Her Mistletoe Bachelor Read online

  As children, everyone used to hang out here and swim in the lake behind the house. Ah, the memories, British thought to herself. The tires of her bicycle crunched on the fallen thick leaves of the magnolias. A wind howled through the tall trees and a shadow formed over the hotel.

  “Time to face the dragons,” she said to herself. British parked her bike on the bottom step before grabbing the brown wicker basket filled with an assortment of cupcakes from the local bakery responsible for the extra curves on her hips. A couple of fall treats like the Cupcakery’s salted caramel pecan, stuffed spice apple, pumpkin swirl latte and the infamous Death-by-Chocolate cupcake always eased loneliness. And British knew that firsthand.

  She took a deep breath, headed up the steps and reached for the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. She remembered that the skeleton crew might not be working just yet.

  Setting the wicker basket at her feet, British peered through one of the glass panels to the side of the red door as she pressed the doorbell. A chime set off across the polished hardwood floors of the lobby. The check-in station stood empty, the green lamp dark. Then she caught a glimpse of her reflection. She looked a mess in her bunched-up sweatshirt. How was she going to ask some stranger if he would mind her girls staying here during his vacation?

  Fingers grasping the hem of the material, she pulled it over her head, but the hoodie locked around the thick ponytail at the back of her head. Groaning, she bent over and gave it a tug, slipping on one of the magnolia leaves scattered on the porch with the last breeze. Her left ankle hit the basket and, to catch herself, she stepped forward and walked straight into the door.

  “Sonofabitch,” she hissed.

  As the door latch clicked from the inside, British’s hands locked in their sleeves. The door opened halfway, revealing a square, masculine jawline of a man. Thing was, it wasn’t just any man. One jet-black brow arched in wonder while his full lips, surrounded by a close black beard, twisted upward with amusement. The muscle in his biceps twitched and emphasized the definition, making him appear as if a sculpted African god. Chiseled from copper and mahogany wood. The door covered half his face and body, but the exposed parts left her something that hadn’t happened in a long time...speechless.

  Chapter 2

  After a few days of solitude at Magnolia Palace, Donovan welcomed any entertainment, even if it came from a fumbling woman trying to take off her sweatshirt. Donovan bit the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing in her face now that she realized she had an audience—though he hated to admit to being a little disappointed. The silence he’d allowed had given him the chance to admire the curves of her backside. She wore a pair of black canvas shoes and formfitting, light blue jeans. A lot of faith was put into the band that secured her ponytail of thick, curly brown hair. Donovan noticed her doe-like eyes, round, dark and soft. A basket of food sat by her feet and he realized he must be ogling the chef of the hotel.

  Since leaving his condo and Miami altogether, Donovan had taken Amelia’s suggestion and returned to Southwood, Georgia—by himself. He’d come here last summer to judge a beauty pageant. The original plans were meant to take Tracy away to the boutique hotel off the quiet lake. He’d thought if she’d survived a weekend by herself in his condo, she deserved a private trip. Now Donovan knew better—he’d dropped the girl and kept the reservations.

  After escorting the MET crew out of his place, Donovan had cooled his anger downstairs while waiting for Tracy to wake up. It took every ounce of his body not to throw them and the mattress out the window. Was he that much of a pushover for Tracy to sleep with someone else? Was he that less of a man that she needed to bring someone into his bed? The whole thing confused him. She was the first to say she loved him.

  Tracy came down, clearly startled to find him home earlier than expected. Donovan let Tracy and her friend leave with the sheets off his bed. The incident with Tracy further proved to Donovan that love was not meant for him. This time alone got him to thinking. Maybe the idea of having someone to love him forever did sound promising, but he hated himself for getting his hopes up. It saddened him to know he’d never have what his sisters and brother had. A family.

  Ramon Torres had promised that no one else had booked the boutique hotel for the last two weeks of November. Since it was just going to be him, Donovan had tried to insist Ramon give his staff the week off. No one needed to brave this weather just to accommodate him. But he wasn’t going to turn away good food. Not only did this chef have a great behind, she also had impeccable timing. Donovan had just finished the last premade meal she’d packed in the freezer.

  Finally adjusted, the chef turned around. Being CFO of a cosmetics conglomerate, Donovan had seen his fair share of beauty. Women threw themselves at him, expecting him to recognize whatever shade of lipstick they wore as one of his company’s. Donovan stayed away from the making of the cosmetics part. He even kept his mouth shut when it came to naming their products. But if he had to ever pick a shade or a name for this color, he’d call it breathtaking. The chef smiled a wide, toothy grin. The shade of her lips was a mixture of peach and rubies and matched the blush of her cheeks. She didn’t belong in the kitchen. She belonged on one of the gold-framed photos hanging on the walls of Ravens Cosmetics. Donovan cleared his throat.

  “Hi,” she said cheerfully. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem.” Donovan thanked God for the bass in his voice not failing him, considering the erection now threatening to rip the fabric of his blue mesh shorts, so much so that he thought he’d taken a trip down puberty lane. “Come on in. The kitchen is this way.” Donovan opened the door farther and shook his head. “What am I talking about? You know where the kitchen is.”

