Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy Read online

  Donovan takes my arm and leads me down the Parisian street, now starting to bustle with activity. I take everything in. There are many old ladies with unmissable hair, poufed out or slicked down, some dyed within an inch of their lives, others left white. But they are all dressed like runway models, stiletto heels and all.

  They look a hell of a lot better than I do. I’m twenty-seven and barely able to squish my foot into a wedge heel after one baby.

  They’re superheroes.

  Some walk tiny, well-manicured dogs. Others carry their pets in clever purses that fit beneath their elbows. But most of them have canine companions. Some stereotypes are true.

  Younger women walk by with ease and confidence. Men are dressed in skinny pants and shirts tailored specifically for their shoulders and waists. No socks to be seen, and lots of mankles.

  There’s no off-the-rack here. And definitely no leisurewear. Even at the nicest downtown boardwalk in Boulder, half the women wear yoga pants and running shoes with memory foam. Surely this isn’t everyday Paris.

  I lean into Donovan. “Is there a fashion show near here today?”

  He grins. “Pretty different, huh?”

  “Like going from Walmart to Louis Vuitton.”

  “An astute assessment.”

  I thought I’d dressed the part, but even so, eyes take me in and skitter away like I’m an abomination. They see right through my store-bought dress and practical shoes.

  I have no swagger with a baby strapped to my chest, but I do drop one shoulder and try to lead with my hips as I hold every gaze that meets mine. I won’t be intimidated.

  Donovan stops us in front of a pair of solid gold doors.

  Gold doors. What does that mean?

  “What is this place?”

  “La Fleur D’or. My assistant was able to secure an appointment.” He pulls the door open.

  I expect racks of dresses and a snooty vibe.

  But I see none of that.

  Instead, a circular gold reception desk is manned by a beautifully dressed twenty-something with a gracious smile. “Bonjour,” she says. “Welcome.”

  I glance around. The desk fronts a curtained space filled with statues, paintings, and coordinated flower arrangements. It looks more like an art gallery than a dress shop. I want to ask Donovan if we’re lost, but then the young woman says, “Mr. McDonald, Miss Boudreaux, let me call up your personal shopper today. Her name is Olivia.”

  She presses a button on her gold desk. “Can I interest you in a glass of champagne, or wine, or a light snack?”

  Donovan turns to me. “Are you drinking?”

  Today I am. I can pump and dump. “Champagne, please. And perhaps some cheese?”

  The woman nods. “Of course.”

  The heavy red velvet drapes part to the left of the gold desk. A lovely mid-thirties woman in a smart Swiss dotted dress and perilous heels emerges.

  “Mr. McDonald, Miss Boudreaux. We’re so delighted to assist you today. This way.”

  We follow her through the gap in the drapery. On the other side is a long room. A gold brocade sofa and two armchairs surround a low table immediately to our left. In front of us is a small elevated stage, only as big around as a coffee table, before a trio of connected mirrors.

  The setup reminds me of the high-end wedding boutique where a friend of mine from college tried on dresses before determining a gown from there would cost as much as the catering bill.

  Olivia turns to us. “Please have a seat. We will begin showing our late summer collection. I understand this is for a wedding in the country, no?”

  “At a castle,” I add. I don’t want her to get the idea we are headed to a farm.

  Olivia smiles with a nod. “Of course. The American family. Pickles, no?” I listen for a hint of disdain, but if she has an opinion about us, she hides it well.

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “Cheri will model the first outfit. She is very similar to your height and body style. Anything you would like to try on, let us know.”

  Donovan and I settle on the sofa. I adjust Rebel against my chest. He’s awake. I think he’s going to fuss, but Donovan digs the pacifier out of the diaper bag and passes it over. He’s a quick learner.

  A young man emerges from the back with a tray holding a bottle of champagne and two bottles of water. He wouldn’t be old enough to drink in the States, but he opens the champagne bottle with practiced ease and pours two glasses.

  Olivia stands to the right of the small stage. “Our first gown is a taffeta brocade by Angelino Blanchet.”

