Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

  “I think this should be a fun evening,” she says.

  “That makes one of us,” Dell says.

  “Oh, Dell. You know we’re doing this to get an opportunity to network with the Williamson family. I’d like to have them on my side if we’re going to open that school.”

  “I know, honey. I’m game.”

  They continue talking about their strategy for the evening. I have none. We bought this table eons ago. The only reason I gave my second ticket to the new assistant is that it’s important not to have an empty space when you’re trying to make an impression. Dell and Arianna are.

  I can’t even remember the name of the young woman who will be coming. Susan? Sally? My assistant handled it. I should text him to ask, but I don’t bother.

  The driver is well versed in back streets, and despite my delay, we manage to make it to the venue while limousines are still pulling up and letting out other arrivals.

  Dell and Arianna immediately find their mark and head over to schmooze. I aim for the bar.

  With a brandy procured, I wander through the sea of tables to find mine. I will have to stay through at least the dinner. But once the mingling recommences, I can easily slip out and go home.

  Only one person is seated at our table. It must be the girl from the office. She looks around nervously.

  I plan to sit across from her, but realize that might wreck the organization of the couples, so I take a spot beside her.

  “You must be Donovan McDonald,” she says, rather breathless. She’s quite young, the low side of twenty-five, dressed in a simple black dress with only a plain gold chain for jewelry. She looks like a baby compared to the women who spent more on their facials than this girl’s entire ensemble. Her hair is a curtain of dark brown, straight and unadorned.

  “The one and only,” I say. “I’m glad you could make use of the extra ticket.”

  “Oh, I love it. This is fancy.” She glances at my drink. “Do you have to pay for those? I don’t know how these things work.”

  I can’t help but quirk a smile. It’s always amusing to see the people who are unused to these affairs. “Completely open bar. No tipping. If you can see it, you can generally have it.”

  Only after I say it do I realize it might be construed as an invitation. I glance around, hoping nobody’s watching and thinking I’m hitting on this young ingénue.

  But my words seem to roll right past her. “I’m awfully nervous,” she admits.

  “Don’t be. Can I get you something from the bar?”

  “I would love some champagne. Should I come with you?”

  “Sure. I can introduce you to some people.” I stand up and pull back her chair. “I apologize that I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Sylvie.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, making her look even younger. Oh boy. I glance around, noting the positions of the event’s official photographers. I will avoid them completely.

  “All right, Sylvie.” We head to the bar, and after procuring a glass of champagne, we wander through the mingled groupings. I’m looking for anyone I can introduce the girl to and then excuse myself.

  “Is that a famous fashion designer?” Sylvie asks. “Oh my gosh. Is that the mayor?”

  “Correct on both counts. Would you like to meet the mayor?”

  She shakes her head. “No, no, no, no. I’m way too nervous.”

  “I’m sure you’d be fine.” Despite my anxiety to offload her before anyone gets the wrong idea, I do find her amusing. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be around young people who can still get stars in their eyes over power and fame.

  A photographer spies me. I plan to turn and duck, but he’s too fast. As I take her arm to spin us around, he manages a quick shot.

  Great. Exactly what I didn’t want to happen.

  I steer Sylvie back toward our table before anyone else gets any ideas. “Everyone will be sitting down soon. We should probably head back.”

  “Okay!” She takes my comment at face value.

  We pass Dell and Arianna, and her eyebrows shoot up when she sees me with the girl. I know. I know. She’s a baby. Good grief. I erred in my choice. I should have had her bring a date and bowed out completely.

  Sitting alone is an even bigger mistake now that we’ve been seen. I can feel the lenses aimed at us. This night will never end.

  At last, the others settle around us. Sylvie talks very little during the dinner. Arianna asks her a few polite questions. Even though I know I shouldn’t, as soon as people start wandering the room again after the dessert course, I ditch the whole lot of them and head home.

  But the damage is done. Pictures of me and Sylvie hit some of the gossip sites by midnight.

  Financial magnate Donovan McDonald returns to the society scene with a pretty young thing. Is she the reason he’s been off the market all this time?

  I read it ruefully and text my assistant to make sure the girl is given the heads-up about the publicity.

  I pull up Havannah’s name on my phone to explain the errant picture. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea either.

  But then I look at the date of our last message and realize it’s been days. I’ve had relationships last less time than that.

  The point is probably moot. She’s spent much of her time with the Millers, based on the images popping up everywhere. The youngest Miller, Teddie, has devoted an entire new Instagram account to her nephew, so it’s obvious how they’ve all taken to Havannah and the new family member. In the pictures, Havannah is always happy and smiling and dressed to impress.

  It’s probably best to let this fizzle out.

  The decision done, I harden myself to the concept of wanting to see her or wondering how the baby is doing. I unfollow the Instagram account and clear my search histories.

  She’s part of my past.

  I strip out of my tuxedo tie and jacket and head to my home office.

  In fact, it’s probably time to get my head back in the game.

  And work.

  35

  Havannah

  I’m barely awake, nursing Rebel in bed, when Magnolia tiptoes into my bedroom in the last hour before dawn.

  “Hey, sis,” she says quietly. “You up?”