  The woman’s manicured brows rose but she didn’t say anything. Instead she breezed by him, leaving him in the scent of sweet honey. Once inside, Donovan closed the door, his hand still on the crystal knob, preparing himself for the wince most women made when they saw his face.

  “The kitchen?” she asked after turning, not batting a long lash but not moving, either. “You expect me to make you something?”

  “Well, I know I told Ramon to let the staff go while I’m here. You all don’t have to fret over me,” said Donovan, “but the premade plates you made were so good and gone as of this morning.”

  “I think there’s been some sort of mistake...” she began.

  “My bad.” Donovan chuckled out of nervousness. Why was he nervous? “I thought the dishes were for me. I ate them all. And I could eat a horse right about now.” A frozen look of horror flashed across her pretty face. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can go upstairs so you can cook,” added Donovan. “I’ve just been up here for a few days with no one to talk to. I was getting a little stir-crazy.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed her shoulders, giving Donovan a chance to recognize the band moniker on her shirt: New Edition. He’d attended the concert tour named on that shirt, filled out by full breasts. “You’re hungry.”

  “Pardon me?” Donovan’s attention snapped back to the walking sexpot. Sure, she’d tried to cover her curves with the shirt and the sweatshirt she’d wrestled with a moment ago, but Donovan recognized her stunning beauty.

  “I remember where the kitchen is,” she said, inclining her head down the hallway. “C’mon, I don’t mind if you want to watch me cook something for you. It will give us a second to talk.”

  She did ask him to follow her. Donovan took full advantage of the view she offered. This time it was the hypnotic sway of her hips. Damn. And he’d told Ramon to send his staff home. Geez, the things he could do with her for a week alone...

  “I feel like I haven’t been here in forever,” she said.

  “Well, it’s been a few days, I’m guessing,” he replied as they entered the large, open space of the kitchen. Donovan waited where the black-and-white tiles of the hallway met the hardwood of the kitchen.

 
“What are you in the mood for?”

  You, he thought. “How about your name?” Donovan asked.

  “British,” she said, extending her hand.

  He narrowed his eyes on her hand. Why had he thought the chef had two first names? Was it because the taxi driver who’d dropped him off at the hotel was named June Bug? The oversize diamond on her left hand, placed on her hip, caught his attention, disappointing him at the same time. So much for his next move, which would have been to kiss the back of her hand. Donovan didn’t do married women. “That’s an unusual name.”

  “Well,” British replied, “Joan Woodbury, my mother, is a very unusual woman. And you are...?”

  “Not an unusual woman,” Donovan answered with a half grin, easing into the friendly banter. “I’m Donovan.” He left off his last name for some reason. Since British didn’t blink at his scar or in recognition of him, he wanted to remain as anonymous as possible while he was here.

  “Nice to meet you, Donovan. Now that we have our names straight, what can I get for you?”

  “I’m starving. I could eat anything.”

  British’s laugh was light and airy. He liked it. “You’re in the country, Donovan. You ought to be careful about saying ‘anything.’”

  “A little roadkill never hurt anyone,” Donovan, affected by her humor, chortled.

  “We could skip breaking out the pots and pans and head over to the Roadside Kill Grill.” She reached for her sweatshirt but Donovan patted the counter.

  “I’m good with a tuna melt.”

  British winked. “Good to know. That’s one of my specialties. But while you’re in town you ought to give it a try. Summer barbecues never end in Southwood.”

  Surely the wink was meant to be teasing. To be safe, Donovan frowned and shook his head. “I’m good, really.”

  “Suit yourself,” said British. She turned her back to him and headed for the cabinets, opening them one by one, as if she wasn’t sure where to find anything.

  “Have you always liked to cook?” Donovan asked. He propped his elbows on the counter and watched her search the cabinets for food. “Been doing it long?”

  “Oh, all my life,” she said. “What about you? Hasn’t anyone taught you how to cook?”

  “I can cook.” Donovan felt the need to clarify when she stopped to gather a can of tuna, a jar of relish and a loaf of bread. She used her foot to kick the cabinet door closed and gave him a questioning look. “This just isn’t my kitchen to rumble through, other than the microwave for all the meals you left me, which were delicious, by the way,” he added.

  As if she didn’t know how to take a compliment, British pressed her lips together and inhaled deeply. Her large doe-like eyes briefly roamed to the chandelier before returning to meet his gaze. “Well, um...”

  “Besides,” Donovan went on, not wanting to embarrass her, “I know how chefs are about having other people in their kitchens. I didn’t want to step on your toes.”

  “This is very true.”

  After she found the right size bowl, British’s lovely hands stirred her ingredients together. She wore a pale pink polish on her nails, which were chipped, and she didn’t bother once to hide them from him. She was imperfectly perfect and he admired that. Other than standing behind halfway opened doors, there was no way to hide his scar. Maybe he’d give it a try one day. Donovan needed to remind himself that she was someone else’s wife.

  “With you being a full-time chef,” he began, “do you still like to cook for your husband?”

  Not looking up, British stopped stirring. Her shoulders rose, chest lifted, and then sagged back down. “My husband passed away a while back.”

