Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

  I can scarcely breathe, every muscle clenching, the pleasure surging through each part of me.

  Every fear flies away, every worry, each moment of feeling insignificant or broken. I relax back against the bed, my eyes closed, the night air cool on my skin.

  Donovan kisses my thighs, my hip, working his way along my abdomen. I drop my legs to the bed, reaching up to receive him.

  He nuzzles into my neck, his beard tickling my shoulder. He lets me have this moment, the happiness shining in me, pure and happy.

  I think that maybe I glow.

  22

  Donovan

  Havannah stays still a moment, eyes open, staring up as if captivated by the ceiling. Occasionally, a tremor goes through her and she presses her hand to her ribs as if to steady herself.

  “You okay?” I ask, my face pressed in that delicious space between her shoulder and her throat.

  She nods. Flower petals cascade from her hair with every movement. She reaches up to touch them. “I don’t think my stylist expected the likes of you.”

  I smile against her skin. “Perhaps not. I will be happy to wake up to Havannah’s garden in my bed.”

  “Mmm.”

  After a moment, I graze my fingers down her ribs, across her hip, and along her thigh. Her breathing speeds up again.

  I lift my chin, my lips finding her cheek. I make my way to her mouth and capture it, biting her lower lip.

  She laughs and bites back, but I shift to avoid her.

  “Hey!” She turns on her side, her teeth connecting with my shoulder.

  “You bite!” I say.

  “You bit first!”

  I roll on top of her, trapping her body beneath mine. “I bite hard,” I warn her.

  “Try me.”

  My cock swells hard and heavy, pressed against her belly. I lean down and trap the skin of her neck between my teeth.

  “That’s nothing,” she says, and lifts her head, clamping her jaw on my bicep. Her teeth are sharp.

  “Now we’re talking,” I say.

  “Are we?” She knocks me sideways. I could easily maintain my position, but I let her roll us around. Then she’s on top of me, sitting low on my belly, her knees on either side of my chest.

  She’s a goddess, the gold curls falling over one shoulder, the tips of her breasts barely a shadow in the moonlight. I want a painting of her, exactly like this, the golden hair, the gleaming skin.

  She shakes her head, and more petals fall, cascading on my chest. My throat tightens. I don’t want this feeling to ever go away. It’s so much more than what I usually feel about a woman.

  I grasp her hips, holding her tight against me. She leans down, nipping down the center of my chest, making her way down. She lets out a laugh, then bites me hard right above my belly.

  “That’s right,” I say.

  Her eyes flash in the low light as she looks up at me. She lowers her head again, this time continuing down.

  When her mouth covers the head of my cock, I groan. God. This woman.

  She works it, cupping me with her hands. Then she moves down, her hair tickling my thighs, and by God if she doesn’t nip my balls.

  I lurch up. “Jesus!”

  “You like that?” She’s all temptress, sliding along my skin, her breasts skimming my chest as she returns to my mouth, her lips soft and warm.

  “You’ll pay for that,” I say.

  “Will I?” She laughs against my cheek. “I don’t believe you, mister gentleman.”

  “Not tonight.”

  I lift her, knocking her knees apart. And when she comes down, it’s straight onto me, my cock slamming inside her.

  “Oh my God,” she cries, her body shuddering around me.

  I clutch her ass, driving her up and down.

  Her hair falls everywhere, the rest of the flowers fluttering over the bed. I’m relentless, brutal, holding her so tightly that she couldn’t escape if she wanted to.

  Her eyes are closed, her chin high. “Donovan, Donovan, Donovan.” On and on, like a song we both hope will never end.

  I bring my thumb around to press into her clit, and she jerks sharply against me. “Yes, yes, yes, again, again.”

  I work the nub, feeling her thighs tremble.

  I have to smile at her unrelenting “God, God, God, God.”

  This time I feel the squeeze of her orgasm from the inside. I intend to hold out, but somehow, she’s contracted around me in a way I can’t resist.

