Her Mistletoe Bachelor

by Carolyn Hector

  “Ms. B?” Kathleen tapped British’s arm.

  Snapping out of her daze, British plastered on a smile. “Sorry.”

  “You were doing that daydreaming my grandma gets,” informed Kathleen.

  British pouted. “Are you calling me old?”

  “Well, compared to us—ouch,” Stephanie whined and pulled her microbraids to the front of her shirt. “No, ma’am.”

  “Good,” said British as she grabbed for her bag and hunched over. “Now let a little old lady get into her room so she can take her afternoon prune juice and nap.”

  “Tasty,” commented a deep voice from the corner of the hallway.

  The familiar baritone boomed, making British’s heart lurch into her rib cage. She had to clear her throat to release its lodged state. “Donovan.”

  “So you’re my neighbor?” The shadows of the hallway hid all but his kilowatt smile.

  A hard shiver crept down her spine, causing British to jump.

  “Sorry,” said Donovan, “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stepped out from the shadows.

  The girls made a collective sigh. Lacey dropped the bag in her hand. Donovan grabbed it before it hit the ground and the other girls’ feet.

  “I thought I heard a lot of movement going on inside this morning. Here—” he reached for the card key in British’s hand “—allow me.”

  “You’re Donovan Ravens,” Stephanie finally said.

  Donovan glanced over his shoulder, his thick black eyebrows raised. “I am.”

  “You know who he is?” Lacey asked.

  “You don’t?” Stephanie countered. “He’s only the Chief Financial Officer at Ravens Cosmetics. If you wore a little bit of makeup ever, you might notice.”

  Donovan opened the hotel room door and allowed the girls in first. British lingered behind and tried to hide her amused smile behind her hand at Donovan’s surprise. “That’s Stephanie,” British explained. “Your future employee in your cosmetic chemistry department.”

  * * *

  Donovan had been around his younger cousins’ friends enough to know when they were enamored with one of his brothers. Oddly, these tweens giggled the same way with him. Maybe it was a nervous giggle due to the scar. Each girl avoided making eye contact when British introduced them.

  “Thanks for your help, ladies,” British said, clearing her throat once they were inside her room.

  Taking their cue, the four girls excused themselves but not before eyeballing him up and down. Nothing like a group of teenage girls to make a grown man feel self-conscious. At least his future employee edged her friends out of the room. Or so he thought. Alone, he realized it left just him and British. Given her hand on her hip, the dismissive smirk and raised eyebrow, she was giving him a cue to leave.

  “And thanks for bringing my bag in,” she said.

  Donovan gripped the leather handles and set the weekender on the gold-and-white-striped bench at the end of the mahogany sleigh bed. “What do you have in here, bricks? Oh wait, shoes.”

  “You’re so smart,” British said, her eyes crinkling, at the edges. For a moment he thought she might poke her tongue out at him.

  The pit of his stomach flopped with the idea of her doing so. Why? Married, widowed or whatever—if she was going to be the face of RC, she was Grade A hands off.

  “If you must know, there are shoes in here.”

  “Since when did Manolo make heavy shoes?” His joke didn’t go over well. British narrowed her dark eyes on him. If looks could kill...

  She ran her long fingers through her thick, dark, curly hair. Photographers created lighting with special bulbs and reflections for scenes like this.

  “Maybe,” she sneered, “you’re used to women who pack only expensive high heels, but I’m packing canvas. Converse, to be exact.” To prove herself, British yanked open her bag and held up a pink low-top shoe, then a kelly green high-top. She attempted to reach for another but Donovan raised his hands in surrender.

  “All right, you win,” he said. “I didn’t mean to wage war with you.”

  “What did you plan with me?” British asked.

  Dare he say how temptation made his fingers twitch with eagerness to toss her onto the bed and kiss away whatever sadness was hiding behind her eyes?

  “Well?” British snapped at him.

  “Jesus, lady,” Donovan chuckled, “what do you have against me?”

  The crinkles in her forehead softened. British blinked her long lashes. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I don’t have anything against you.”

  “Good.”

  “Just your company,” she added.

  An invisible dagger dug into Donovan’s chest. “Ouch. May I ask what my company did?”

  “Where do I begin?” British scoffed. “You guys hire airhead models that my students then follow and emulate. Before I started teaching Stephanie the importance of women in science, she aspired to be an Instagram model.”

  Donovan refrained from laughing. He did, however, press his hand to his heart. “Somehow this is my fault?”

  “No,” British quipped.

  Never before had a woman argued with him about her dislike for the company. Be still, his beating heart. Donovan stopped the argument with a half smile.

  “Why are you staring at me with a goofy grin?”

  “I think you’re perfect,” he answered honestly.

  A deep red tint spread across British’s high cheekbones. She folded her arms over three of the former members of New Edition’s faces on the T-shirt. “Do you seriously think your lines would work on getting me to...?” Her words trailed but her eyes roamed to the queen-size bed.

  This time Donovan did chuckle. “I think we have our wires crossed.”

  “Excuse me?” British leaned forward. “You’re not trying to get me into bed?”

