“I get it,” Donovan chuckled. “I have sisters, too.”
“Well, how long do you plan on staying in town, Mr. Ravens?” Joan asked. “Aren’t they missing you at Ravens Cosmetics?”
Identity exposed, Donovan widened his eyes. “I did not mean to omit anything.”
“You didn’t, not really. I used to model,” said Joan. “I did a few print ads for your grandmother—pre-children, of course.”
“I would have said recently,” Donovan answered honestly. British’s mother blushed the same way British did. “To answer your question, I am on a hiatus right now. I can go back whenever. Right now, though, I am dying to see the STEM-Off go through.”
“If British is letting you get involved with the GRITS team, you must be pretty special,” said Irish. She fiddled with the items in a box. “You are aware of Christian, right?”
“I am. He sounded like a wonderful man.”
Everyone agreed.
“I am impressed British let you help with the girls,” said Finn. “After Christian died, British put all her energy and dedication into her work and teaching STEM to the girls, even if she had to do it at that youth center.”
“And the insurance money Christian left her,” added Scots. “Don’t forget that.”
“Burns my ass the way she’s been frozen out by the science department,” said Finn.
This burst of information piqued Donovan’s interest. The idea of someone not treating British fairly didn’t sit right with him. He balled his fists against his thighs. He needed names and he needed them now.
“Oh, look,” Irish cooed, “here’s a photo of British.” She leaned across the distance and handed Donovan an old photograph. Out the corner of his eye he caught British coming down the stairs, but her movements seemed to happen in slow motion.
“No-no-no-no-no,” British repeated. But it was too late. She arrived at the arm of the couch with her hands over her face.
“British,” Donovan said, standing. In confusion, he shook his head. She lied. Why would she lie after everything they’d talked about? “All this time you’ve been shooting me down about being the spokesmodel for Ravens Cosmetics, making it seem the job was beneath you?” The initial knee-jerk reaction was anger but compassion struck him as soon as he saw the pain in British’s face.
“You were offered a job to be their spokesmodel?” Joan asked, standing, as well.
British rolled her eyes at her mother and huffed, “I’m not that person anymore.”
“Once a beauty queen, always a beauty queen,” Donovan told her. “You’re perfect.”
“Yeah...well, it’s hard to imagine I’m perfect when the whole reason Christian is dead is because of me and my stupid beauty queen obligations.”
So many questions entered Donovan’s mind. Why or how did she think she was responsible for her husband’s death? The quiver in British’s voice broke Donovan. All he wanted to do was hold her until all her pain went away. He felt helpless for not knowing what to say or do. “Oh, British,” everyone in the room chorused.
Tears welled in British’s eyes. Donovan felt like a jerk, especially when she stormed outside through the sliding-glass door.
Chapter 8
A fall breeze blew leaves on top of the aqua-blue water of the pool next to her parents’ deck. British shivered against the back of the blue-and-white Adirondack chair she sulked in. There was always a reason why she didn’t want to come home for the holidays. Her parents and siblings made too much of a big deal about British not seeing professional help after Christian passed away. She accepted his death, knew she was widowed and subconsciously believed his death was her fault. At the time of his death British still volunteered in pageantry. Her intent was to encourage young beauty queens to reach for more than a title and break the glass ceilings in the scientific fields.
Five years ago, however, British forgot her crown at home. It was easier to hold everyone’s attention if British wore her tiara and her lab coat. Christian offered to drive home and get it, which he did. Christian swerved to avoid hitting it and ran into a tree. Her tiara was found on the seat of the passenger’s seat when a deer ran across the road. She guessed this holiday weekend exposed her suppressed thoughts and had manifested when Irish brought out the old photograph. Maybe she overacted.
The first year without Christian, everyone had stepped on eggshells not to mention his name. They’d taken down the wedding photographs, like she didn’t have any at her apartment. But then tonight, to bring up the pageantry to Donovan? Ugh, she groaned inwardly. Had she not overheard part of the conversation while she’d finished the bedtime stories upstairs, there’d be no telling what other things Irish would have spilled. British argued with herself, shaking her head. She should have never agreed to come over.
“You’re going to freeze out here.”
British glanced over her shoulder and rolled her eyes toward the water when she saw her mother coming with a dark plaid blanket. The temperature had been dropping all day. Steam rose from the hot tub at the end of the porch near the bricked-in grill. Orange glows of backyard bonfires shone in their nearest neighbors’ yard.
“Not only did I give you life, but I’m bringing you warmth, too, and you’re going to sit up here and roll your eyes at me?” Joan tossed the wool blanket over British’s shoulders and took a seat on a matching chair to face her.
“I didn’t roll my eyes,” British lied. She adjusted the blanket to fit her shoulders evenly and stretched her legs out in front of her.
Joan sat in the same position as her daughter. “You forget I raised you.”
“Tell that to some of my brothers and sisters in there.” British pointed her thumb at the sliding-glass door. They’d undermined her at every corner today, from cooking in the kitchen to dessert. They’d mocked her for using science to help cook and had had the nerve to bring up all her embarrassing childhood stories, including her time as a beauty queen.