  All the energy in my body flows in one direction, and then I’ve let loose inside her, our pulses working against each other, then shifting into the same slow rhythm until they go quiet and still.

  She collapses on my chest. She seems so small suddenly, fragile and light.

  I turn to my side and tuck her into me, smoothing her hair from her face. “You okay?”

  She nods against my chest. “Amazing.”

  But I feel something wet on my skin. “Hey.” I lift her chin.

  Her eyes glisten, just visible in the low light. “Sorry. I don’t mean to cry. I’m not sure what it is.”

  I pull her up to my shoulder to rest her head against me. “It’s all right.”

  She nods, letting out a sniffle. “I’m so emotional.”

  “It’s a wedding. Everyone gets that way.”

  “You’re right. I’m sure that’s part of it.” She draws in a shaky breath, then lets it out. “This feels like stolen time. A break from everything. I don’t want it to end.”

  “Me neither.”

  I draw her close so our bodies are flush against each other, then reach down to draw up the sheet.

  She cries a while longer, and I’m not sure what to do. There’s a lot going on in her life. The travel. The baby. John Paul has been all over me since I showed up with his daughter, so likely he’s talking to her about me too.

  “Is your family okay with all this? You being here? With me?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m the hot mess of the family, you know. I always was. The wild child. The disobedient one. The underachiever. I told them once I’d never settle for life in their dark, old deli.”

  “Ouch.”

  “I know.”

  “But you seem to love it now.”

  “I do. I grew up. I guess. I mean, look at me. What choice did I have anyway? Single mother. Raising a baby alone.” She pauses to sniffle.

  I reach past her to the tissue box on the bedside table and tug one out. “You’re making it look flawless,” I tell her, touching the tissue to her cheek.

  She takes it from me and dabs beneath her eyes. “I’m good at faking it.”

  “Hmm. Should I be worried?”

  She laughs and shoves at my chest. “Oh you. How do you always make me feel better?”

  “I feel the same way about you.”

  She goes still. “Really?”

  “Of course. You talked me down at the hotel.”

  “I can’t believe someone like you would ever doubt yourself.”

  “We all do. Every single one.”

  She wipes her face again. “This weekend was the first time in my whole life I’ve felt I could live up to my potential.”

  “And what is that potential? What does Havannah Boudreaux dream of?”

  She relaxes against my arm. “You know, I’m not even sure anymore. I resisted the family business all my life, but I’m happy with our new restaurant. We got the idea in a blind panic because suddenly I needed to be supported. But it’s worked out so far.”

  “I think it’s going to be a smashing success. All those new dishes Magnolia and Anthony dreamed up during their television tour were very clever.”

  She turns her face up to mine. “They do bring in a lot of money online. But that feels like theirs, you know? I didn’t have any part in that.”

  “So what would you like to contribute?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  I squeeze her shoulders. “That’s fine. And I do know what you m
ean. I was rudderless until Dell took me in hand and gave me a direction. Sometimes a path chooses you.”

  “A path chooses you. Huh.”

  She gets quiet, so I let her marinate on that one for a bit.

  Finally, she says, “Do you think Rebel was part of that? I didn’t plan to have a baby anytime soon, much less on my own.”

  I have no idea what to say to that. I choose my words carefully. It’s an intimate conversation. “I’m not sure how all that came about, but I do know he’s very loved and surrounded with support, so whatever’s next for you, you two get to take it on together.”

  She closes her eyes, and I assume that’s the end of it. I brush flower petals out of her hair while she lies there.

  Then she speaks again. “His dad is in jail for beating his wife.”

  Her words knock the air out of me, but my time in boardrooms has enabled me to hold back reactions and maintain composure no matter what is said at the table.

  “That’s a lot.”

  “Only Magnolia knows.”

  “I assumed so, the way your father was pressing me for information.”

  She turns her face into my neck. “It’s so horrible.”

