“You don’t seem fazed one bit,” said Marcus.
“I’m not,” Donovan replied. “This time off was requested two weeks ago.”
“Vacation suits you. Are you planning on telling me where you are?”
Donovan cocked his head to see around Marcus’s big head. “Where’s Will?”
Marcus glanced up then back at the screen. “Speak of the devil.”
“You guys talking about me again?” Will, their younger brother, said, coming around to Marcus’s side of the desk. Both men wore their signature suits, custom tailored at that. “What’s up? Where are you?”
“I’m taking care of myself.” Donovan dismissed his brothers’ curiosity. “What’s going on with this alleged million dollars I am costing the company? I am the chief financial officer. I think I’d know if we are in danger.”
“We were banking on the announcement for the new face of RC coming this weekend, so we can go ahead and book the production team,” explained Marcus. “The crew is now on retainer so they don’t take any jobs over the holidays. We had to make a sweet deal in order to do so. Zoe agreed with me.”
With Zoe Baldwin, makeup artist extraordinaire on board as the creative director, business had never been better. Profits were through the roof last quarter, and that was despite buying out half of the Ravens cousins for their shares.
“Did Zoe say something?”
“You mean Zoe, my wife?” Will clarified his claim by puffing out his chest. Probably the best decision his brother had ever made was marrying Zoe. The two of them together were a powerhouse in the beauty business.
Back before Will had come into the family business, Zoe had been not just a freelance makeup artist, but a good friend of the family business. She’d see Donovan and Marcus on assignment as well as around town at social events. They were friends. Zoe always gave her two Ravens brothers-in-law a hard time about their playboy lifestyle.
Donovan shook his head and huffed in annoyance. “You don’t need to remind us every time we talk,” he said. “We were at the wedding.” The small ceremony was held right here on the same grounds where Donovan was vacationing.
“I just wanted to make sure,” Will joked and grinned. “But seriously, she is concerned for you and your relationship with Tracy Blount, after what she heard.”
“Are you telling me I have a reputation now?” Donovan asked with a smirk. He lifted his coffee mug to his mouth and blew. He could give a crap about the rumor mill. Thanks to the gossip columnists keeping track of Donovan and Tracy’s dates, fans were rooting for the supermodel. Hell, he too thought she might have been the one. He admired that she never asked him for anything and liked that Tracy didn’t require him to stand as her arm candy at events. But alas, she was just another failed relationship for Donovan, this time caught on camera. When everyone else found out they’d all side with Tracy and pin her as the martyr for putting up with seeing his face every day for six weeks. At least this time there’d be video to explain the breakup. Donovan’s ego had taken a blow. What was worse, a woman cheating on you or the fact it happened in his own bed? How humiliated was he going to be? For entertainment purposes he asked anyway. “Wait, what’s being said?”
“That you had plans to propose to her,” answered Will.
Hot coffee spewed onto the keyboard. “What?”
“That’s what I’m saying,” said Marcus, smacking his hand on the arm of his chair. “I wagered a million bucks with Will that there’s no way you’re thinking about settling down.”
“Your money is safe, big bro,” Donovan replied flatly.
“Well, when are you coming back?”
“Are bills not being paid?” Donovan asked, emphasizing his sarcasm. He pushed away from the desk and walked backward to the bathroom, where he’d kept his towel from his shower this morning, but it was still wet. He took the shirt off his back and wiped the black keyboard. Will and Marcus groaned. Donovan sneered and winked, proud of the time and effort he put into the gym.
“Put that bird chest away,” said Marcus.
“Dear God, man,” Will gasped, “your chest is as bare as a baby’s bottom.”
Donovan flipped them both the middle finger. “Is there a reason for this call or did you just want to bust my chops?”
Marcus leaned back in his chair. “I’m still curious about where you are.”
Will leaned close to the monitor and stared beyond Donovan’s frame. Donovan pushed the screen to face the ceiling. “Well, if there’s nothing else...”
“Wait,” said Will. “What’s the deal with Tracy?”
Discussing what exactly had transpired in his condo was not something Donovan planned to discuss with his brothers. “What?”
“I’m talking about her being the face of RC next year.”
“Not happening,” said Donovan, pulling the screen down in time to see Will rake his hand over his face.
“You are aware you’re the chief financial officer,” reminded Will. “I’m the CEO.”
“Do you want to test me, little bro?” Donovan asked his brother with a questioning brow.
“What I want is a fresh new face to reveal at midnight,” Will declared without backing down. “One that’s not in every music video or perhaps even your bed. Clearly I’m not getting that.”
Donovan sighed at his brother. “And why not?”
“Look, I’ve been courting Tracy’s agency for months now. I might be obligated to use her.”
The ad campaign was going to kick off Christmas Eve. The makeup for this line had cost millions to make vegan friendly. Donovan hadn’t known Will had considered Tracy as the new face, nor did he care. “Find someone else.”
“You find someone,” Will snapped back in annoyance.
Donovan gnashed his teeth together to keep from commenting. He tried to understand the pressure of his younger brother. They, Donovan and his siblings included, helped place him in the position as CEO of Ravens.
