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  “My husband left me some money,” British explained. “Every dime I received has gone into the facility and the girls.”

  “You have faith, don’t you?”

  “Sometimes that’s all you have.”

  Silence fell between them. Donovan stared at British. Finally, British rolled her eyes. “Well, I’d better go gather the girls up so they can get to work.”

  Donovan crossed the room and reached British before she stepped out the French doors. “If there’s anything I can do, or anything you need, I want you to know you can come to me.”

  “That’s mighty generous of you, Donovan,” said British. “But why?”

  “Let’s just say my faith just may have been restored.”

  * * *

  Thankfully the girls were able to focus over the following twenty-four hours. On a few occasions Donovan found a reason to make himself seen whether it was to come into the library, where they plotted their ideas, or to run through the trail in the back—shirtless—when they practiced experiments. British couldn’t put the blame all on the girls for being easily distracted. She, too, lost track of time when she realized she could see through the window of the hotel gym and catch Donovan working out.

  Knowing the STEM-Off was coming up, though, British was able to finally focus. To practice as many possible tasks the committee may give them, she shouted out different ideas for experiments in science, technology, engineering and math, and timed them. The girls brainstormed on what to build, including the list of things they’d need. They wanted to impress the judges, but also to truly learn something in the process.

  For a few of the challenges some wanted to assemble a small-scale trampoline and show the parents of the Christmas Advisory Council how it was made. Natasha wanted to aim for a homemade vending machine. And Kathleen said she could build a coding game without using a computer. The afternoon had been so productive, British didn’t see the need for more brainstorming later. That worked out perfectly for the girls, who were eager to head out to enjoy the last days of the fall festival.

  Since hell hadn’t frozen over, British continued to have her meals away from Magnolia Palace. No way she’d allow Jessilyn to cook for her. Even now, the eye daggers flew as British came down the stairs and crossed paths with the chef. Brushing off the icy stare, British twisted her hair into a bun and secured it at the top of her head. Before she made it to the front desk, she heard a high-pitched squeal of laughter from one of her girls, which echoed through the halls of the upscale boutique hotel. British headed toward the library to get the girls to settle down. She was surprised at what she found looking through the glass doors.

  For a guy who’d wanted to be left alone for the week, Donovan Ravens had a funny way of showing it. British cocked her head to the side and folded her arms across the front of the lightweight sweater she’d worn in preparation for this evening’s temperature drop.

  “So you think Quandriguez is a jerk to me because he likes me?” Stephanie asked Donovan.

  Donovan leaned against the door frame of the sunroom with his back to the lake and took a deep breath. “I don’t really know the fellow to make that statement, so all I can tell you right now is that a lot of boys—and hear me out when I say ‘boys’—don’t know how to use their words to express how they feel.”

  “Maybe he’s not being mean, or I’m reading it wrong. His older brother is deaf and his baby sister, too. Maybe he’s stressed.”

  A dry chuckle escaped Donovan’s throat. “Never make an excuse for a boy or a man. Stress is never a reason to be mean.”

  “Did you ever ignore a girl because you liked her?”

  Interested in the answer, British perked up. Donovan struck her as the type of man who didn’t have to say a word to get a woman to notice him. He just needed to stare at her one good time with those piercing light brown eyes, maybe even lick his lips together, and a woman would go crazy or at least feel a trail of goose bumps traveling down her arm. British shivered and smoothed her hand over her biceps.

  “You just keep doing what you’ve been doing,” Donovan went on to say.

  “Even if it means I should not do my best at this competition?”

  Wait, what? No way in the world would she ever tell one of her girls to dumb herself down for a boy. From where she stood, British could see Donovan’s jaw twitch. He rolled his head from side to side, causing a crack in his neck.

  “Look here,” he said to Stephanie. “There is nothing se—” Donovan stopped while British cringed. Maybe it was time she stepped in to end this conversation. But Donovan recovered and continued. “There is nothing more attractive than a woman with a brain.”

  “Are your girlfriends smart?”

  “I don’t do girlfriends,” Donovan quipped, “but if I did, I’d like her to have a brain and not be worried about hurting my feelings.”

  “Ms. B doesn’t mind hurting your feelings,” Stephanie offered. British narrowed her eyes. “And she is smart.”

  “And beautiful,” Donovan mused.

  British’s heart thumped against her ribs. This was so silly, to feel giddy knowing he found her attractive.

  “But we’re talking about you and—”

  “Quandriguez,” said the precocious teen.

  “Well, if this Quandriguez can’t see how wonderful and smart you are right now, he isn’t worth your time.”

  “Really?” Stephanie squealed in delight.

  “Scout’s honor,” said Donovan as he straightened.

  British couldn’t see what he was doing but Stephanie giggled. “That’s not the Scout symbol.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “There’s not a boy in Southwood who hasn’t been through the Scouts,” said Stephanie. “I know that salute.”

  Donovan’s chuckle at being caught made British snicker and expose her location.

  “Miss British?” Donovan called her name and the deep sound of his voice sent a chill down her spine. “Is that you?”

  “I’m sorry,” said British as she stepped around the corner. “It wasn’t my intent to eavesdrop on y’all’s conversation.”