  I picture some faceless man raising a hand to Havannah, and I can no longer keep my cool. “Did he ever hurt you? I will kill that motherf—”

  “No,” she says quickly. “I barely knew him. I met him on a dating app. We were only together one night. He probably doesn’t remember my name. I only figured out his based on some clues he gave me. And I found his arrest notification online.”

  I force my breathing down. “So he was fine with you?”

  “He was fine. I had no idea he was married. She was pregnant too.”

  “Shit.”

  “I know. That’s why he got such a long sentence for hitting her.”

  “Is she and the baby all right?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t live in Boulder. He was in town playing a gig.”

  “A musician.”

  “The cliché. I know.”

  “It’s okay. They’re charismatic. That’s why it’s a cliché.”

  “Well, he’s in for two years, I think.”

  I pull her in tight. “He doesn’t deserve to know about Rebel.”

  “I don’t think so either. But what about when Rebel asks? And there’s all these DNA tests.”

  “I think you should get help figuring these answers out.”

  “With who?”

  “A therapist. An expert. Don’t leave it to chance. Know what to do.”

  My shoulder gets wet again. “I’ll try.”

  The tears trickle down my arm. “Hey,” I say. “I’m here. Let’s not think too far ahead. Remember, we’re in France. In a castle. And nothing can touch us here.”

  She slowly relaxes again. “We are,” she says finally. “This night will never end.”

  “It will never end.” I run my fingers along the side of her head.

  But of course it must. We lie together for another hour, occasionally hearing a jovial wedding guest talk in the hallway as they find their way back to their rooms.

  Then we get up and dress again, Havannah repairing her hair and plucking out the rest of the flowers.

  We collect Rebel from Diya and I walk Havannah back to her suite.

  A few wedding guests have gathered in the great room and we wave at them as we pass. It seems the festivities have wound down.

  When we arrive at Havannah’s door, she stops me. “I’m going to go in alone, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course.”

  She stands on tiptoes, and I lean down to press a soft kiss on her lips.

  “I’ll see you for breakfast?” I ask. “I can arrange something for you and the baby out in the garden.”

  “That sounds nice,” she says. “Thank you.”

  I lift her hand to my lips. “I vow to always give you the next thing to look forward to.”

  “You’ve done a valiant job so far.” Her eyes shine as she gazes up at me.

  I release her. “Until tomorrow.”

  Then I head along the long hallways, passing a random guest here and there. I’m not of a mind to go to bed yet, so I wander out amongst the roses where the staff is breaking down the awnings and the servers are clearing the tables.

  The night is quiet, the silence deep. I walk to clear my head, to think about my future, and to figure out a way forward.

  I know exactly what I want. Just not how to get there.

  23

  Havannah

  The next morning Grace and Diya show up early because Grace has “missed” Rebel. I send them along with the diaper bag and the bottle, realizing I suddenly have time free.

  While I pump, I text Donovan and we agree to meet in the gazebo in half an hour. I race through a shower, choosing a pretty sundress and leaving my hair long and straight down my back.

  I discover a few errant petals in my green dress and carefully press them between two pages of the hotel’s luxurious stationary to keep. By the time there’s a knock at the door of the suite, I’m ready to go.

  Mom and Dad sit on the sofa, sipping coffee. They’ve ordered a tray of French pastries. Magnolia is long gone. I’m not totally sure she ever came in last night, which is amusing given our parents share the suite.

  “Is Magnolia up?” Mom asks, confirming they are clueless. It’s super funny, because of course we’re both adult women and Magnolia is engaged. But parents are parents.

  I choose not to answer and redirect instead. “I’m heading to breakfast with Donovan. Rebel is with Diya and Grace.”

  “Diya is such a sweet lady,” Mom says. “Perhaps we can find some help for you in Boulder.”