“They love you.”
“You mean to make fun of me,” British huffed.
“You do understand this is the first time they’ve been able to experience this with you?”
“Experience what?” British asked, sitting up. “They never acted like that with Christian.”
Joan sat up, as well. She reached over and patted British’s leggings-clad leg. “Dear, you and Christian grew up together. He and his family ate at our Thanksgiving table all throughout high school. Finn, Cree, Irish and Scots always saw Christian as part of the family. Seeing you with another man...”
“I’m not with another man,” British lied again. Her spine tingled, reminding her just how much she had been with him last night. It was all she could do to keep from combusting each time she bumped an arm against his in the house—her soul caught on fire.
“Again,” Joan sighed, “why are you trying to lie to me? Or are you trying to convince yourself there’s nothing between you and Donovan Ravens?”
British shrugged her shoulders.
“Donovan is the first man you’ve brought home.”
“You invited him,” British reminded her.
Joan chuckled. “Girl, I am not going back and forth with you about this. It is evident there’s something going on between the two of you and I don’t want to have to tell you what my intuition is telling me.”
British turned to face her mother and contemplated testing out what she thought was going on. Did she want to tell her that for one moment in her life she wanted to have a quick fling with no attachments and that Donovan was the perfect person for the job?
“Mom.”
“You’re twenty-eight,” Joan went on. “Not dead.”
“You sound like Vonna.”
“Your mother-in-law is right. Hell, at seventy, your dad and I are still very—”
“All right, we’re done here.” British got to her feet. H
er hands flew up to cover her ears as she focused on the rippling water of the pool. Suddenly her eyes focused on a pair of bathing suits by the Jacuzzi. Since no one else lived here during the year, the garments could only belong to her parents. British frowned.
Joan stood behind British and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. “Sweetie, no matter what’s going on in here—” she tapped British’s temple “—or here—” and tapped her heart “—I love you.”
“Thanks, Mom.” British stared off into the horizon.
“And, dear...” she whispered. “Dessert’s here.”
Raising her brows, British shook her head. “We had dessert.”
Gently, Joan spun British around by the shoulders. British looked beyond her mother’s height to find Donovan standing outside by the chair she’d just vacated. He wore his khaki chinos and someone else’s black hoodie, zipped to his neck. In his hand he balanced a round tray with two...cupcakes.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” Joan whispered.
Donovan smiled, mouthed a thank-you to Joan and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. British’s heart ached. Christian used to do the same thing. Her mother was right. Christian had been a big part of the family for so long. Maybe it was wrong for her to allow Donovan to come. Yet, here she was staring at him and feeling differently than ever before in her life.
“Hi.” Donovan stepped closer.
“Hey,” she replied. This was the first real moment they’d had alone since this morning, which seemed so long ago. “What do you have there?”
“Something called the Blues Be Gone cupcake,” Donovan replied. “They arrived while you were out here.”
British’s eyes widened. She craned her neck to the side and spotted Vonna and Tiffani quickly turn around as if they weren’t spying on them. She wasn’t surprised to see them here. They were close with her family and had probably finished up their Thanksgiving dinner and came out to visit. “That’s my mother-in-law,” she explained to him as she shook her head. “Or is it former?”
“She’s family,” Donovan answered.
“Donovan, I—I—” she stuttered and tried to find the words.
“Let me say this,” he said. “I want to apologize if I made you feel pressured about coming to work for my family’s company, especially not knowing what I do now.”
“Thanks,” British half-heartedly said.
“But you have to know that the car accident wasn’t your fault.”
Now with her shoulders squared, British sighed. “Why? Because that’s what Irish told you?”
“Not just Irish,” Donovan admitted with a nod. He set the tray of cupcakes down on the table between the chairs and stepped closer. “Finn, Scots and Cree came downstairs to tell me about the accident.”
“They had no right.”
“The accident happened,” said Donovan. “It was this time of year. Your dad says deer season runs this time of year and the animals are prevalent in this area. It’s not fair, but these things happen.”
“Christian wouldn’t have been on the road if I didn’t forget my tiara for my motivational talk at a beauty pageant,” British argued, but didn’t put up a fight when Donovan wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, tucking himself in the plaid blanket, as well.
“According to your mother-in-law, Christian was born with cardiomyopathy and lived longer than ever expected and she says it was because of you.”
British’s head moved to the side, catching Vonna blatantly staring at them, even giving British the thumbs-up of approval before closing the curtains. “She’s crazy.”
“And insistent,” Donovan added. “She said we need to eat these cupcakes right now.” He moved away to grab one of the desserts. “You have a wonderful family, British. Thank you for inviting me.”
I didn’t, she opened her mouth to say, but received a mouthful of frosting.
“Try the cake, British,” Donovan teased. He wiped his finger across her upper lip to get the rich icing.
“I’m going to kill my family for their big ole mouths.”