  So young to be a widow. An ache crept through Donovan’s rib cage. His brother had recently wed. His parents had been married since the beginning of time. But he’d never known anyone who looked so young to have lost a spouse. “I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks,” British said with a half smile, which exposed her dimples.

  “How long were you married?” Are you prying? You’ve just met. And why do you feel like some adolescent kid with a crush? “You don’t have to answer me. It’s none of my business. I came here for peace and quiet, and here I am.” Donovan pressed his lips together. Why was he rambling? He hadn’t done so since middle school.

  “You’re fine, it’s been five years since Christian passed away,” she murmured. “We were married for three years but we had been together ever since middle school.”

  Donovan’s eyes widened at the idea of being with someone that long. Tracy had been the longest and that was barely six weeks. “Wow.” He couldn’t remember who he’d taken to his high school prom. Math being his favorite subject, Donovan calculated her age. “You’re, like, twenty-three.”

  “I’m twenty-eight—” she coughed and laughed “—but thanks.”

  “Country life must suit you.” Donovan inclined his head, not realizing until she blushed that he was flirting. When did he flirt? Women flirted with him.

  “Is that what you’re doing in Southwood, Mr. Donovan? Trying to find the fountain of youth?”

  Donovan clutched his heart. “How old do I look?”

  British leaned her head to the side and studied him. “Thirty-five.”

  “Tell me you worked at a carnival,” Donovan joked. He touched his chin and wondered if the gray was beginning to show.

  “I know.” British beamed and curtsied. Sadness disappeared from behind her eyes. “It’s a gift I have.” She finished the sandwiches and slid them onto a tray and into the broiler. “So is my tuna melt. You’re going to be thanking me in a minute or two.”

  “I can’t wait.” Donovan rubbed his hands together. When was the last time he’d shared a meal with a woman who didn’t want to hit up the latest hot spot?

  “But to answer your question, I don’t cook full-time. I am a teacher.”

  “What?” He held his hand in the air. Though she’d said her age, Donovan had a hard time picturing her in a classroom. Okay, maybe kindergarten. “How did you start off?”

  “Well—” British inhaled deeply “—if you can believe it, I started out as a home economics teacher.”

  “They’re still around?”

  British rolled her eyes. “You’d be amazed at how many need to learn basic life skills.”

  “Sorry, it’s just I remember there being one at my school and she was eighty and smelled like oatmeal cookies.”

  “I can smell like cookies if you’d like,” teased British. And then, as if remembering her manners, she covered her mouth. Her eyes widened in shock, then she blinked, fanning her long lashes. “I can’t believe I said that. I promise I’m not some flake.”

  “Of course not,” Donovan said. “Most people I know get trapped by their own sweatshirts.”

  British tried not to laugh but did so with a crimson tint spreading across her cheeks. She moved her hands to her hips. “See, and here I thought we were becoming friends.”

  “We are,” replied Donovan. “Fast friends. We even might go out for some roadkill barbecue while I’m in town.”

  “Speaking of you being in town...” British said as the timer went off. “Hang on a sec.”

  No gawking or flinching at his scar, lunch, and now a show. Donovan mused over his luck while watching British bend over in front of the stove to retrieve her masterpiece. And a masterpiece it was. Cheddar cheese bubbled on top; presentation was a part of her dish. She glanced around the kitchen and reached for one of the half dozen potted plants sitting in the windowsill. She dropped a leaf on the plate and set it in front of him.

  “This looks delicious,” he said honestly. His stomach grumbled.

  “It’s also hot. Give it a minute.”

  Once the heat from the food subsided, Donovan took a quick bite. His mouth savored every morsel while his stomach cried out
for more. He stood from the barstool and began to do a little happy dance. “Damn that’s good.”

  British beamed at his compliment.

  “Explain to me what it is you do as a home economics teacher?” Donovan inquired as steam rose from his plate. He craved another bite.

  “Okay, so let’s be clear here, I only took that job as an aide and to get my foot in the door with the Southwood school district board system,” she explained. “I majored in science education and chemistry. I now mainly focus on science, technology, engineering and math.”

  Donovan raised his brow but kept chewing. “And you work here at the hotel? I would guess the busy time is the summer around here when teachers are out.”

  Pressing her full lips together, British visibly pondered. “Of course summers are busy for Magnolia Palace, but this,” she said as she waved her hands at the vast space of the kitchen, “really isn’t my thing.”

  “What’s your thing, then?”

  “I mentor a group of girls.”

  “Great. In cooking?” Donovan said eagerly. He picked up his sandwich and took another bite.

  British shook her head from side to side. The curls of her dark brown ponytail bobbed. Flecks of gold in the strands caught the light. “I have been mentoring a group of young ladies in the STEM world.”

  “Wait. STEM?”

  “STEM for GRITS, to be exact.” British cleared her throat. “It is important to make sure women know it is okay to use their brains, not just their faces.”

  Choking, Donovan set down his sandwich. His left eye squinted, almost making his vision of perfection blurry. Almost. “Are you aware of who I am?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever heard of Ravens Cosmetics?”