  “I feel like that’s one of those loaded questions,” Donovan hedged, “where either answer is going to get me in trouble.”

  British pointed to her door. “Get out.”

  “Wait,” he said, holding his hands up in a pleading defense. “I’m talking about my company. We need a new spokesmodel and I honestly think you’d be perfect.”

  A few moments went by. A hummingbird pecked at the window. The bells of the grandfather clock downstairs chimed the morning’s hour. When British cleared her throat, Donovan was sure she was about to agree. Who wouldn’t? Women threw themselves at him for an offer like this.

  “Go to hell and get out.”

  Chapter 4

  “All right, girls.” British clapped her hands together to get the foursome’s attention.

  After she’d gotten rid of Donovan and his lecherous offer, British had allowed the girls an hour to run around and do whatever, but now it was time for business.

  She closed the white French doors to the library but one of the door handles hit her in the back when it bounced open again. Bright light shone through the solarium porch, which offered a lovely yet distracting view of the lake out back. Sun danced off the ripples in the water and sparkled like diamonds and highlighted books that flanked one another in no particular height or order. Leather-bound classic tales stood next to new romances. Oh, what she would give to spend the afternoon here and put things in order. But she had things to do right now.

  Natasha’s and Stephanie’s eyes were glued to Stephanie’s phone. British clapped twice again. “Hello? Please don’t make me take your phone away.”

  “Sorry, Ms. B,” said Stephanie.

  “She’s afraid her boyfriend is looking at other girls.”

  Stephanie elbowed Natasha in the ribs. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Whatever he is,” British said, taking a deep breath to tamp down her amusement, “he can wait until we finish going over the rules I just received for the STEM-Off.” She was
met with a round of groans as she extracted the folded piece of paper she had printed off from the superintendent this morning. “You guys are familiar with competitions. There are five groups. You, the boys from Southwood Middle, two high school teams and one group from the elementary school.”

  An almost collective aww and how cute filled the room.

  British looked up and cleared her throat. She held her hand out in front of Kathleen to turn over the handheld game system and continued without missing a beat in reading the directions. From what she gathered, the competition would be set up like one of the baking challenges she’d watched on the Food Network. There would be two challenges: a small round and a bigger round incorporating each faction of STEM. If they won the small STEM challenge, they could add another member to their team for the bigger STEM challenge. British liked the girls to do work on simple everyday items people didn’t realize used science, technology, engineering or math. The girls needed to brainstorm their ideas. Once they got into that room, the teachers were no longer able to help. Teachers would be designated seats behind the judges. At Districts, there’d be no teachers at all. The teams were going to have to come up with a variety of supplies needed for the Southwood competition and be prepared for any task they were given.

  “Can we come up with a new video game, one where the girl is the heroine? That way we can cover engineering and tech, and she can be a scientist,” Kathleen spoke up. “Ya know?”

  “Considering a lot of judges on the Christmas Advisory Council are women—” British said, trying to focus on the page in front of her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose. Odd that she sensed him there. The only presence she’d felt before was Christian’s. It also helped to see that Donovan managed to evoke that familiar, googly-eyed gaze not just from women at the Cupcakery but also from impressionable teenage girls. “Mr. Ravens?” British called out. “We’re trying to brainstorm down here.”

  Not caring, Donovan stepped through the half-closed French doors, oblivious as to how his tight white shirt hugged his muscular frame or the way the well-worn denim hugged those thick thighs and tapered waist. He claimed to work in the office at Ravens Cosmetics but if she didn’t know any better British would swear the man simply worked out for a living.

  “I don’t mean to pry.” His deep voice chilled her bones.

  “Of course not,” British mumbled, rubbing her left hand over her right forearm to keep the goose bumps away.

  “I didn’t realize you all were going to be meeting here in the library,” Donovan went on to say.

  “Did you need a book, Mr. Ravens?” Stephanie asked, getting up from her spot. “Or maybe a magazine?”

  British shook her head at the way the girls fawned over him. “I told you already, Mr. Ravens—”

  “Donovan,” he corrected and gave the girls a wink. “‘Mr. Ravens’ sounds so stuffy, like my brothers.”

  The girls giggled and British sighed. “Okay, if you say so, but I warned you we’d be here working.”

  “I understand—” Donovan nodded “—and I would be remiss if I didn’t intervene here.”

  Hands on her hips, British cocked a brow up at him. Was he always this tall? “How would you like to butt in?”

  Another round of giggles.

  “I heard you mention something called a Christmas Advisory Council.”

  Something in Donovan’s tone irked her. He probably didn’t believe such a thing existed. “We’re a small town, sure, but we take the upcoming holiday season seriously around here.”

  “I don’t doubt you.” Like he had earlier, Donovan held his arms out in surrender in front of her. At least, she thought it was surrender. The bulging muscles of his biceps swelling against the cotton fabric of his shirt distracted her. British’s mouth went dry for a moment. “What?” Her voice cracked.