Not satisfied with the job his finger did, Donovan lowered his mouth to hers and used his tongue to clean her lips, nibbling for a moment on her bottom one. “Don’t kill them just yet. I have been recruited to play Santa in the winter festival on Saturday.”
Saturday, she thought, her pulse starting to throb wickedly. “Well, aren’t we becoming domesticated?”
“Hell, I don’t mind,” Donovan chuckled. “I’ll learn how to cook and clean better for all this good food I’ve been eating. I swear I gained ten pounds today.”
“I guarantee you’ll work it off tomorrow if you’re still up for Black Friday shopping.”
Donovan took a step back to grandstand his opportunity to unzip the gray sweatshirt. He revealed her mother’s latest design of family T-shirts. This one was a Christmas-green, cotton, long-sleeved T-shirt with #TeamBlackFriday across the front with a set of cartoonish elves at the bottom of the hashtagged word.
“Dear Lord,” British gasped and took a bite of her cupcake while her eyes rolled back in ecstasy. She savored the sweet potato flavor with the bourbon maple-bacon frosting.
“Oh wait—” Donovan turned around “—it gets better.” He stripped out of the black hoodie and tossed it to the side, turning his back to her.
Like any regular hot-blooded American woman, British was a bit distracted by the sight of Donovan’s rear in his jeans and bowed legs.
“What do you think?” Donovan asked.
“Oh yeah.” She laughed at the shirt. The writing—If Lost, Return to This Lady—was typical Joan, along with an oversize picture of her mother’s face. “You have no idea what you’re in for tomorrow.”
Donovan clapped his hands together. “Speaking of tomorrow. I’ve got some good news.”
“What’s that?” British perked up.
“Right after giving me this shirt and before I came out here to talk to you, your mom said I could spend the night.”
British did a quick calculation of the six bedrooms they already had and the fact that her room was where the little kids were sleeping. Donovan would probably take the couch in the downstairs family room. She’d have to cross where her parents slept in order to get to where they’d put Donovan. She tried to weigh out her options and routes.
Reading her mind, he shook his head back and forth. “You’re really trying to get me killed today,” Donovan laughed. “We’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”
Except they didn’t. Donovan’s vacation had to end eventually.
* * *
“The building looks recently renovated,” Donovan said, taking hold of British’s keys to her apartment in downtown Southwood after a long and tiring day of Black Friday shopping. “Have you lived here long?”
They’d woken before dawn and hit the sales immediately, driving over to the malls in Peachville and Samaritan, and finishing up at the boutiques in Southwood. They’d headed back to the Woodburys’ for leftovers and dessert before dark if they got hungry. The only thing British had a taste for right now was Donovan. It took her forever to fall asleep last night. Knowing Donovan slept one floor below on the couch teased her light dreams with the things they could do. She’d replayed every way in her mind she could get to him, including him sneaking up to her room or climbing down the trellis of her childhood bedroom window.
It was weird having a man let himself into her apartment, but at the same time, not. After spending the last forty-eight hours with Donovan, he’d become almost a part of her. British lifted the straps of her purse off her shoulder and set it on the Victorian chair by the front door, which immediately opened into the neat living room with the Victorian floral couch facing them. Lesson plans cluttered the glass coffee table. The bookshelves were mingled with photographs of classrooms and after-school accomplishments. She
wondered if Donovan expected to see a shrine to Christian.
“I moved in about four and a half years ago after Christian died.” Without looking at him, she knew Donovan quickly calculated the timing of everything. She kicked out of her canvas sneakers and pushed them against the shoe rack by the door. “I lived with my parents the first six months after the funeral.”
“Only six?” His voice hinted at humor.
“You’ve met my parents,” British said with a laugh. She watched Donovan stroll into the living room with his hands clasped behind his back, inspecting all the photographs and then the view from the balcony. He wore a pair of fitted denim jeans and a long-sleeved, hunter green Henley shirt that he’d picked up while shopping today. Since Thursday morning he hadn’t shaved. The beard he sported had thickened. The rugged look was rather sexy. He turned with a questioning stare.
“There’s only so much a grown woman can handle living under the roof of her parents,” she went on to explain, “but the deciding factor was listening to my dad speak with a Jamaican accent.”
Her answer only left Donovan waiting for another. He folded his arms across his broad chest. His size made him look like a giant against her dainty couch. “I’m confused.”
British inhaled deeply, hating to explain her parents’ oddities. “My dad was born and raised in Black Wolf Creek.”
“Which you pointed out on the Ferris wheel the other night.”
“Nice memory,” British said with a nod.
“The company helped,” Donovan replied with a wink.
“Anyway, my parents grew up just a few miles apart and it took a foreign exchange student photo shoot to bring them together. My mom was modeling at this big-time shoot and had just finished a semester overseas. The photographer needed an interpreter for another model and since my dad was friends with the photographer and right over at Clark Atlanta University, he came over to help.”
“Was the model Jamaican?”
Confused, British shook her head. “No? Oh, because of the Jamaican accent my dad did? So, like I said, what attracted my mom to him was his way with foreign languages. The model who needed a translator was from Finland.”
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