Her Mistletoe Bachelor

by Carolyn Hector

  “This town is nice,” Donovan commented when the conversation lulled.

  “Is that sarcasm I hear?” British asked, looking up at him.

  “Of course not,” he said with a lazy smile and a wave of his free hand. “I live in Miami. It’s the town that never sleeps.”

  British cleared her throat. “I’m pretty sure that’s New York City.”

  “You’re the teacher,” he said, shrugging. “But back to Southwood. I like it. It’s growing on me.”

  “I’m waiting for you to say it’s quaint.”

  “Quaint isn’t a bad thing, Ms. B.” He paused and chuckled to make sure his formality pushed her buttons. For his benefit, British huffed. “My sister-in-law grew up here,” said Donovan. “Are you familiar with the Mas Beauty School?”

  Everyone in the Four Points area knew about the famous Mas building, once run by Sadie Baldwin. Decades ago, Mas was a cosmetology school for young girls who came and lived in part of the old brick house in dorm-like rooms and used other portions of the home for school work. They learned how to do makeup and hair and even create makeup, all to land them sustainable jobs for their futures. Back when British’s goals were to become Miss America or Miss USA, she wanted to learn all the ins and outs of the business; there hadn’t been a summer British didn’t spend studying cosmetology. British prided herself on being a makeup expert. She’d perfected the wingtip, mastered the glue for her lashes so well that she could place them on her own lids without a mirror and with just one hand. But she also wanted to know what went into the glue and its effects on a person’s skin. Spending time at Mas helped redirect British’s focus in science. Of course, it had been scientists who made British feel self-conscious about her makeup.

  “I remember Zoe,” British finally answered. She smiled fondly and decided not to share how fascinated Zoe had been with the success of the Ravens family. Donovan’s face filled with pride talking about his great-grandparents and how they’d come up with the first Ravens products and created what became a conglomerate in today’s world.

  “You know my brother married her after meeting her at Magnolia Palace,” he said, filling the silence.

  “Yep.” British’s throat went dry. “There is something romantic about the hotel.”

  The higher their car went, the smaller the people below became and the more intimate the space between them became. British glanced up at Donovan at the same time he looked at her. The moment was spontaneous, especially for her. With half-closed eyes, she arched her neck and Donovan leaned down. The air thinned. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded against her ribs.

  From below a heavy thud of the high-striker carnival game thundered up through the sky as a silver ball traveled along a metal post at their eye level as their car began to lower. The bell rang out, echoing between them. British pulled away and cleared her throat. Their ride slowed to a disappointing stop. Had she wanted more time with Donovan? No, not at all, she thought as she glanced from side to side to find her extra-tall mother. No sign. More than likely Joan had headed over to the grocery store to buy every sweet potato left in town in order to make enough pies to feed everyone.

  Donovan turned his head. British studied his profile. His jaw twitched under his close-cropped beard. His long nose jutted out with a slight bend as if it had been broken at one point. A part of her wondered if it happened in the accident that had left him with the scar or if it had come from a brawl. Donovan seemed to relish his playboy status. Perhaps he’d pissed off a few people along the way.

  “I guess I need to thank you for not killing me on the ride,” Donovan joked, stepping off the car once the ride-handler lifted the lap bar. He turned and extended his hand for British to take. She obliged but not before glancing around the park. A teensy spark set off at their touch. Logic told her it was the combination of the cold air and them sliding out of a metal seat. But the little voice in the back of her head told her to accept the chemistry.

  “Are we in the clear?” Donovan asked when they stepped onto solid ground.

  “Yes.” British breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Well, well, well.”

  British cursed under her breath. “Hi, Maggie.”

  “Hi, British and Hot Guy from the Other Day,” said Maggie with a wink. She balanced a round lavender tray of cupcakes as she wagged a finger at Donovan. “I couldn’t recall your face the other day at the Cupcakery but I remember you now, Donovan Ravens.”

