brother’s success.”

  I sit back in the chair. This is a Donovan I haven’t seen before. “You think you couldn’t have made it on your own?”

  “Not like this. It’s a lot to be in the shadow of a titan like Dell.”

  “I get it. Magnolia is the brains of our family.”

  “You’ve got plenty yourself.”

  “No, I have style. If something frustrates me for more than ten seconds, I’m apt to say forget it.”

  He nods, continuing to turn the glass in circles between his hands.

  I want to touch him, but I hold myself back. We’re finally getting to know each other. “I think feeling the way you do about your brother is a sign of being strong. The people who don’t question their success are often either clueless to their weaknesses or raging egomaniacs.”

  “I’ve been called that.”

  “People at the top are easy to aim at.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sure there will be some potshots at the wedding.”

  “Really? It’s a social occasion! It should be fun!”

  “There will be people there. Powerful people.”

  “Like The Godfather? Will there be back-room meetings?” I put on my best Marlon Brando voice. “You come to my castle on the day of my daughter’s wedding.”

  He laughs. “Now, see, you’re good for me. I got myself in a bit of a spiral, and you pulled me right out.”

  Now I can touch him. I lean forward, putting my fingers over his to stop the movement of the glass. His hands are warm and strong, and this connection sends a thousand sparks through my body. “The one thing I’ve always been good at is showing someone a great time.”

  His eyebrows lift and his gaze meets mine, but then slides to the open door of my bedroom, where Rebel sleeps.

  Right.

  He wants the damsel in distress, the poor, unwed mother who needs a pretty dress to the ball.

  I pull back. “I’m not looking for a fairy godfather,” I say, anger replacing the sparks I felt a moment ago.

  His mouth opens, then his eyebrows cinch together. “Are we still talking about that?”

  “You got me a dress. You’re taking me to the ball.”

  “What does that—”

  “I don’t even know what I am to you. What is it? Do you think I’m looking for my next man to trap with a baby? Because it worked so well last time?”

  “Havannah! I don’t think any such thing.”

  I register his confusion, but I can’t back down. “Maybe I do have imposter syndrome after all,” I say. “Because I feel like an imposter in this fancy hotel, buying jewelry at shops where you need an appointment, and sitting at the table with someone like you!”

  He reaches across the table this time, grasping my hand. “Havannah. Hey. Listen. I want you here. We’re new to each other. I admit I wanted to be the hero. But mainly, I want you to be here.”

  “Then why do you treat me like I’m made of crystal?” I pick up his empty glass. “At least this you’ll allow close to you.”

  His jaw tightens. “Havannah, I’ve been working overtime—”

  “I know! You have a lot to do. Big meetings. Huge deals. Businesses to buy.”

  “No! Listen. Hey! I’ve been working overtime to keep my damn hands off you! It’s a full-time job to walk the streets of Paris without dragging you to some alley and fucking you senseless. And in the limo? I had to sit as far from you as possible or we’d never have made a single stop!”

  Oh.

  He easily shifts from one chair to the other so he sits beside me. “You’ve just had a baby! I have to set all this aside while you recover from that.”

  “Shut up,” I say. “Just shut up.”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Shit. Sorry. I’m here talking absolute trash to you and cussing one room over from your baby.”

  “Donovan! Shut up! Jesus! Shut up and kiss my fucking mouth, you fucking idiot.”

  He stares at me a moment. “That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “I have so much more where that came from.”

  He drags me to him, and the kiss starts where the last one ended, hot and fiery, an ocean away but as if it never stopped. As if, in our minds, the kiss continued through all the travel and the shops and the museums, waiting to keep going.

  His mouth is hot on mine, his beard rough on my chin. There’s no gentle easing into it, but a wild frenzy of lips and tongue. He slides his hand beneath the fall of my hair and clasps the back of my neck, pulling me in so tightly that I slide off my chair and land on his knee.

  Donovan lifts his leg so my body eases down his thigh, pure fire between my legs as my dress rides up. When I land against his chest, straddling his leg, I feel exactly how much he’s waited for this moment.

  I pull back for a ragged breath, threading my fingers through his unruly hair. “Donovan.”