  “Mostly.” I shift the baby more securely against me. At this point, he can sometimes drain me so fast that I have to push him closer to get the rest.

  She sits on the corner of the bed. “Have you checked your phone yet?”

  “I forgot to charge it. It’s totally dead. I was going to fetch it when Rebel was done.”

  She hops up again. “I’ll get it.”

  “I thought you were sleeping over at Anthony’s.”

  “I came back.” She plugs the cord into the phone but keeps hold of it.

  Now I’m more alert. “At this hour? Why?”

  “You weren’t answering your phone. I couldn’t sleep. I was worried.”

  Now I’m alarmed. “Why would you be worried?”

  My phone gets enough of a charge that it lights up. Immediately, tone after tone starts to beep through. Uh oh.

  I sit up, bringing Rebel with me. “What’s going on?”

  “Remember when we saw that article about how Donovan must be off the market because he wasn’t attending charity events with the society women?”

  This is about Donovan. My body clenches. “Is he dead?”

  “What? No!” Magnolia sits again. “Of course he’s not dead. Why would I bring up the charity events if he was dead?”

  “Sorry. That’s where my mind went.”

  “Well, if that’s what you’re worried about, maybe this is nothing.”

  She passes me the phone, but I can’t manipulate it easily with one hand. I set it on the bed. “I assume there’s a new article? Am I mentioned? Did they get pictures from the wedding after all? Donovan said they had a nondisclosure contract with the photographers there. Maybe it was a guest who released something.”

  “It’s not you.”
/>
  “Then what?”

  “He went to a charity ball last night. With some woman. A young one.”

  My heart falls. Even though we’ve been winding down, it’s hard to know he’s moving on. “Maybe he asked her before. He probably gets tickets months in advance.”

  “Maybe.” Magnolia is no more convinced than I am.

  I try to get to my messages, but my hand is at the wrong angle and I keep hitting the wrong buttons. I glance down at Rebel. I think he’s close enough to done. “Here, take him,” I say to Magnolia.

  I dig into the notifications. The first message is from Dad. What the hell is this? It includes a link to the article about Donovan.

  God. “Did Dad do a Google Alert on Donovan?” I ask.

  Magnolia sighs. “He might have asked me how.”

  “Mags!”

  “I told him it was a bad idea.”

  There are several from Magnolia. Havannah? H? Hey, are you up? Don’t jump to conclusions. I’m worried. Please answer me, H!

  Then one from Brian. Delphine sent me this. Isn’t this the guy you told Mom about? I groan. I mentioned Donovan to Millie during one of our visits, when she seemed worried I was all alone in the world.

  Boy, do I regret that now. I should have known she’d tell Brian and that Delphine would be watching.

  I open Brian’s message to reply to him first, but then realize I don’t know what to say.

  “There’s a series of pictures in the link,” Magnolia says.

  I click on it.

  It’s Donovan in a tux, looking incredibly gorgeous. He’s holding a brandy and sits next to a terribly young woman in a dress that doesn’t quite fit.

  In the next one, they’re standing, and he’s got his hand on her arm. Her hair isn’t styled and her shoes probably came from a discount store. I know, because I’ve seen them when I shop. This is not his usual partner in crime.

  I zoom in on his face. He looks miserable and very wary of whoever is holding the camera. He does not want to be photographed and seems tired of the whole ordeal.

  “He’s not with her,” I say. “He doesn’t want to be there.” I click the photo away. “It’s nothing.”

  “You sure?” Magnolia sounds skeptical.

  “Completely.”

  I text Brian back now that I’ve seen the evidence. Gossip rags make more money when it sounds like a juicy story. Happens to him all the time.

  I don’t care that it’s five a.m. I’ll wake all of them up if they want to send me this crap. I text Dad too, for good measure. Don’t buy into the lies, Dad. You know better.

  I toss the phone down.

  “You going to write Donovan?” Mags asks. Rebel is out cold in her arms.

  “I’m not sure. We’ve been kind of quiet lately.”

  “Then how do you know this girl’s not real?”

  “I just do!” I don’t intend to shout, but it comes out loud, startling Rebel. His arms fling out as a reflex, then he breaks into an unhappy cry.

  “I’ll change him,” Mags says. “You pull yourself together.” She heads for the living room.

  It’s seven a.m. in New York. Even on a Saturday, Donovan is probably up. He’s an early riser.

  I could text him. Or call him. Or request a video call. That would tell me a lot more. If he turns it down, then I know he’s with someone.

  I don’t care that it’s been a couple of days since we texted or called. Our relationship has been sporadic from the beginning. Feast or famine. I need to know.

  I hit the FaceTime button and wait for it to go through.

  Waiting. Waiting.

  He’s with someone. They’re sleeping in. Or maybe even doing other things.

  I’m going to throw up. Despite what I said to Mags, how sure I was about this girl, I can feel the bile rising, crossing paths with my sinking heart. I was foolish to believe. I mean, how could this ever work?

  Then suddenly, he’s there, disheveled hair, eyes rimmed in red, like he’s been on a bender.

  My upset switches instantly to concern. “Donovan, are you okay?”

