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  “No, I won’t keep you up.”

  Too late, Donovan thought, with his erection rising. A towel could only hide so much. For British to not see how immature he was, he leaned forward at an angle and pressed his arm against the jamb. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to thank you again for a lovely evening,” she said. Her fingers reached for a coil of her hair and twirled it. “And...”

  A bit distracted by not seeing the rock on her finger, Donovan shook his head. “And what?” he inquired. If it got any quieter between them, she might be able to hear the pounding of his heart.

  “I believe in finishing what I start.”

  “Which is—?” He barely got his question out before British leaped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging him to her level. Her soft lips pressed against his. Their mouths opened and tongues discovered each other. She tasted minty and fresh. The warmth of her body scorched his. Bells rang in his head. Never in his life had a kiss from a woman rocked him to his core. He needed more. Donovan let go of the door frame to wrap his arms around her waist, but she pulled away.

  “We were interrupted twice,” British breathed, “and I don’t like going to bed with regrets. Good night, Donovan.”

  Chapter 6

  For the most part, British tried to live without regret, but perhaps she felt a watered-down version of it when she bounced down the steps into the dining room, only to find Donovan seated at the table scanning the front page of the Southwood Democrat, the local paper, the following morning. From his profile she noticed he wore a pair of black basketball shorts and a black University of Miami muscle shirt. His arms bulged and British wished she’d worn her hair loose around her face instead of in a bun. Heat crept up from her neck to her ears.

  Last night, when he wore nothing but a towel, she’d spotted a tribal half tattoo sleeve over his left shoulder and chest. And here she was, cringing at the flu shot she received last week. The pages crinkled at the fold when he lowered it when she walked into the room. His sideburns rose with the corners of his mouth as he smiled.

  “Good morning,” he greeted in his deep voice.

  Steam rose from the white porcelain cup of black coffee by his side. On the long cherrywood table sat two empty cereal bowls, each one on a place mat on either side of Donovan. The smell of savory bacon filled the air.

  “Good morning.” British made her way over to the credenza to the wicker bowl of fresh fruit, well aware he was staring at her. As a teacher of middle school kids, British felt it important to be a role model and to dress appropriately for her audience. She wore modest-length pencil skirts and loose-fitting slacks and always paired them with a decent heel and pretty blouse. But away from work, British prided herself on her collection of New Edition T-shirts and jeans. Now she questioned the pink sweats she wore with her white canvas shoes. Anticipating the cooler weather, British also wore a plain white V-necked shirt with a matching zipper hoodie. The kind of women who threw themselves at Donovan were probably six-feet-plus, impeccably dressed women with flawless skin, like her mother.

  Damn it, she did not focus on beauty and now here she was, one kiss in and underestimating herself. British palmed an apple and turned to face him, resting her hip on the wooden furniture. “I see the girls have eaten.”

  “They have,” said Donovan. “I sent them to the store to pick up the things they’re going to need for their STEM-Off.”

  “I have an account for them at the hardware store downtown,” she said, taking hold of the stem from the fruit. For some reason, she mentally played a juvenile game, twisting the apple in her hand and sounding off the letters of the alphabet. When the stem broke away, the initial landed on would be the person you’d marry. A-B-C-D. D? “Seriously?” she mumbled under her breath. This was not what her PhD in STEM Education was about.

  “Why spend your own money when I said I’d be a sponsor?”

  “Donovan,” she said with a warning tone.

  “If you agree to being RC’s spokesmodel, I believe you can even write it off as a business expense.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” she responded.

  Donovan lifted a brow over the paper and studied her for a moment. “I didn’t hear a ‘no’ in there.”

  “Absolutely and unequivocally no, especially not now,” British said in a clipped tone.

  The gossip column on the front page disappeared as he folded the paper. His thick brows rose in question. “Don’t tell me after last night you’re changing your mind about me.”

  To warn him, British glanced in his direction and then darted a glance toward the vacant dining room entrance. She sat down beside him and spoke in a whisper. “The last thing I want is for my students to get the wrong idea.”

  “That we kissed?”

  She hushed him with her furrowed brows and frown. Before she got the chance to scold him verbally, Jessilyn opened the swinging dining room door with her hip. The chef offered British a snarl.

  “Here’s your breakfast,” Jessilyn said to Donovan. She set a bowl and a plate in front of him. While Donovan put the newspaper on the seat beside him, Jessilyn pointed out the items in front of him. “My from-scratch biscuits and a bowl of gravy.”

  British wanted to be the first to tell Jessilyn how delicious her breakfast smelled but decided not to. The compliment could end up with Jessilyn asking for her to go back into the system and change her grades. But damn, it might be worth it for a biscuit drizzled in the thick, peppery sauce. British’s stomach growled.

  “Thanks,” Donovan said to Jessilyn. “British, I’m sure Jessilyn has more.”

  “No, thank you,” British replied with a sweet smile.

  “She’s afraid I’ll poison hers,” explained Jessilyn.

  Donovan picked up his fork and knife and cut into the fluffy biscuit, then proceed to dip it into the gravy. British and Jessilyn moved closer to inspect what he was doing.

  “Something wrong?” Donovan asked.