  I don’t get a chance to say anything else before he’s back, crushing my mouth against his. One of my straps slides off my shoulders, and his hand is instantly there, dragging the top down.

  Then he moves, kissing along my neck, my collarbone, the slope of a breast.

  I can’t even feel self-conscious about anything. He’s everywhere, hands moving, mouth kissing. He cups my bottom and shifts me to straddle him completely.

  He’s hard against me through our clothes. I drape my arms over his shoulders, slipping up and down. I’ve missed this oh so much. I’m lightheaded, lost, more in a moment than I have been in a year.

  He drags the other strap down, and I’m fully revealed to him. He knows what not to do, slipping his tongue around my nipple but not engaging in a way that might make a real mess of things, even as empty as I am.

  His hands slide up my thighs, thumbs flirting with the lace edge of my panties. I suck in a breath, cradling his head to my chest. Everything splinters into shards of white-hot need. I’m desperate for him, to feel him in me. I want it now.

  “I’m on the shot,” I whisper. “No more Rebels forthcoming.”

  “Would you like a condom? Shouldn’t be necessary, but I’m happy to.”

  I shake my head and rock against his hardness, already feeling my swollen body parts waking up, tightening. Oh, I’m ready for this. I hear a funny quiet sound as his head nuzzles my neck and a finger slides into the silkiness beneath my panties.

  I’m going to come from finger banging, no doubt about it. I clutch him, moving with his motion. As he adds another finger, there it is again. That sound.

  This time we both pause.

  And the noise connects with our understanding.

  Rebel is awake.

  I drop my head to Donovan’s shoulder. His hand is still on me, waiting. Our heartbeats collide like two toddlers banging on soup pots.

  And the keening cry rises from the other room.

  “He’s up,” I say, biting my lip as I slide off Donovan’s lap. “He’s off schedule.” Donovan shifts his hands to my waist and helps me stand. I quickly pull my dress back up and smooth the skirt down. “I have a feeling he’ll be up a while.”

  And shoot, I just pumped. Unless he only needs a nightcap, I might have to warm a bottle.

  The cry comes again. I run the back of my hand across Donovan’s cheek. “To be continued?”

  He nods. “To be continued.”

  He holds his hand against mine for a moment, until Rebel’s cry comes again. I pull away and pad across the carpet to my room and the baby who needs me.

  16

  Donovan

  I wait a while to see if Havannah will re-emerge after tending to the baby, but aft
er about an hour, I peek through the open doorway and the two of them are fast asleep on the bed.

  To be honest, more just happened than I expected with a new mother. All my life, I’ve been slammed with memes, cartoons, and jokes about life with a newborn. The fact that Havannah is even interested is a wonder to me.

  When I wake up the next morning, I hear her singing. I slide on a pair of sweatpants and head out into the living room. She’s slipping a bottle into the fridge, Rebel on her shoulder.

  She wears tiny blue shorts and a matching top. Her hair is tied in a messy knot and she smiles over at me. She turns so I can see Rebel. His slate eyes are open and taking in the room.

  “How’s that boy this morning?” I ask.

  He shoves a fist toward his mouth, misses, and bonks himself on the nose. He’s not fazed by it, though, just blinks a few times and tries again.

  “He’s about to get his bath,” Havannah says. “Better now while I have the perfect-sized sink.” She glances at my bare chest and low-slung pants. “How are you?”

  “Good. Should I order some breakfast? We have a couple of hours before we head out to catch the train.”

  “Definitely. I could eat a mule.”

  She makes me laugh. “Not a horse?”

  Havannah spins again, and I catch a glimpse of her impish smile. “My dad said I was so stubborn I must eat mules.”

  I may be starting to see that streak in her. “I’ll inquire as to how the chef will prepare the mule meat, then. With eggs and toast, perhaps?”

  Her huge grin is my reward for playing along. “And that jam from yesterday. I love jam on my mule steak.”

  I head to the telephone to place an order while she half walks, half dances the baby across the room.

  My throat tightens. It’s magic, watching her move, the baby content on her bare shoulder, her long legs moving to a beat only she knows.

  Our night got cut short, and I’m feeling the pinch of that. But this morning has that same glow, the same contentment of waking with a beautiful woman in your space.