  Donovan nodded and extended his hand. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “I’m forgoing lash extensions and makeup, no offense to Ravens Cosmetics.” Maggie wiggled her eyebrows, held the tray in one hand above her head and reached in her pocket for her cell phone to pose for a faux selfie, her lips pressed together.

  “Magnolia Swayne.” Donovan snapped his fingers and pointed. “How are you? What are you doing here? And without your entourage?” He leaned over and gave Maggie a hug.

  British bobbed her head between the two of them. Maggie’s socialite life had brought her to South Florida for every high-fashion event. It made sense they knew each other.

  Another whirlwind from a ride blew a breeze across British’s face. Her eyes twitched—correction, just her right eye twitched—as she calculated the distance, arm length and timing of the hug between Donovan and Maggie. She scratched the back of her head and tried to diagnose the sudden irritation rising in her. She liked Maggie. She was the cool big sister of Kenzie. Maggie was also very clear she didn’t want a serious relationship, which meant she could be perfect for Donovan. But what did British care?

  British cleared her throat. “Well, if you two will excuse me,” she began and turned around, right into the six-foot-tall woman who’d given birth to her. “Mom.”

  “I knew I saw you,” exclaimed Joan, who began talking a mile a minute as she wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. The pink-glittered letters of her mother’s black, pink and white baseball shirt spelled out Glam-Ma and lit up under the changing lights of the rides behind British. When she pulled back from the hug Joan began wiping the messy glitter off British’s cheek. “You haven’t answered any of my calls. Where have you been?”

  British gently swatted the smothering touch away with the back of her hand. Joan would never change and British loved that about her. She commanded attention, not just because of her stature but because her mother was drop-dead gorgeous, with her short-cropped brown pixie cut that framed her perfectly symmetrical face and bright green eyes. While British had not inherited her mother’s height, she did get her light brown skin from her. She hoped when she reached her mother’s age her skin would be just as flawless.

  “Hey, Mrs. Woodbury,” Maggie said, appearing at British’s side.

  “Dahling,” Joan cooed, flashing her pearly white teeth. The pet name was often used when her mother, a former Miss Southwood and Miss Georgia Runner-Up, forgot the other person’s name. Maggie lacked makeup, but not that much. “I heard you were in town. Oh? And who is this handsome man escorting you to the fair?”

  British prayed the fairgrounds would open up and swallow her whole before she had to listen to her mother flirt. How many times had Joan drilled into British’s adult head that she was free to look at the menu? Levi Woodbury felt the same way as his wife and, on the rare occasions British went over to her parents’ house for lunch during the day, she caught him catching up on reality shows set on paradise beaches. British’s parents recently celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary over the summer. They still fawned all over each other and it became worse when all their children came home for the holidays. The bigger the audience, the better.

  Maggie pulled Donovan forward and up against British’s frame. “No, ma’am, not my date. British’s.”

  “Well,” Joan gasped, clutching the pearls around her neck. Only a Glam-Ma wore pearls, a baseball T-shirt, denim and heel
s to the fair. “I’m British’s mother.”

  “Mrs. Woodbury,” Donovan’s deep voice greeted her. He stepped closer and his size overpowered British’s supersize mother as he took her hand in his. “I see where British gets her beauty from.” A kiss to the back of Joan’s palm followed the cheesy line.

  “Oh please, you got my daughter out and about this time of year—you need to call me Joan.” Joan then curtsied. “Sweet Jesus, British baby, is this why you haven’t been returning my calls? I completely understand now.”

  “You called me?” British attempted say with a sincere face but couldn’t. She started laughing immediately.

  Joan narrowed her dark eyes on British. “So you two are on a date?”

  “It’s not a date,” British explained. “He’s staying at Magnolia Palace. We’re just friends.”

  “We’re fast friends,” Donovan proclaimed along with a slick move: draping his arm around British’s shoulder. Maggie made some odd noise between choke and a laugh. Joan made a mewling noise.