“Models are crawling all over this place,” said Marcus, the peacemaker. “We can come up with someone.”
Will leaned forward to the monitor, pressing his fists on the table. “No. See, this is the problem with you dating the models around here, Donovan. When you get tired of them, it’s our job to smooth things over. I’m usually scrambling to find a print ad for your throwaways, but not this time.”
“What?” Donovan asked, feeling a headache building. The girls outside his window began to squeal. Now he understood why the teacher had come over here with her tasty bribery basket. No way there’d be peace and quiet with them around.
“I am serious, Donovan,” Will said in a clipped tone. “You screwed this up, you find the perfect model.”
How had Tracy’s disrespectful infidelity become his fault? “I’m on vacation,” said Donovan with a yawn.
“Not my problem,” Will huffed. “If you don’t find someone by Christmas, I’m hiring Tracy.”
Donovan attempted to weigh his options but couldn’t...not with all the hollering. Footsteps echoed down the stairs, followed by parents telling the girls to be quiet and stop disturbing the upstairs guest. Too late.
“Miss B’s here!” a girl yelled.
British? Donovan wondered. He stepped away from the desk and strolled over to the open balcony. Downstairs he spotted her, British Carres. She stepped out of a sleek black Accord with gold trim. First came her long legs, encased in a pair of formfitting jeans, a white T-shirt with black writing—BBD, for Bell, Biv, DeVoe, if he wasn’t mistaken—knotted at her hip and accentuating her curves. British stood to her full height and with her left hand loosened the bun at the top of her head. Mounds of curls spilled down her neck and over her shoulders. Sunlight caught the natural gold highlights of her tresses.
“Do you hear me, Donovan?” Will yelled. “I am pulling rank on you.”
“He’s o
n vacation, Will,” said Marcus.
“Oh, and Donovan...” Will called out.
“What?” Donovan growled.
“Make sure the one you pick isn’t one you’ve slept with already.”
Donovan leaned against the open door of the balcony and folded his arms across his chest. He was pretty sure he’d found the perfect woman—whether for the ad or for him was yet to be determined.
* * *
British had finally arrived at Magnolia Palace on Monday morning ready for work and perhaps a little rest from constant family calls. With Thanksgiving this week, everyone in British’s Woodbury family wanted her to promise to stop by for dinner, as well as the historic Woodbury events after the festive holiday. British purposely left her cell phone in her car and closed the door just as it began ringing again.
Inside the foyer of the hotel, the four competing girls from STEM for GRITS made their way down the steps to greet British. The team voted on their strongest members to start off the competition. Lacey’s, Stephanie’s, Kathleen’s and Natasha’s homes had been damaged by the fire at the recreation center. Insurance had covered the roofs but their parents appreciated this time for their girls to be able to concentrate on coming up with ideas for the STEM project.
Thanks to Ramon—and with Kenzie’s urging—Southwood had recently resurrected the old post office, turning it into a new recreation center. Unfortunately, because of British’s insistence, two teams at Southwood High had booked the new recreation center, also owned by Ramon.
Two of the girls and their families had taken up the offer to stay on the property. The other two girls had come to hang out and plot together today. The last text British had looked at before she’d left her apartment complex indicated that the girls were going to take a tour of the property. British guessed a part of the tour would be a high-speed foot chase. Who said boys were the only ones allowed to be rough?
“No running,” British yelled out and accepted the card key from the casually dressed desk clerk. She guessed having more than one guest at the hotel had brought in more staff members for the Thanksgiving week. British offered an apologetic smile and hiked her weekender bag over her shoulder. The simple movement jacked up the short sleeve of her pumpkin-colored sweater on her biceps. The movement caused her to think about the sole guest at Magnolia Palace. Donovan Ravens.
When she’d left the Cupcakery, she’d hoped she had done so without causing any suspicion from her in-laws, Vonna and Tiffani. They, along with Maggie, were smitten and flattered that the handsome stranger had made the trip into town for more cupcakes. If they’d guessed she was the one who had first brought him the cupcakes, they hadn’t let on. British found herself glancing upward and held her breath. Was she looking for him? Dang it, Vonna. British groaned and pushed her mother-in-law’s words out of her mind.
Chef Jessilyn met British in the foyer by the front desk and, a smirk on her face, wiped her hands on a red-and-white-checked washcloth.
“Jessilyn,” British began to say as she stared at the red bows tied at the ends of Jessilyn’s twin French braids, “it’s nice to see you again.”
“For the record, I will not be serving you peach pie,” Jessilyn warned.
The most British could do was sigh in annoyance. Clearly, Jessilyn was never going to get over the grade she’d been assigned. Given the largest peach producers came from the Southwood quad-state area, British’s final assignment to her students had been a peach pie. British guessed she should have picked up on Jessilyn’s baking talent when she’d turned in a peach cobbler with homemade peach ice cream, but that was not the assignment.