  “I didn’t say anything,” he said with a grin. Damn it. He knew she was ogling him. “But if you all are competing at an event where the judges are gung ho on the holidays, maybe it would benefit you guys to come up with some ideas for the season.”

  “OMG!” Kathleen shrieked. “I have been dying to code to a Christmas song. I’ve got all the equipment and lights already. When the song comes on, we can make the white lights match the singer, green lights for the chorus, and red lights if there’s like a drum solo. It will be so cool.”

  “You need to do it to my favorite song,” said Natasha, turning to British and Donovan. “It’s old. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Mariah Carey’s ‘All I Want for Christmas.’”

  “I believe I have,” said Donovan. “How about you, Ms. B?”

  “Once or twice.” British clapped her hands together. “All right, let’s thank Mr. Donovan and let him get on his way.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” Donovan leaned against the door frame. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “Really, the girls don’t need the distraction,” British said through gritted teeth.

  “Aw, Ms. B,” the girls whined. “Please, can he stay?”

  One could only imagine their parents; their homes must be filled with puppies. How was she supposed to say no to them? “Fine,” she groaned, “but just stay out of the way. You know what they say about cooks?”

  “Not cooks,” replied Donovan, “but I do know what Chef Jessilyn has to say about you.”

  British elbowed Donovan in his six-pack stomach, knowing good and well it didn’t hurt. “Be quiet.”

  “Miss Jessilyn makes the best cookies,” Natasha added into the conversation. “I wonder if she has any.”

  Donovan scratched the back of his head. “I saw her pulling out a batch when I put up my lunch dishes.”

  And that was all it took for the STEM for GRITS team to take off out of the room, hurling their promises to be right back behind them.

  They took off with such a rush Donovan spun around after being hit by one and pushed out of the room by another. Then with the last two he was spun back into the room and pushed against British.

  Now alone with Donovan, British took a step away from him. “Thanks for that,” she snarled. “Do you realize how hard it was to get them all on the same page?”

  Mouth opened in stunned disbelief, Donovan shook his head. “Those girls need to be on the track team.”

  “A few are,” British replied. She sighed and took a seat on the couch. Donovan followed her and sat on the arm of an overstuffed chair.

  “Donovan, this may be hard for you to understand, but the girls are in a time crunch and they need to focus.”

  “What did I do to distract them?”

  British waved her hand at his attire. “Seriously?”

  Donovan crossed his arms over his chest in feigned modesty. “I feel so cheap.”

  All of a sudden British laughed. “I’m sorry if I am testy.”

  “Just a little bit,” Donovan said, lifting his large hand and measuring an inch with his thumb and forefinger. For a man who worked behind a desk at a powerful company, Donovan somehow bore several scars on his hand. When he realized she was staring, he dropped his hand to his side. “It’s cool,” he said with a nod. “I get what you’re trying to do and I admire it. Such leadership.”

  If only he’d left off the last part. The compliment triggered an alert in her. “Do not offer me a job at Ravens Cosmetics.”

  “May I at least ask why?”

  “I’m a teacher, Donovan. Clearly, by me being here with the girls, you can see I am highly dedicated to them.”

  “All right, fine,” he said.

  Somehow she knew the discussion wasn’t over.

  “What happens when you win this competition?” Donovan asked.

  “Well, bragging rights...” British began but got distracted for a moment when Donovan cast a smile as if he understood. She felt her cheeks heat. “The current director is a bit of a sexist jerk when i
t comes to women in science,” she explained.

  Donovan wiggled his brows. “Want me to rough him up a bit?”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. We’re molding the minds of impressionable young ladies,” she said. “So by winning, we would get the respect of the science department at Southwood Middle School and hopefully we’ll be able to move our practice space to the school, especially since our rec center burned down.”

  “You’re not in the school?”

  British shook her head. “I usually meet with the girls at the old Southwood rec center after school. They come over and we work on projects. The only reason we’re here is that the storm last week blew a transformer and the sparks set off a fire in the building and a few of the homes. Two of the team members and their families are staying here, courtesy of Ramon and Kenzie.”

  “I remember them from last year—” he nodded “—at the beauty pageant held here.”

  “Yes, Miss Southwood.” British nodded, as well.

  “I won’t even ask if you know about pageants, since you seem to hate makeup,” said Donovan with a laugh. He rose from his seat on the armchair.

  British’s eyes roamed the seat of his pants. What was wrong with her? Her students were right in the other room, squealing over cookies while she sat in here mentally undressing this man.

  “Why don’t you have your science group at the school?” Donovan clasped his hands behind his back and strolled over to the bay window.

  Glad he couldn’t see her face, British frowned, hating to recall Cam and the monopolizing of the science department. “Let’s just say there’s already a group in there.”

  “Schools usually pay for materials, right?” Donovan asked, half turning to face her.

  Here comes the question that always throws people. British nodded.

  “Does the school pay for your rec center activities?”

  British shook her head and shrugged. “No. And yes, I am the one buying all the supplies.”

  “On a teacher’s salary?” Donovan fully turned to face her. “It’s been a while since I went to school, but the last I checked, teachers didn’t work for the glorious salary.”