  “Well, great,” Joan said. “In that case, you’re coming to Thanksgiving dinner at the Woodburys’.”

  * * *

  Back at Magnolia Palace, Donovan and British walked through the quiet foyer. Considering the time the festival had officially shut down, the kids here were probably asleep. Donovan did not recall seeing a teenager running rampant during the last hour he and British had spent with Joan Woodbury. Funny how this weekend he canceled meeting one set of parents and ended up not just meeting a mother but hanging out with her. And he had a blast watching the mother-daughter duo throw darts at balloons, basketball shoot and participate in a water gun race to see who could knock down the most cardboard ducks. No one in the Ravens family would be caught trying fried anything, whether it was a cookie, ice cream or even mystery meat. Joan assured him it was chicken. It felt great being a part of the family, even if it was just her mother. Donovan looked forward to being around the rest of them.

  The second hand of the grandfather clock ticked closer to midnight. A glow of a fire roaring in the library fireplace lit the way. A set of parents entering the room nodded in their direction.

  As tired as he was, Donovan didn’t want his evening to end. He guessed he liked her company so much and the closeness they’d absentmindedly shared, he stretched his long arms out in front of British and reached for the banister. They both touched it at the same time.

  Donovan laid his hand on top of hers but she turned to face him on the stairs and let her hand slip to her side. A stab of disappointment hit him. Even two steps ahead of him she was barely at eye level. He could try to kiss her again but hesitated. He didn’t want to come off as a douchebag twice in one night. What was he thinking, nearly kissing her on the Ferris wheel when she’d spilled her heart out about her dead husband?

  “Hey—” she began.

  “Hey—” he said.

  She gave a lopsided smile when they both spoke at the same time. With a nod of his head, she continued.

  The fire in the library crackled. “Thanks for a great evening,” British said.

  Donovan cleared his throat. “I need to be the one thanking you. I’ve been in a rut for the last few days.”

  “Understandable,” she replied. “You broke up with your girlfriend on a soon-to-be aired website footage.”

  Was she consoling him when she was the one who needed the distraction? She was sweet, but he was ambitious. “If you were aiming to make me feel better, you didn’t have to drag me on those death-defying rides.”

  “Shut up.” British giggled and playfully punched him in the shoulder. “They were not that bad.”

  “My nerves are so frayed I don’t think I’ll sleep,” he teased. “The calmest way to cheer me up would have just been to say yes to me and come work for Ravens Cosmetics.”

  The next punch landed harder on his arm. “Ow,” he said, feigning hurt.

  “I have a job,” British reminded him. “But I’m glad you had fun.”

  Donovan nodded. “Yep, and I got an invite to a Thanksgiving dinner. Now maybe my mother will stop calling me. She’s freaking out about me not having any stuffing and cranberry sauce.”

  The bubbly laugh sobered and a soft smile settled on British’s face. The flickering fire from the room off to the side highlighted the gold strands in her hair. “You don’t have to come. I can make up an excuse.”

  “What?” Donovan feigned again. “I don’t want to disappoint your mom. She loves me.”

  “Good grief.” British rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to be able to stomach the two of you flirting.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Please,” she quipped. “I am going to bed.”

  Donovan took a step closer. He liked the way her eyes widened with surprise. She pressed her hand against his chest to stop him.

  “Alone,” she clarified with a poke in the chest with her index finger.

  “Our rooms are right next door to each other,” Donovan explained, grabbing hold of her hand. She didn’t pull away, just as she hadn’t pulled away when he’d almost kissed her on the Ferris wheel. They paused for a moment. Not wanting to waste another second, Donovan dipped his head lower. British tilted hers to his. And just as he felt the warmth of her breath against his lips, the grandfather clock boldly chimed the midnight hour.

  Skittish, British stepped backward up the staircase. “Good night, Donovan.”

  Not able to move, he nodded his head. “Good night, British. Sweet dreams.”