  Dad lets out a harrumph. I already know his opinion about women raising babies, which I’ve shut down more than once. Besides, it’s hard to be a stay-at-home mom when you’re also the breadwinner.

  I ignore it and open the door.

  Donovan looks like he’s about to enter a photoshoot in a short-sleeved ice blue Polo and slim gray pants. His hair is more unruly than usual, an errant curl falling on his forehead. A zip goes through me as he extends his elbow for me to take. He’s mine.

  We follow the flower halls to the back door.

  “We’re learning our way around,” Donovan says. “It’s like home.”

  “Do individual people ever live in castles nowadays?”

  “A few,” he says. “But it’s not Downton Abbey. Nobody has sharecroppers to lord over.”

  “It has to be wildly expensive to keep a place like this up.”

  We make it outside to the morning sunshine. A pair of gardeners in blue and gray coveralls snip at the rosebushes, removing dead blooms. They give us a quick nod as we pass.

  “I imagine it is,” Donovan says.

  We wander along the main path, then turn into the maze of hedges. My heart speeds up at the sight of the tall, leafy walls. “In here?” I ask.

  “There are four hidden gazebos in the maze,” he says. “My brother told me about them after spotting them from the Pickle tower.” He turns back to the castle and points to the huge, round turret where the family suites are located. Mine is on the bottom tier.

  “You should go up there before you go,” he says. “It’s quite the view.”

  We turn another corner, and there it is—a small white structure with a gray pointed roof. Three steps lead up to a half-circle of cushioned bench. A white table set with a dove-gray cloth holds two place settings, several domed dishes, and a pot of coffee.

  I slide onto one of the cushions. Behind us, a bird quickly flees the scene, displaced. “Sorry,” I call to it.

  A few voices in the distance let us know there are others in the gardens, but the primary sounds are of birds.

  We open the domes to find crusty bread, jams, cheese, fruit, and poached eggs. Donovan pours coffee in our cups, and I breathe in the smell. A breeze races along the tops of the walls, making the leaves rustle. Our bird ret
urns to a branch a few feet away, cocking his head as if to ask, “Can I join you?”

  “Is bread safe to feed him?” I ask Donovan. “I seem to remember reading something saying it was bad.”

  “It is,” he says. “A bit of fruit is better.” He picks up an apple and quickly slices a few random bits onto his plate.

  I pick one up and toss it into the grass beyond the gazebo. The bird looks at it for a moment, then back to us.

  “He doesn’t want it!” I say.

  “He’s making sure it’s safe,” Donovan says.

  The bird flits closer to the treat, moving along the branches, his head swiveling back and forth, ever watchful.

  “I guess we should stay very still,” I say.

  “Until he gets it.”

  In one quick swoop, the bird dives down to the bit of apple, snatches it with his beak, and flies away.

  “He got it!” This moment elates me beyond what I’d expect. I spread jam on a slice of bread. “What a beautiful scene.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” Donovan watches me while he says it, and I scrunch my face at him, feeling self-conscious. I only had time for the barest of makeup jobs, and my hair is practically wash and go.

  But he squeezes my thigh and sips his coffee.

  I bite the bread, swooning at the jam. This whole week has been one beautiful experience after another. “When is everyone leaving?” I ask.

  “Dell and Arianna fly out later tonight. The Pickles are staying two more nights, although Max and Cam leave this morning for their honeymoon in Rome.”

  Rome. France. It’s all so far from Boulder and my experience. But I am here, breakfasting on the grounds of a castle.

  “What about you?” I watch him over the rim of my mug.

  “Dell will have the plane today, and it will take another day and a half to make it back. I have until Wednesday free, then I’d have to shift my workload to extend any further.”

  “What part of the world needs you on Thursday?”

  “New York. Home.”

  “So you’ll fly back Wednesday? Or early to prepare?” His schedule is my schedule, since he’s my ride.

  His thumb makes lazy circles on my knee. “I think we can stay in France until Wednesday, don’t you?”