  A tall blond woman emerges from the back. Her hair is shorter than mine, but she’s my height, and not willowy, as I would’ve once envisioned my body style on someone else.

  She has a chest to her, and a hint of belly. Nailed it, postpartum. The dress is pale peach, floaty, and completely backless. Right. Like I can put these leaky boobs in a dress without a bra. I want to shout, “Next!” but I sip my champagne instead.

  “What will the weather be like?” Donovan asks. “Warm like today?”

  Olivia is prepared for this. “On Saturday, it will be thirty degrees Celsius, or eighty-seven in Fahrenheit, as I believe you are accustomed.” This time I do detect a faint note of derision in Olivia’s voice.

  Maybe I’m looking too hard for it.

  When I don’t indicate my interest, Olivia waves the woman on.

  Another blond woman enters. Her hair is longer, and she has less tummy than me, but it’s another close approximation. How do they do that? I guess that’s why you need an appointment. Donovan must have sent pictures.

  “This is an Alana Lemieux,” Olivia says.

  I sit up. The sapphire dress is a showstopper with a plunging neckline and fitted bodice. Could I pull this off? Pre-Rebel me would have worn it without hesitation. The model steps onto the small stage and turns.

  “Maybe,” I say to Olivia. “I’d have to see how it fits.”

  She nods.

  The young man returns with another tray. It’s filled with cheese, bits of bread, and grapes.

  This is the life.

  By the time I look up again, the first model has returned, this time in an off-white satin dress with a square neckline, short sleeves, and a hemline just below the knee. It looks like something an older woman would wear to a second wedding.

  “No,” I say definitively.

  We go through ten more dresses, and I choose three.

  “Are you ready to try them on?” Olivia asks.

  I glance down at Rebel. The looking was easy. The next part might not be.

  “I’ll take the baby,” Donovan says. “If he puts up a fuss I can’t handle, we’ll send for you.”

  Oh boy. I pass Rebel, sling and all, over to Donovan. “I’ll be quick.” I remember the bed disaster on the plane. “Don’t change him if he needs it. I’ll do it.”

  “Understood.”

  I fairly race to follow Olivia to another red-curtained space. The three dresses hang on bright gold hooks.

  “I’ll help you,” Olivia says. “I sense time is of the essence.” She unzips the back of my sheath as I kick off my sandals.

  My intention is to try on my favorite, and if it works, go with it. The sapphire one is definitely first.

  I slide it over my head, inhaling the scent of expensive fabric. It’s heavenly.

  But when Olivia fastens the back, I know it won’t work. My boobs are in the wrong spot. They need to be smaller and higher. Besides, what if Rebel needs to nurse? It’s so fitted, I’d have to practically take it off. I shake my head.

  The second one, a pale gold empire waist with beaded accents, fits nicely, but the sequins cut into my arms. I can’t imagine trying to hold Rebel with these sharp circles all over me. “No.”

  I start to wonder if anything is going to work.

  I turn to the last one. It’s not something I would normally choose. It’s emerald green and flutters with airy scarves that create an asymmetrical hem.


  I step in, and Olivia slides it up. It skims my body, not tight, not loose. The scarves tease my knees. The color makes my hair almost glow gold.

  I realize the dress overlaps in the front, creating a plunging neckline, but one I can also move aside. I can nurse in this! The fitted waist makes me look like I have one.

  “I like it,” I say.

  “Let’s accessorize,” she says.

  The young man enters again, pushing a small trolley lined with bright green shoes.

  There are stilettos, one with a gold heel, a pair of open-toed sandals, a modest pump, and barely-there clear shoes with diamond and emerald accents that seem to float.

  “Those,” I say immediately, pointing to the last pair. They are probably impractically high, but I’ve never seen anything like them and have to try them on.

  The young man pulls up a chair and gestures for me to sit. He kneels in front of me and slips the first shoe on my bare foot like I’m Cinderella.

  Oh, they’re good.