  At least waiting for British to disappear from sight gave Donovan a moment to gather himself before being able to walk again. What would she think if she learned he didn’t want to walk with her—not out of respect, but to make sure she did not see the raging erection trying to break free? Donovan dragged his hand down his face and whispered a silent prayer to the grandfather clock that had interrupted them. Had it not rung, they might still be on the stairs, tearing each other’s clothes off. Maybe, he thought as he climbed the stairs, he needed to curse the clock instead.

  In the safety of his bathroom, Donovan turned the cold water on in the walk-in shower. When he realized he’d forgotten his towel, he stepped out of the bathroom, naked. The cell phone on his dresser began to ring.

  “Little brother, I hope this is an emergency,” Donovan growled when he slid his thumb across Will’s face to accept the call.

  “Do you ever wear clothes?” Will asked with a disgusted frown on his face.

  Donovan flashed his brother the middle finger. He reached for the folded towel at the edge of the bed and wrapped it around his waist. “I’m busy.”

  “Back to your old habits, huh?” Will laughed. “I’m glad you’re done crying and sulking over whatever happened to you. When one girl doesn’t work out for you, you always find the next one.”

  At one point in time, maybe even a week ago, Donovan would have laughed at the comment and taken pride in it. Tonight it seemed more like an insult, as if the only thing Donovan could do was go through women. Right now there was only one woman he wanted. “I don’t cry,” Donovan said, studying the background where Will sat. “Are you in the office working?”

  “So?”

  “It’s after midnight and your hot wife is home alone.”

  A giggle came over the speaker. “Did he just call me hot?”

  A second later Zoe Baldwin Ravens’s dark head appeared. Her gold hoops caught the light of the office lamp on Will’s desk as she leaned forward.

  “Hey, Zoe.”

  “Hey, Donovan,” said Zoe with a welcoming smile. She wiggled her fingers and the Ravens heirloom ring sparkled under the fluorescent office lights. “I’m sorry Will’s calling. I stepped out to get us some drinks.”

  “I’d never blame you,” said Donovan. “Everyone in the family already knows Will is crazy.”

  “Dedicated to t
he company,” Will reminded him. He made room in his chair for Zoe to sit on his lap. Donovan bit back a smile of enjoyment at seeing his brother happy. “Please tell me you’re not sleeping with the next potential spokesmodel for RC.”

  “Not yet,” Donovan mumbled. Leaving the phone faceup on his bed, Donovan moved over to the wall he shared with British. The balcony to his room faced the front of the hotel, as did hers. He wondered if she had stepped outside to enjoy the night air.

  Will cleared his throat. “We’re about to head out of town and we—”

  “You,” Donovan and Zoe chorused and then chuckled.

  “Donovan,” Will called out over the line. “I’m serious.”

  “About what?”

  “The perfect woman,” Will growled.

  “Calm down, sweetie,” said Zoe. “Donovan, ignore him. I am sorry we interrupted your evening.”

  Any other woman, Donovan would have had in his bed by now. British was different. She was special. She was...

  Knock, knock, knock. Donovan turned toward the noise at the sliding-glass door to the balcony and found British standing outside.

  She was there.

  “I gotta go,” Donovan said, moving to the bed and switching the phone off with one swipe. Eagerness helped him recross the room. His thumb fumbled with the switch to unlock and pull the door open at the same time. A magnolia scent blew in with a breeze. The trees in the driveway were bare. It had to be her.

  “Am I interrupting?” British asked. She bit her lip and shifted nervously back and forth on her bare feet. Instead of the sweater and jeans from earlier, she was wearing a pale blue nightgown. A sweet hourglass silhouette taunted him through the material.

  Donovan blinked in disbelief. His throat closed and his body tensed.

  British snapped her fingers in his face. “Did I wake you?”

  “No.” He finally breathed. “Would you like to come in?” Donovan stepped aside but British shook her head.