Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

  She and Dad engage in a lively talk about the deli business. I stand up. “I guess it’s you and me,” I say to the baby.

  I head to the bathroom attached to our room. Magnolia’s bed is piled with clothes, as if she struggled with what to wear. What of mine to wear.

  I flip on the light and turn to the mirror. “Bitterness doesn’t look good on you,” I tell myself. Rebel burps on my shoulder in agreement.

  The yellow walls of the bathroom reflect color onto my skin that makes me look sickly. I shake my head at myself. “You’re not giving up.”

  I head back to my suitcase, rummaging through it with one hand to find my cosmetic bag. I set up a small folding mirror on a table by the window. I need natural light. I line up the foundation, blush, and eye makeup.

  “Now, how about you?” I say to Rebel, shifting him to the crook of my arm. He seems content. I can try.

  The bucket seat is out in the other room, so I lay him on the middle of the bed, popping a pacifier in. “I need five minutes, okay?”

  By the time I’ve sat down, the pacifier has fallen out, but there’s no crying, so I move fast, working with the brushes and sponges to turn my light daytime look into a glam evening face to match Magnolia. No doubt the others will be just as made up.

  As I deepen my eye shadow, I glance at Rebel. He’s happily waving his arms, watching the slow turn of the ceiling fan. Love those things. The best babysitter ever.

  Now the dress. I swiftly unload the suitcase, looking to see what isn’t creased. Not much. I should have rolled everything up in tissue paper.

  But it had all happened so fast. Donovan’s unexpected arrival. The hurried packing.

  There’s one dress with enough Lycra to prevent it from wrinkling. It’s possibly too bright, a red so vivid it could stop traffic. The top is fitted but stretches to accommodate my ever-changing boobs, and right where my belly pooch would show, it flares into a full skirt.

  I quickly toss the pink sundress and pull on the red one. Unfortunately, the straps of the oversized nursing bra show on the neckline. I pull it back off. I have to make it work.

  It has been hours since I’ve nursed or pumped. Gah. I can’t risk not wearing nursing pads. I might leak, and the dress would show the circles like a painted sign.

  I press my hand to my chest. Yeah, pretty full. And I have to do my hair.

  I run back to the mirror. My hair has been twisted tight all day. The look is too casual to leave, but if I let it down, it will probably fall into loose curls.

  It’ll have to do.

  I dump the suitcase on the floor and lie down next to Rebel. “I’m counting on you, baby boy,” I say. “Get enough out of me that I can wear a normal bra. K?”

  He kicks his legs. I drag him close and lean in. While he’s latched, I pull pins out of my hair.

  I’m a multitasking machine.

  The voices in the other room assure me that they are all occupied. This is madness. Why did I think this trip would be some easy dream? I have a baby. Mom and Dad may be here, but the buck stops with me.

  My hair falls in a pile of curls on the pillow. So far, so good. I compare one boob to the other. All is well.

  I pull Rebel off, and he gives a startled cry of protest.

  “Hold on, baby. There’s more.” I move back to the chair and shift him to the other side. Now I can hold him with my right arm and use my left to work on my hair.

  I did plan this ahead, since I’m left-handed.

  I finger-comb the curls. They’re uneven. I walk, Rebel attached, back to my bag to find my hair products. I’m determined to make this work. I used to dazzle. I need to dazzle tonight.

  I sit down, hold the can between my thighs, and push on the nozzle in hopes the mousse will land in my hand.

  But I can’t judge the pressure from this angle, and the mousse shoots out, landing all over my thighs and Rebel’s arm.

  I yelp. Seriously! I shove the can on the table and look around for something to clean up this mess. There’s nothing but lace curtains, a pen with a long feather, and textured writing paper.

  It’ll have to do.

  I snatch up a piece of the paper and attempt to slide it along my legs to scoop up the pile of white hair mousse. It mostly works, enough that I can stand up and head to the bathroom.