  “What are you doing to my biscuits?” Jessilyn asked, her arms folded across her chest.

  “Eating them?” Donovan responded slowly as if they were the ones who were crazy.

  “Why are you dipping your biscuit like a dieter dips her fork into her salad dressing on the side?” British asked.

  Donovan sat back in his seat. “This is how eating biscuits and gravy is done.”

  “By who?” British and Jessilyn asked together.

  Ignoring them, Donovan went back to cutting a piece of his biscuit. “This is how we eat them in the South.”

  “No, honey,” snapped Jessilyn. She grabbed the plate from in front of Donovan and slid it, then the bowl, toward British “Ms. B, will you please do the honors?”

  “Donovan, you live in South Beach,” said British. She picked up the bowl and drizzled the thick, white gravy on top of the partially eaten biscuit. “Here in the true South, we smother our biscuits.”

  Now satisfied with the proper way the breakfast was being eaten, Jessilyn turned to Donovan, her hands on her hips. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Donovan said, saluting her.

  “Fine. I’ll bring you another plate.”

  British devoured his breakfast. She hummed while she chewed. She even contemplated going over to Southwood High School and getting that grade changed. “This is so delicious,” British informed Donovan.

  “So was the one bite I had.” Donovan pressed his elbows on the table and shook his head. “I’m glad my faux pas on biscuits and gravy etiquette created a bond between the two of you. Perhaps now you’ll have dinner with me?”

  “Donovan,” British said, hoping he heard the warning tone in her voice. Her eyes flittered toward the arched entrance where Stephanie’s parents giggled and made their way to the table. Apparently the lovefest from last night continued today.

  “Yes?” Don
ovan asked. He smiled devilishly, which only made him more handsome. “Jessilyn wanted to make sure we had a proper dinner tonight before everyone left.”

  “Everyone’s leaving?” British looked up at Stephanie’s mother.

  “Just for the Thanksgiving break,” she told her. “With our house still under construction, we’re going to spend the next few days with family in Peachville.”

  With everyone gone, British realized there’d be no point in her staying, either. Images of her and Donovan rolling around on the king-size bed in his room flooded her mind. Her senses became alert and blood pulsed through her fingertips. British dropped her fork. Everyone at the table stared. “Sorry, y’all. Will you excuse me, please?”

  British pushed herself away from the table and briskly walked out of the dining room. This wasn’t right. She was here to help the girls with the upcoming competition. If the girls were leaving, there was no point in British staying here. She needed to go upstairs and pack, not to fantasize about the hunk at the end of the table. This couldn’t be what Vonna had been talking about when she’d said it was beyond time for British to move on. Tiffani’s idea, maybe.

  She barely got to the staircase before Donovan caught up with her. His fingers laced around her upper arm as he led her into the library. The blinds were closed tight, sealing out the morning sun. The scent of old books overpowered the faint bacon aroma. British backed up against the wall to the sunroom.

  “We always seem to find ourselves in here,” Donovan whispered.

  “You keep cornering me,” said British, squaring her shoulders. The slight movement allowed a sliver of the sun inside the room. Donovan pressed his left hand above the wall just over her head. “You really ought to stop teasing me.”

  Heart racing, British licked her lips. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Why do you have me trapped in the library?”

  Donovan turned his body to the right and allowed his biceps to point toward the door. “By all means,” he teased, licking his bottom lip, “you’re free to go, Ms. B.”

  Maybe it was the pounding in her ears or the distracting way his bulging bicep appeared, but she stayed. “How am I teasing you?”

  “First, coming to my room via the balcony last night.”

  “Yeah...well,” British huffed, “it’s not like I could knock on your door and risk one of the girls seeing me and get the wrong idea.”

  “What idea would that be?”

  To create space between them, British folded her arms across her chest. “Like I said last night, I didn’t want to go to sleep without doing what I wanted to do.”

  “Which was to kiss me?” Donovan dropped his arm and faced her. “And your point of traipsing into the dining room with your hair like this was?” He reached out and touched a tendril that must have come loose.

  British pushed his hand away from her face. The touch sent a shiver down her spine. “Like what?”

  “The ole librarian bun at the top of your head.”

  She blinked blindly.

  Donovan’s eyes widened. “You don’t know about the fantasies men have.”

  “Considering the librarians I’ve met...” British began with a deep sigh.

  “There was a librarian in college and, if it weren’t for her, I probably would never have studied.” Donovan closed his eyes long enough for a strange jealous feeling to wash over British. She pushed at Donovan’s chest, ignoring the hard muscles of his pecs. His eyes opened and his hand caught her fingertips. She didn’t expect to shiver when he brought them to his lips for a soft kiss. “Aw, wait, you can’t get mad at me for remembering Ms. Fredd.”

  “I’m not mad at a thing,” British said calmly. Her insides screamed. “I just don’t want anyone walking in on us.”

  “That’s good to know.” Donovan dropped his left hand and pushed the stray hair behind British’s ear.

  “What?”

  “That you’re at least thinking of me and you as an us.” He slid his index finger along the slop of her nose.

  “Donovan, I...” Again she couldn’t find the right words.