  When I stand, I find I can walk in them fine, and my confident stride has returned. The gems wink on my feet, a band of rhinestones encircling my ankle.

  I love them.

  “Yes, these,” I say.

  “Very good.” Olivia nods. She approves, finally.

  The young man reappears to pass a tray of jewelry to Olivia.

  “And the pièce de résistance.” She lifts a necklace made of white gold lined with diamonds. At its center is a perfect triangle of emerald.

  When she fastens it around my neck, the angle of the necklace perfectly nestles against my skin to accentuate the line of the dress. It’s breathlessly beautiful. I can’t help but press my hand to the cool line of gems.

  “Gorgeous,” Olivia says. “We have an entire set with a matching bracelet, statement ring, and earrings.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, not even imagining what they might cost.

  Olivia’s expression doesn’t waver. “Let’s present the look to Mr. McDonald.”

  She leads me back into the main room. Donovan is now standing, jiggling Rebel against his chest. My heart squeezes.

  “He got a little fussy, but not too much.”

  I almost rush across the room to take him, but then I imagine spit-up all over this pricey dress. Donovan does seem to have the situation under control.

  Olivia takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to the stage.

  I turn to Donovan. He seems to forget about the baby, his hand stilling on Rebel’s back.

  He takes in every inch of me, pausing on the deep cut of my cleavage and how the dress fits across my hips.

  “Turn around,” he says.

  I have to swallow, as I make a slow circle, watching him in the mirrors. His eyes never leave my body, and he swallows deeply, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  “You like it?” I ask.

  “You’re breathtaking.”

  I press my hand to the necklace nervously. “Of course we don’t need the jewels.”

  “Of course we do,” he says. He turns to Olivia. “Shouldn’t there be more? Earrings? A bracelet?”

  She nods. “A full set.”

  “Please wrap up the full set.”

  She dips her head. “I’ll package up the dress.”

  “You okay with him?” I ask.

  He nods. “We’re already planning a golf vacation in Monterey.”

  I shake my head. “I’ll be right back. Thank you.”

  Olivia follows me through the curtain. “A man willing to hold a baby while you shop,” she says as we return the dress to a hanger, but I detect no sarcasm there. “Lucky you.”

  I have to agree. Lucky me.

  14

  Donovan

  I have to hand it to Havannah: she’s got stamina.

  We’ve shopped, taken a quick guided tour of the Louvre, gone up the Eiffel Tower, and stopped by Notre Dame and the Sacré Coeur. All in one day.

  She and the baby have crashed on the bed in her room. I stand in the doorway for long moments, making sure they are all right, before quietly ordering a feast of Parisian dishes to be delivered to the suite.

  It’s been a good day. I haven’t had the opportunity to show Paris to a newcomer before. It’s refreshing to see the city through someone else’s eyes. Today it was no longer simply a flash of buildings between limo rides to various boardrooms. It was itself, a city as old as time, as beautiful as the woman I got to share it with today.

  My phone buzzes with a text from my personal concierge about the arrival of the food. I didn’t want room service waking Havannah unnecessarily by banging on the door.

  I hurry across the suite and carefully let the delivery inside, wincing at the squeak of the trolley wheels as he moves it next to the dining table.

  I give the man a nod. “I’ll handle it from here.” Can’t have him banging plates and metal containers.

  When he’s gone, I move to the wet bar and pour a few swallows of scotch. My thoughts turn to the conversation on the phone earlier that day. I’m being pushed out of a deal, and my competitive streak has been engaged. I want to consult with Dell, but he’s in the air.

  Thankfully, Havannah and Rebel have been a happy distraction. I can almost forget the entire messy business when they’re around. I can see why Dell has rearranged his priorities.

  Maybe it’s time to change mine.

  I swirl the amber liquid in the glass. Dell is twelve years older than me, and I don’t question for a moment where I’d be if he hadn’t led the way. But he might not expect me to settle down yet. He’s barely done it himself.

  How long will I travel like this? Five years? Ten?