  I wet a soft white washcloth, scrub my legs, and wipe the mousse off Rebel’s arm. He’s asleep. Thank God. I pull him away and rest him on the bed, praying he’ll stay down when I let go.

  He shifts, his jaw pumping as if he’s on the boob. But he doesn’t wake.

  I race back to the table, snatch up the mousse, and run to the bathroom. I’m about to put in the mousse when I think—dress first.

  I snatch it back up, realize I still have the fat-strap nursing bra on, and rip it off again.

  I dig for something daintier, swap it out, and shove nursing pads in the cups just in case.

  Now the dress.

  And back to the bathroom.

  My heart hammers like I’m running a sprint. I think I am. A chair scrapes in the next room, and I sense people are moving.

  Shoot!

  I squirt mousse into my palm and take a breath. I have to get this right the first time.

  I work it through, teasing the front curl into a big wave like a 1940s starlet. Then I squeeze it down, forming the curls into long, lush waves. I brush and brush until it shines.

  Magnolia peeks through the door. “Getting ready?”

  “I’m frantically finishing!”

  She leans over the baby. “He’s out like a light. What are you going to do with him?”

  I have no idea. Donovan mentioned a nanny, but that’s for the wedding. “Carry him with me, I guess?”

  Mom steps in. “You can’t eat at a formal dinner holding a baby!”

  I close my eyes a moment. She’s probably right. He might fuss and wreck the fairytale dinner.

  My hairbrush falls off the narrow ledge over the sink with a clatter. I bite my lip to hold back my tears. Stupid hormones.

  Magnolia speaks up. “It will be fine, Mom. Besides, we have time. Remember, the rehearsal will take forty-five minutes.”

  My shoulders drop about a mile. “I thought Dad said half an hour?”

  “Until the rehearsal,” Mags says. “That’s when Anthony has to report to the garden. The rest of us have plenty of time.”

  I stare into my own eyes. Forty-five more minutes. And I killed myself nursing while mousse-ing.

  “What’s on the table?” Mom asks. “It looks like whipped cream on paper.”

  All I can do is laugh. And when I start, it takes over, making my ungirdled belly jiggle. I press my hand in, but I’m lost, bent over the sink. I can’t stop.

  Mom comes to the doorway. “Havannah, are you all right?”

  I hold up a hand. “Fine. Just…” I can’t stop laughing.

  Magnolia picks up Rebel. “Mom, how about we take shifts? Havannah can start off with Rebel for the salad course. Then you take him for the soup, and I’ll take him during the entree.”

  “But Anthony’s your date!” Mom argues.

  “Then Dad takes him for the entree.” Magnolia’s face is set. She’s always willing to stand up directly to our parents. I’ve always just snuck around them.

  “All right,” Mom says. “If you think that’s best.”

  “Let Havannah have some time,” Magnolia says. “She can’t possibly get herself ready while also watching him.”

  Except I was!

  But I’m so relieved. “Thanks, Mags,” I whisper.

  She gives me a wink. “You watch. Everyone is going to want a chance to hold the baby. You have a bottle?”

  “I do. I’ll run some hot water to warm it right before we go.”

  Magnolia nods, and I realize how strong she’s become, how competent and reliable.

  I’m grateful. I return to the bathroom to set my hair.

  Baby or not, I’m going to enjoy myself.

  18r />
  Donovan

  The dinner is lavish, as expected. A ballroom has been transformed into a lush dining space, walls lined with silk, and an explosion of flowers in every corner.

  It’s mostly family, with the Pickle and the Boudreaux families taking up much of the U-shaped table.

  Dell, Arianna, and I are at the end of the Schultz side, which is light on attendees representing Camryn. Her parents sit to her right, but I heard her brother refused the trip. There’s one little old lady who is likely a grandmother. Next to her, it’s three women who must be bridesmaids, one with a boyfriend. Then us.

  Havannah sits directly opposite me on the side with the Pickles. She has Rebel on her shoulder, and our eyes frequently meet across the room. She’s stunning, like a movie star with long golden waves of hair and a siren-red dress. I can’t take my eyes off her.