  “We’ll take things slow, British,” Donovan said. “And, fortunately for us, we’ll be all alone after Thanksgiving.”

  Slow? Why the hell would she want something slow with Donovan? No, she wanted him fast, hard and sweaty. The back of British’s throat went dry. Every image about the two of them together, in each crevice of this hotel, flashed through her mind like 8 mm film.

  “Hey, we’re back!” Stephanie yelled, coming through the front door. “Mr. D, we even saved you money.”

  And my hide, British thought to herself. Donovan was in Southwood for one reason only: to get away from his life down south. This made him a perfect choice for her. Eventually he was going to go home and to his life. That’s what she wanted. Right?

  * * *

  Later on that evening, Donovan double-checked his garnet-and-gold tie in the mirror behind the vacated concierge’s desk. “Don’t act like this is your first meal with her, man,” he told himself, “other people will be there.”

  The palms of his hands sweated. His heart raced with anticipation of seeing British again. He rolled his eyes, chiding himself for being so juvenile. Just because he hadn’t seen her since breakfast didn’t mean he needed to be so nervous. Except he was. Donovan had thrown down the gauntlet. He’d made his intentions clear. Right?

  Hell, since when did he start doubting himself?

  A set of twinkle lights suddenly lit up the hallway, followed by a surprised curse. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

  “You okay, Mrs. Fitzhugh?” Donovan made his way down the hall to where the housekeeper tried to keep the elevator door open with her foot since her hands were filled with towels. The fresh, clean scent intoxicated him. While the condo in Miami was immaculate, Donovan’s housekeeper put everything away herself, including his laundry and dry cleaning. He missed the warm fabric-softener smell from summers with his grandmother. God, when was the last time he’d smelled that scent? Maybe when he was twelve?

  “I forgot how smart those girls were,” she breathed. “One of them said they wanted to set up a mirror or something so they didn’t crash into me.”

  “Looks like they set up motion sensors,” Donovan said with a nod. He looked around to find a plug but figured they were somehow battery-operated. “Genius, I’ll have to tell them over dinner tonight.”

  “Looks like it’s just going to be the two of you, love,” said Mrs. Fitzhugh.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t you hear about the storm?” The elderly woman began walking toward the hallway. Light flashed through the windows at the end of the corridor.

  Since Will left a text every hour on the hour about his deadline, Donovan had turned his phone off. He was still on vacation, damn it. “I smell dinner.”

  Mrs. Fitzhugh nodded. “That’s our little Jessilyn. She’s quite the efficient chef. Everything is done.” They stopped at a linen closet and she opened the door and pointed. “She finished dinner and headed out early. I hope you don’t mind. Mr. Torres said for us to go home for the Thanksgiving break.”

  Good thing Ramon hadn’t mentioned how Donovan had wanted them all to have extra pay for their time, as well, and he’d cover it. Otherwise it might be a bit awkward right now. “Sounds like a great guy,” he said.

  “He is, and he’s even better with the new wife. There’s a softer side of him.”

  Women did that to men. They made them soft. Look at how nervous he was at the thought of seeing British again after eight hours, thirty-three minutes and forty-five seconds. Donovan bent his elbow, twisted his wrist to take a nonchalant glance at his gold watch and tried to ignore the anxious feeling.

  Mrs. Fitzhugh chuckled. Her body shook and her cheeks turned red. “You look like you’re fighting it.”

 
“Fighting what?”

  “The softer side,” she explained and then tapped him on the arm. “How long have you been single?”

  Donovan flashed the older woman a bright smile. “Are you flirting with me?” He reached out and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

  “Child, I have panties older than you,” she said, shrugging him off. “Besides, you’re just a boy.” Any attempt to get him away from her was feeble. The two of them laughed long and loud. They didn’t hear anyone coming. Donovan liked Mrs. Fitzhugh and clearly she did not mind him.

  “Be careful there, Mr. Ravens,” said a familiar voice at the bottom of the steps. “Mrs. Fitzhugh has a mean right hook. I’ve seen it.”

  “Ah, there you are,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said soberly, though her face was still red with laughter.

  Donovan’s heart slammed against his rib cage. British stood there with her arm propped up. She wore a formfitting blue gown that dipped into a V and exposed her full cleavage. Her curly hair hung loose and framed her face.

  “I was just informing Mr. Ravens that everyone has taken leave for the night.”

  British leaned against the banister, almost relieved. “Jessilyn, too?”

  “I thought you two bonded over making fun of me?” Donovan asked her.

  “Until I change her grade,” joked British, “I don’t want to be left alone with her.”

  “But you are eating dinner with us tonight? Right?” Donovan asked eagerly—hopefully not too eagerly. “You’re all dressed up.”

  “So are you,” she said, letting her eyes linger up and down his frame. Donovan puffed out his chest.

  “Well,” Mrs. Fitzhugh said with a nervous headshake, “I’m afraid it’s going to be just the two of you for dinner. Everyone else has decided to head on out before the storm hits and the roads get undrivable.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Fitzhugh?” British asked. “Aren’t you going to head out?”

  “Oh yes, I don’t want to miss Black Friday shopping in town. I wanted to make sure you guys ate.”