  Stephanie came to her feet from her spot in the plush, white-cushioned chair by the bay window. “It’s cool,” she said. “Mr. Donovan was just giving me some good advice.”

  “Followed by the wrong salute?” British crossed her arms over her chest. The thin green sweater suddenly felt too warm and itchy.

  Donovan had dressed appropriately for the fall weather. The long-sleeved, garnet T-shirt hugged a well-toned body. “We were just discussing the age-old debate about if a boy is mean to you it must mean he likes you.”

  Considering the fact that Donovan was always a source of joy to be around, British realized where she stood with him.

  With a bow, Donovan pressed his hand over his heart. “I, for one, am against that theory.”

  “Are you?”

  “It sets girls up to accept abuse or mistreatment early on,” Stephanie explained.

  Such a professional tone from the girl who chewed gum to a rhythmic beat in class caused British to quirk a brow and shift her stare between the two of them. “Interesting.”

  “It is,” replied Donovan. “I’m a firm believer in being sweeter.”

  “Well,” Stephanie giggled, “I’m going to find my friends. But Mr. D—” she pointed her fingers into a gun shape “—don’t forget about my idea.”

  “I’ll pay for your patent once you work out the details.”

  Stephanie squealed and took off with such a force that the door swung shut, leaving the two adults alone.

  British shook her head and looked at Donovan. “Dare I ask?”

  “That,” he said, pointing toward the exit through which Stephanie disappeared, “is Ravens Cosmetics’ future secret weapon.”

  “What did she pitch?”

/>   “An app for phones that will show a model and, if I’ve got this right, transposes the makeup on the model’s made-up face so the girls can follow a trace or something.”

  “The Trace-A-Face?” British asked with a snicker.

  “That might have been the name.”

  British shook her head. “I am so glad she’s here this week. This way she can believe in herself without makeup.”

  “Hey, now,” Donovan said, clutching his heart, “makeup is my livelihood.”

  “You mean selling foundation to cover women’s flaws?” Back when she did pageants, British met tons of girls with such low self-esteem once the makeup came off. They didn’t understand pimples were a part of growing up, not the end of the world.

  Donovan shook his head. “If you think we had a product like that, don’t you think I’d use it on this?” With that, Donovan aimed his index finger at the X-shaped scar across his face. The dark beard across his chiseled jawline covered part of the mark but she knew it was there. Her fingers twitched and her heart lurched.

  “I—I wasn’t trying to...”

  “Don’t act like you haven’t noticed it, British,” he replied coolly and winked. “It’s okay. Everyone stares at it. I catch them often.”

  British shrugged her shoulders. “People aren’t taught not to stare these days.”

  “Curiosity is human nature.” He gave a quick shrug of his shoulders.

  “But still.”

  “Don’t you want to know how I got it?”

  “I assumed it was a car accident.” British strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. She switched a few of the modern classics around, including the collection of Brontë sisters. She cast a glance over her shoulder.

  Dark, thick brows rose with surprise. “Really? Most people believe I received it due to a lover’s quarrel.”

  For some reason Donovan closed the gap between them before she even realized their proximity and reached down to smooth a stray hair back behind her ear. British turned her face into the palm of his hand. Her eyes closed as she forgot where she was for a moment. Another place. Another time...she might have let him kiss her because that came next when a man stood this close. Her heart slammed against her rib cage, reminding her of the needs she possessed as a woman. Her body ached for his touch. Embarrassed by her desire, British took a step back and cleared her throat.

  “Well, I don’t know you well enough to say if you’re scoundrel enough for such an act of revenge.”

  “A scoundrel?” Donovan pulled Wuthering Heights off a smaller bookshelf’s row of the Sugar Plum Ballerinas series and placed it beside the set British had just rearranged. Him knowing the difference between the books earned him an ounce of respect from British. “But you would say a car crash?”

  “My husband received a similar scar when his face hit the steering wheel at a right angle.”

  Donovan stepped backward. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she whispered. The knot threatening her throat eased quicker than normal. “Enough of this sad talk. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was on my way out for dinner and—”

  “Wait, you’re not eating here?” Donovan cut her off and sniffed the air. “Chef Jessilyn is making homemade chili since the temperature is dropping.”

  “Not on my life.” British laughed.

  “There’s a history between you two,” Donovan observed, pointing his finger at her.

  “Let’s just say not all students hold me in such high regard as the GRITS team does.”

  That got a deep laugh out of Donovan. “Hard to believe it, but I’ll let you tell the story over dinner, if you’ll share it with me.”

  Cocking her head to the side, British stroked her chin. “Have you had a tour of Southwood?”

  “I’ve been meaning to, especially now,” he said.

  British narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Had you showed up for the wonderful lunch Chef prepared for us,” he teased with a wink, “you would have heard the girls talking about the snatched—”

  “Snatched?” Tears began to form in the corners of her eyes at Donovan’s accurate lingo. This man ran a billion-dollar company and spoke fluent Teen.

  “Yes,” Donovan boasted with a pat on his broad chest. “I’m cool. I know the haps.”