  He nods. “Haven’t slept. Decided to pull an all-nighter.”

  He’s in the tux shirt, the top button undone. Is he at her house? Is this is a walk of shame?

  I don’t want to push him into a lie, but I have to ask: “What kept you up?”

  “Nothing even that important,” he says, rubbing his hand over his forehead.

  “We haven’t talked in a few days.”

  Something flickers across his face, something like—sadness? “Rebel keeping you on your toes?”

  “No more than usual. And I’m getting a break today.” I hesitate. Millie is taking Rebel to see how he does. I’ve already pumped the bottles. But I haven’t talked much to Donovan about Brian or his family.

  “That’s great,” he says. “What are you going to do with your freedom?”

  He starts walking, and I study the scenes behind him. They don’t look very feminine, all bold strokes in black and grays with the occasional flash of turquoise.

  I realize I haven’t answered. “Help out at the Tasty Mango. I haven’t spent much time there.”

  He enters a kitchen, mostly black with stainless steel.

  Finally, I can’t stand not knowing any longer. “Is this your place?”

  He glances around. “Yeah. I forget you’ve never been here.” Another expression of regret crosses his face. “You want a video tour?”

  “Sure.” If he’s willing to show it, then it must be his. Maybe he just got in from his wild night. Still seems odd he’d abandon her so early to be home by seven. He lingered in bed with me.

  He videos his living room, the dining area, the balcony, a guest room, his bedroom, and he shows me the shower. His grin becomes mischievous. “I guess I could put on a show in here. I should get out of this tux.”

  “That might make me miss you too much,” I say.

  And just like that, we click back into our old ways. His lazy smile is back, the hungry look.

  “Remember that huge bath in Saint-Tropez?” he asks. “The one with the water jets?”

  “How could I forget?” Heat spreads through me. “What would you do to me there?”

  This gets a genuine smile out of him. “What wouldn’t I do? Remember the rose garden on the bench?”

  “I do.”

  “That. For starters. Then that position on the chaise lounge on the balcony.”

  “I think about the balcony all the time.” I can see it right now, in fact.

  “Me too. You naked, my hands up in you. I liked the way you screamed when you thought dirty sailors were watching.”

  He’s still standing in his shower, leaning on his arm, the phone low, aiming up at his face.

  “Donovan, what are we doing?”

  “I think it’s called phone sex.”

  I laugh out loud. “I mean us. I hate that the press assumes everyone you stand next to is a dalliance.”

  His smile falls. “You saw it, then?”

  “My dad sent it.”

  He shakes his head. “Good ol’ John Paul. I’m sure he’s glad to be rid of me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But Rebel’s dad. His family. Isn’t it working out?”

  “It might if his fiancée doesn’t murder me.”

  Something flickers in his expression. “His what?”

  “He’s engaged. Not only that, they were only ‘maybe’ on a break when he found me on the hookup app a year ago.”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “‘Oh, shit’ right. But his mom is great. Because of the conflict, I’m mainly seeing her and the grandfather. They’re watching Rebel today. It’s our first trial of him being over there without me.”

  “So you’re not thinking of Brian as an option?”

  I can’t believe it. Is this why he stopped talking to me? To let me be with Brian?

  I recover from my shock enough to shoot the accusation right back at him. “Are you th
inking of that young thing in the picture as an option?”

  “Point taken.”

  “Now that we’re past that,” I say, “where were we?”

  “Phone sex,” he says, and the intensity of his gaze tells me we really are past the hard stuff. We’re getting the hang of this long-distance affair. There will be misunderstandings. But we will not make any assumptions.

  “So, Mr. McDonald. I think you need to take that shirt off.”

  And he does.

  Then a whole lot more.

  36

  Donovan

  It’s two weeks before I manage to cut loose of New York and get to Boulder for a weekend. But when the plane lands next to the mountains, a sense of peace comes over me. I’m in Havannah’s world.

  She suggested renting a house rather than a hotel so we can spread out, have Rebel part of the time, and send him to grandparents for the rest. I’m anxious as hell as I take the car that’s brought out to the plane. I’m driving myself, another request of hers. She doesn’t want limos or to show off.

  I’m fine with it, and leave my business suits at home. We’re going to eat burgers and hang out in parks. Be normal. I drive along the streets of Boulder toward the Tasty Mango, realizing I’m seeing so much more of the city from behind the wheel rather than distracted on my phone as a passenger.

  I’m back to the Donovan who went to undergrad in Austin on scholarship, who used to work the greyhound race track by cleaning kennels. Who grew up without the insane lifestyle I’ve lived since taking over Dell’s work.

  I pull into the parking lot of Havannah’s deli, impressed by how many spaces are taken. They’re doing well. Havannah still feels distant from the family business, but she is getting to spend more time within its walls now that Rebel’s grandmother is taking him for longer stints.

  We’ve had long talks about her future. She feels a connection to the staff of the fairytale castle and wishes there was something equivalent near her other than Disney experiences. She wants classical majesty, not the cartoon version.

  I want to buy a castle, hire a staff, and solve all her problems, but I recognize she has to work out some of them for herself.