“No one is asking you to,” said British. She never knew if Jessilyn, who’d regularly earned a 4.0 since kindergarten, resented having her perfect GPA lowered or if it had anything to do with not respecting British as her authority figure at the time. “Even if you did, I can’t go back into the system and change your grade for you.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Jessilyn asked with a narrowed glare.
This was going to be a long week. Perhaps she needed to order out for meals. British shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Someone else hollered, “Whoa! Staff crossing here,” and then laughed at the chorused apology from the rambunctious girls. Mrs. Fitzhugh appeared at the entrance of the east hallway, dressed casually, like the desk clerk, in a pair of khaki pants and a white pullover shirt. Mrs. Fitzhugh used to work as a seamstress and had seen a lot of British when she’d come into her shop to have a pageant dress altered. Not only was Southwood home to peaches, it also produced several beauty queens.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Fitzhugh,” said British.
The girls appeared at the elderly woman’s side. “We need a light signaling someone’s in the hallway,” Lacey Bonds suggested.
“Or—” British reached out and tugged on the red bill of Lacey’s baseball cap “—you could try not running indoors, huh?”
At least Lacey had the common sense to hold her head low as she apologized to Mrs. Fitzhugh.
Jessilyn made her presence known with a scoff.
British inhaled deeply. “I have students who actually want to work, Jessilyn, so if you’ll excuse me.”
British hiked her bag once more, this time tugging down her sleeve before stepping onto the circular staircase. If she was going to chase after her students, she needed to set her belongings down.
“Ms. B,” Lacey drawled in her rich Southern accent, “we can help you.”
The rest of the musketeers—Stephanie, Kathleen and Natasha—came up behind Lacey.
Last summer, the preteen engineering expert Natasha had placed first at robotics camp with her fifth-grade class. She’d been heartbroken when she hadn’t qualified to be on the robotics team at Southwood Middle School.
Coding was Kathleen’s specialty. She’d coordinated the best back-to-school light show earlier this year in the cafeteria.
As delicate as her name was, Lacey was quite the tomboy and math whiz. She could calculate how much force to put into a soccer ball and where to kick to make it spin. Wholly the opposite of her best friend, Stephanie loved everything girlie. She was their budding chemist. She found a way to counter her parents’ rule against not wearing makeup by using cherries to stain her lips.
“Thanks, Lace,” British said, not fighting the tug at the handle of the weekend bag. Because she lived in Southwood, British didn’t pack a lot of things. Her variety of canvas shoes mainly weighed the most. For a moment she regretted not bringing anything feminine like a cute lacy top and some sandals, just in case she ran into Donovan.
Lacey threw the bag over her shoulder as if it was nothing. “Your room is up here,” said Lacey. The energetic girl took two steps at a time and talked over her shoulder. “Mama thought you might want to stay at the other end of the hall, away from us.”
“Yeah,” Natasha chimed in, making the task a race. Heavy footsteps echoed and rattled the gold-framed portraits hanging from the walls. “Something about us making a lot of noise since Miss Kenzie said the four of us could stay in the same room together. She said there’s only one other person over here.”
“Wasn’t that sweet of her,” British cooed with a sarcasm the girls didn’t pick up on. “I’m going to have to send her a thank-you note.” Kenzie knew what she was doing.
Parents often made beauty pageants awkward and competitive. British was fortunate to start off early with toddler pageants and bonded with the other girls who later became close friends of hers throughout life. They called themselves the Tiara Squad. British served as a bridesmaid to Felicia Ward last summer and attended Kenzie’s private ceremony. The other girls in her Tiara Squad had married, and everyone had tried to find a way to get British back into the dating market. If she ever was in the dating market. She’d dated here and there but no one had caught her attention long enough the way Christian had.
&
nbsp; With Christian, she loved his patience and understanding. He made her feel like the only woman in the world who mattered. It never mattered if she didn’t receive the highly prized title in a beauty pageant; she was always his queen. Christian drove her everywhere and whenever she wanted to speak with other girls at pageants about STEM.
The girls raced down the long hallway toward the private rooms. British knew from past experience when she and her family had come here on the weekends about the some of the rooms connecting. Hopefully in all the renovations Ramon had sealed off the joint bathrooms. The idea of being next door to Donovan caused her heart to skip a beat with anticipation.
“No running,” British called out to the girls, who responded with a fit of giggles. The last thing she wanted to do was to disturb Donovan. She wasn’t ready to face him again. A flock of butterflies fluttered around in the pit of her stomach. British bit her bottom lip and took a deep breath.
Besides knowing what Donovan did for a living, British had deduced something personal about the man. He’d been in an accident at some point in his life. A serious one. And while the girls were usually polite, they were still children and the X-shaped scar said a lot about the trauma Donovan had faced in his past. British didn’t want him to feel bad or to be reminded. Maybe that’s why he hid himself away in a hotel in Southwood.
For British, the scar along Donovan’s face also told her he’d survived something. In Christian’s car accident, his face had hit the steering wheel and the stitches the doctors had tried to put in were in the shape of an X, as well. In the little bit of time Christian had left on earth, he had worried about being seen as a monster and frightening children. It was a ridiculous thought and British had told him so. She would give anything to argue with him over the mark again.
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