  Arianna leans over. “Should we see if Diya can fetch the baby? I got it all arranged for tomorrow, but I didn’t even think about tonight.”

  “If he fusses, I’ll walk them over to our wing,” I say.

  She nods and returns to her salad.

  But the Boudreaux clan has a plan, and as the second course comes out, Malina takes her grandbaby so Havannah can quickly eat.

  I don’t see how anyone functions without a full-time nanny. But then, my own brother scaled back his career significantly to work around Grace.

  Of course, Grace is his. Rebel will never be mine.

  I ponder this predicament for the thousandth time as we move through to the main course. Havannah and I barely know each other compared to couples like Dell and Arianna, or Magnolia and Anthony.

  But I’ve spent more time with Havannah than any of the women in recent memory. My relationships, if you can call them that, generally involve a couple of charity events, a few evenings out, then a prolonged time apart due to my travel that seems to end things.

  Nobody has gotten clingy or dramatic about the beginnings or ends. I’ve only circled back once—Felicia O’Connor. And that was because she ended up in a boardroom with me about a year after our initial meeting, so we went through it a second time.

  I almost flew back to New York for a party she threw. A birthday or celebration of some sort. But I got stuck in Germany. She expected me to come, and when I failed to show, another dalliance fizzled into oblivion.

  But Havannah… I’ve flown to Boulder twice—once from Italy—just to see her. I’m up to six canceled or delayed meetings on her behalf.

  Clearly, this is different.

  She catches me watching her and gives a wave. I like the view from here. I can see her well and spot her interactions with her mother. But I also get a tasty glimpse of her long legs below the table. Her red shoes are killing me.

  I wonder if she’ll get away later.

  And if she’ll be in that dress.

  I can already feel her in my arms, her hair spilling down her back as I peel that red dress down her body like I did the sundress last night.

  I shift in my chair. Cool your jets, Donovan. You’re about to make a spectacle at a rehearsal dinner.

  Sherman Pickle stands for a toast, followed by several others. The dessert moves in, then out, and I tap my fingers on my leg impatiently. How long is this affair going to go on?

  Despite my attempts to redirect my thoughts, every glance at Havannah fills me with lurid visions. Kissing her skin. Revealing her body in the moonlight. Could I carry her back to my room? Would she be missed?

  Of course she would. The baby. The feedings.

  I blow out a long gust of air, causing Dell and Arianna to turn. I wave their concern away.

  Arianna leans in. “It is long.”

  At last, chairs scrape back and the family stands. Thank God.

  The moment people start to move, I head straight for Havannah and stand opposite her at the long table.

  “Fancy seeing you here,” she says, setting her napkin beside her plate.

  “Donovan,” Malina says. “We can’t thank you enough for getting Havannah here. It’s made this event all the more special.”

  “Of course. Glad we found a way to make it work.” I keep my gaze on Havannah, who grins up at me.

  Her parents share a glance. John Paul pats Rebel’s back. He has baby duty at the moment. “Will she be going back to Colorado with you?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ll work out a schedule with Dell. He’ll probably go back before we do.”

  Havannah’s eyebrows lift at that. We didn’t discuss an end date. Only getting here.

  But suddenly, I can’t imagine taking her back to Boulder while I’m in New York, or whatever far-flung place. I want her with me. We’ve made it work so far, with feedings and naps in car rides.

  “How long will you two stay in France?” her mother asks, concern on her face.

  “Not long,” Havannah says. “There’s only so much travel you can do with a baby.”

  Malina glances at Rebel, sleeping soundly on his grandfather’s shoulder. “He’s awfully little.”

  “It’s been fine,” Havannah says. “I’ve nursed him in the car between sightseeing. He’s slept well. Hardly fussy at all.”

  Havannah subtly pushes her chair back. She’s done with this line of talk. I don’t blame her.

  When Havannah stands, Malina asks, “Should we take the baby back to the room? I saw you had bottles.”

  “Yes, there’s several in the tiny fridge,” Havannah says. “I planned to run hot water over them to warm them.”