  A quiet voice says, “You seem lost in thought.”

  I glance over and spot Havannah in the doorway. She’s changed out of the dress she wore all day and into a loose sundress. The thin straps on her bare shoulders mean she can’t be wearing a bra. My groin tightens.

  Her hair is down, cascading in spun gold along her arms. She’s barefoot, and her steps are a mere whisper across the carpet.

  “Rebel down?”

  She nods. “Should be the long stretch.” My fingers twitch on the glass. Her gaze falls on the liquid. “Got a sip of that for me?”

  “I can fetch you a glass.”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t have that much. Just a taste.”

  She picks up my glass and tilts it, exposing her long, beautiful neck. I want to press my lips to it, but draw in a slow breath instead.

  “Delicious.” She sets the glass in front of me. “Can’t afford to dump any more milk.” Her hands move to her breasts, full and round beneath the cotton, and despite the fact she’s referring to feeding her child and intending to only reference that part of her body as a tool, my mouth goes dry.

  Down, boy.

  “Did you get a chance to pump?” I have no idea what this entails, only that she unpacked a small machine from her bag and asked if I had a converter to fit the plug.

  “I did. I should drink some water, refill the girls. I’d like to pump some more tonight to make sure I have what I need for the train.”

  My gaze slides to her sundress again. “Happy to get you some water.”

  Stepping behind the bar is a good call. I need to chill my thoughts. Her needs are practical. Mine most definitely are not.

  “You ordered food?” She lifts one of the silver domes and inhales. “Oh, it smells so good.”

  “Take a look through it. Pick out what you like.”

  “Is any of it yours?”

  “I’ll choose whatever you don’t.”

  She eagerly sorts through the various dishes, making me smile. There is a surprise in there.

  She finds the chilled platter and lifts the lid. “Donovan McDonald, did you order stinky cheese?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “When in France…” I set the crystal glass of water in front of her.

  Her lips pinch. “You better Google it first. I’m not going to eat that if it m
akes my milk smell like goats.”

  I unlock my phone and pass it to her, trying to hold back an unexpectedly gut-busting laugh.

  She takes it and rushes to the other side of the room. “Aha! I have the phone of Donovan McDonald! I could control the world with this thing!” She holds it in the air like it’s a great prize.

  “You might indeed,” I say. She’s a wonder, standing in the beautiful room like a goddess, the lightweight dress lit from behind, revealing her silhouette beneath. I want to seduce her, ravish her, but I’m out of my element here. A new mother. Under my care. I can’t make any moves. It’s not appropriate.

  I’ll have to bide my time.

  She laughs and sits on the sofa, her long legs stretching along the cushion. “Okay, let me see.” She taps and scrolls while I shift all the plates to the table. “Asparagus can make breast milk taste bad. So can garlic. Spicy foods, too.” She keeps searching. “However, it’s good to get flavors into the breast milk.” She glances up. “Prepares the kids for a family’s diet. Doesn’t hurt anything.”

  “So Rebel can look like a little Parisian and be ready to eat like one, too.”

  Havannah saunters back to the table and sets the phone down in front of me. “All right. I’ll try it.” She slides into the chair and picks up a piece of cheese. “This is going to be our joke forever, isn’t it?”

  “Among so many things,” I say.

  “Indeed.” She sniffs the square. “So bad.” Then she takes a tiny nibble. Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh! This is good! It doesn’t taste anything like it smells!”

  I sip the scotch, savoring both its flavor and the fact that Havannah’s mouth has been on my glass. I’m having to actively control myself.

  She eats several pieces of cheese, then slides one of the plates closer to her. “How about we share everything?”

  “I’m game.”

  She unfurls a cloth napkin and drags it across her lap.

  We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the quiet occasionally broken when she asks the name of a dish, or exclaims with delight or uncertainty.

  Eventually, we stack all the dishes back on the trolley, and Havannah kicks back, bare feet propped on an empty chair. She leans her head back, letting her golden hair spill behind her. I pour another scotch, taking her in.