  “Okay, Mr. Cool.” British dabbed the corner of her right eye with her finger.

  “Anyway, the girls were telling me about original gifts I can get my nieces here, other than shipping them cupcakes, which I am still contemplating since I’m stanning them.”

  “Dear Lord,” she giggled, “please stop.”

  “What? You don’t like my Eminem reference?” Proud of himself, Donovan nodded his chin at her for emphasis of his coolness.

  As a teacher, she’d heard all the latest slang. “Stanning,” derived from an Eminem song, now referred to someone obsessed with something. At last year’s fleek, as in being on point, British had stopped trying to keep up with today’s youth.

  “Did you learn these terms from your young girlfriends?”

  Licking his lips, Donovan cocked his head to the side. “We’ve established our age differences and you might be the youngest woman I’ve seriously been interested in.”

  Breath caught in her throat for a moment, then she remembered that he wanted her to work for his company as a spokesmodel. For years British wanted to be more than a pretty face. How would it look if she were to suddenly become the face of a popular cosmetics line? Donovan barked up the wrong tree with this proposal. British responded with an eye-roll and changed the subject. “I pegged you as an internet shopper.”

  “I can be,” he answered, moving to sit on the arm of the couch, “but as CFO of a major company, I don’t mind shopping around for a deal, especially if it’s a one of a kind.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you got all the ladies the same gift, that way you don’t have to keep track of them?”

  “One of these days I’m going to surprise you,” Donovan declared.

  British studied his face and ignored the way he made her heart beat—all erratic like a schoolgirl’s. He rose to his feet and stretched. A sliver of washboard ab peeked when his shirt rose and British unapologetically stared. What? The man was good-looking, she argued with herself. Her friends—hell, even her in-laws—were ready for her to move on. And British knew she too missed the comfort of a man.

  “So what’s going on outside of Magnolia Palace? Anything good?”

  The realization that this playboy was the perfect man for her to get her groove on hit her. No family in town. Only here for a while. Everything about his body said he was a fantastic lover. Near fainting, British grabbed hold of the wall. “Dear Lord, you’re in for a treat. I happen to know the best view in town. Want to come with me?”

  Donovan raised his left brow and pondered her question.

  Embarrassed, British closed her eyes and shook her head, admitting to herself that his blatant flirting had intrigued her. Maybe it was time to start delving into her desires for another man. Now nervous for admitting she wanted him, British wrung her hands together. The rock Christian had placed on her finger scraped against her hand. Vonna was right. He would not want her living like a nun. He might not be gung ho on her choice in a playboy like Donovan, but he was a start...and, more important, he was temporary. “I’ll be right back,” she told him.

  When she went upstairs to her room, British hoped she’d played it cool. Something about the way he’d flirted with her made her...dance...the same way she did when she bit into something delicious. Giggling, British took a long look at herself in the mirror and shook her head, wondering what Christian would think of her now.

  She twisted off her ring to set it on a lace doily. Donovan was the complete opposite of Christian. Christian had wanted nothing more than to be in a m
onogamous relationship for as long a time as he was permitted on earth. Donovan, however, was the type of person to get with as many women as possible while he lived on earth. Maybe that’s what she needed. A no-strings fling. Perfect. Going out to the festival with Donovan was sure to cause people to gossip. So what? The grandfather clock downstairs chimed six. Satisfied with herself, British headed to the door, then turned back around to snatch her ring off the dresser. Baby steps, British. Baby steps.

  * * *

  “You promise you’re not leading me to this roadkill diner you mentioned the other day?” Donovan asked British, within less than a half hour of leaving Magnolia Palace.

  Even with his eyes focused on the long, dark road ahead of them, Donovan felt the burning sensation of the side-eye daggers British shot him from the passenger seat. Under one of the lone streetlights, he turned and winked.

  “I can’t guarantee there won’t be any vittles like that,” she began, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I will say if the sign above the counter says ‘mystery meat’ and it’s deep-fried...don’t eat it.”

  Donovan’s laugh rattled the interior of the Jaguar. “I’ll make note of it.”

  Bright lights filled the town square. The only thing on Donovan’s mind the other day had been getting another batch of cupcakes. He hadn’t bothered looking around town; otherwise he might have noticed the carnival equipment. A man carrying a small child over his shoulders waved at Donovan’s car and pointed to a space, where a convertible’s taillights flickered. Donovan let his window down to wave acknowledgment and thanks at the same time.

  The smells of popcorn, smoked meats and cotton candy permeated the inside of the car. Donovan’s stomach growled. “I guess a man can’t live on fresh chocolate-chip cupcakes alone,” he joked.

  “Well, let’s hurry up and find you something recognizable to eat.”

  As he flipped the turn signal for the parking space, British gazed out the passenger-side window. Was she looking for someone? Since she still wore her wedding ring, he doubted she was checking for a boyfriend. Once the space became free, Donovan pulled forward and backed into it, another car allowing Donovan to park before driving by. Maybe it was his imagination, but British seemed to use the opportune time to duck her head to unclick her seat belt. That same old suspicious radar dinged in the back of his head. She was hiding something from him.