  Magnolia leans over from where she sits on the other side of their dad. “Get while the gettin’s good.”

  “I thought we could walk in the gardens,” I say.

  Havannah doesn’t have to be asked twice. She hops up and scoots around the end of the table. “Mom, Dad, text me if you run into a problem!”

  We dash out of the hall and into the great room with its towering fireplace. A few guests sit on the scattered sofas. I recognize some of them, but we quickly cross and head into the peony hall.

  “Where are we going?” Havannah asks, her heels clicking on the parquet wood floor.

  “Flowers lead to the garden,” I say, gesturing to the paintings.

  “Ohh, I saw it from the window,” Havannah says. “It’s quite an elaborate labyrinth of hedges and rosebushes.”

  “That’s what I’m counting on.”

  The sun is beginning to set when we finally locate an exterior door and push outside.

  It’s warm, and the scent of roses is heavy. Ahead of us is a line of tall, perfectly trimmed hedges that create the effect of walls. The pathways are made of flat white stones filled in with sparkling quartz. Off in the distance, rolling hills fill the countryside.

  “The light,” Havannah says. “I never thought sunlight could have such a different color in another part of the world.”

  “It’s more golden here. I’ve noticed it too.” I don’t want to talk about light. I want to kiss her. But a few other people wander the garden paths, and it’s only dusk.

  Havannah pauses at a row of ornate clay pots, each filled with a rosebush of a different color. Pink. Red. White. Yellow. She cups a blossom and breathes it in. “So magical.” She smiles up at me.

  I take her hand. She squeezes my fingers, and we continue walking.

  “It’s so strange not having my little chaperone attached to me,” she says.

  “Or in the bucket seat.”

  “He’s quite the cock-blocker, isn’t he?”

  God, she makes me laugh. “He is. Maybe he senses the competition—not that I’m anything compared to him.”

  Havannah sighs. “It’s different, of course. He needs me. I apparently need you.”

  Not as much as I currently need her. “We enjoy each other’s company.”

  “You’re helpful. My parents are over the moon that I’m here.”

  “Glad it worked out.”

  We turn into the labyrinth. Unlike the halls inside the castle, we have no system of
themed paintings here. Just a long wall of tall hedges blocking the view, occasionally broken by a bench or a pot of roses.

  “We could get lost in here forever,” she says, looking up.

  “We should have brought bread to crumble.”

  She pauses, looking back. “How will we find our way back?”

  “There haven’t been any forks,” I say. “So you simply have to return the way you came.”

  “Oh, I see.” She continues walking. “It’s not like a maze, where you could get stuck.”

  “Correct. When you turn off the main path, you simply stay in your section until you return. It might even circle back.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I was liking the idea of getting lost in here with you.”

  We turn another corner. There is no one on our path. I pull her into my arms. “Perhaps that was my nefarious plan all along.”

  Finally, we’re here. Alone. I slide my hand beneath her hair and pull her to me.

  She tastes of sweet cream and coffee from the dinner. I nibble along her lips, her back arching to press into me. The heat of last night’s interruption flares back.

  I slide my hands along her body, feeling every inch of her. The length of her spine, that sweet, round ass, the curve of her hips. My hand cups a soft, round breast.

  She breaks the kiss. “Careful. It’s been hours since I nursed.”

  I can feel the difference between now and last night. So taut and firm. I run my fingers gently over the fullness.

  I reclaim her mouth, sliding a hand down to her leg, lifting her by the back of the knee so we connect fully. I grind against her, and she clasps me tightly to increase the pressure.

  Our mouths part, Havannah’s head falling back. “I need something very quick, before anything stops us.”

  “Here?”

  She pulls back, lowering her leg, and takes my hand. It’s almost full dark. The half-moon has begun to take over with its pale luminous light.

  She pulls me farther along the path. We come to a flat bench, huge pots of roses on either end. We circle it to the back side, and she pushes me to sit on the bench, close to the wall of the hedge.