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

  Her eyes go wide. “Oh, right! I guess this is the real deal, if my water’s gone. Yes. My sister. My mom. And— Ooooooh!”

  Her hand grips mine like a vise. She huffs, sweat popping on her brow. I push her hair off her forehead where it’s sticking to her skin. She rolls on her side, sucking in air, then huffing it out again.

  “Another one?” I ask. I’m not a man to panic, but this situation has me concerned. I picture the baby coming out on the seat. Should I catch it? Do they still smack them on the bottom to make them breathe?

  “Seems…sorta…fast…” she says.

  “Should I time them?” They always talk about timing contractions in movies.

  “Yessss. Try.”

  She won’t let go of my hand, so I use the other to tug my phone out. I glance at the driver. “How far?” I ask him.

  “Downtown traffic is a bit locked up. I’ll go around.”

  “There’s…a…festival on Pearl Street,” she gasps. “Lots…of…people.”

  “Right!” says the driver. “That explains it.” He makes a quick right, and my phone clatters to the floor as I press my hand to Havannah’s belly to hold her in place. It’s as hard as a rock.

  “Does it always feel like that?” I ask.

  “Only…during…a…” She gives up talking to squeeze her eyes shut and breathe in short, rapid-fire huffs.

  “I understand.” I reach around on the floor for my cell. “Take it easy up there!” I tell the driver.

  My fingers finally locate the phone. “What’s your mom’s number?”

  She holds up a finger, then lets out a long, slow breath. “Use my phone,” she says. But we both realize at the same moment that she left her purse behind in the commotion.

  “I’ll call the restaurant and have it sent,” I tell her quickly. “Do you know the numbers?”

  “Who knows numbers anymore?” she cries. “It’s all in speed dial.”

  “Dell will have them,” I say. “Or at least he can call Anthony, and Anthony can call Magnolia.”

  She nods again, then sucks in, her face red, more huffing breaths coming. “Why is this one so looooong?” She lets go of me to grip the edge of the cushion.

  I don’t even try texting, but put a call straight through to Dell. It goes to voicemail.

  Damn it!

  I leave a curt message: “Call the Pickles as soon as you get this. Havannah’s in labor and doesn’t have her phone. Get one of them to tell Magnolia so she can notify the family. We’re headed to East Side Hospital.” I hang up.

  Surely I talked directly to the Pickles at some point. Or Magnolia. Havannah grips my hand as I scroll through my call list.

  I see the name Boudreaux and click on it.

  It buzzes before I realize, Oh.

  It’s Havannah’s. Right. When I asked her on this date. This wild, ill-timed date.

  Havannah’s hand stops squeezing mine, and she relaxes on the cushion. “Okay. This one’s over.”

  “Now I should time it?”

  She nods, brushing a long tangle of hair away from her face. Her updo has come down. Little wire pins are scattered across the seat. “My hair is driving me crazy. I need something to tie it back.”

  I start a timer on my phone and glance around for something to tame her hair. There’s nothing in the limo. I strip my tie from my shirt. “Will this do?”

  She nods, taking the silk Hermès tie and sliding it under her hair. She shifts it so the wide part is on top of her head, then knots the ends at the back of her neck. The effect is cute and very sixties.

  “It’s a good look,” I tell her.

  She closes her eyes. “This is not how I pictured the night going.”

  When I don’t have a response to that, she opens one eye. “Say something.”

  I shrug. “After the last time we were together, I considered this as one of the possibilities.”

  She props herself up on an elbow. “Really? And you came anyway?” She seems stricken, her chin jutting out.

  I’m not generally at a loss for words, but how do I explain her predicament is part of her charm? I haven’t asked any questions about the baby, or the father, or how she got in this situation. It’s simply part of who she is. She comes with a baby. I knew that from the moment I saw her.

  And I can’t forget that moment. Dell and I arrived at the empty deli about a week before opening day. My brother was laughing over some joke he’d told. We opened the door. The inside of the place was already set up, orange tables scattered through the open dining area.

  And seated at one of them was a goddess.

  Her long blond hair was a tangle of curls. She wore white pants and a pale green T-shirt with the restaurant logo.

  Her eyes were crystal blue, and when they met mine, I felt absolutely sunk.

  When she stood up, I saw she was pregnant, of course. My heart crashed completely. The lack of a ring meant nothing at first, because probably her fingers had gotten too swollen to wear it.

  But later that day I learned that she lived with her sister. And on day three of our mentor sessions, when Magnolia suggested we all go to dinner, and Anthony came along but Havannah had no one, I suspected she was in this alone.

  I asked Anthony discreetly about her situation. He only said she was single and the father was not in the picture.

  “Uh, oh,” Havannah says, gripping my arm in a tight squeeze. “I think another one’s coming. How long has it been?”

  I glance at the phone. “Just over three minutes.”

  “That seems fast.”

  “Is it?” I have no idea.

  “Google it,” she says. “I think under four is when they think it’s imminent.”

  Imminent?

  I shout up the driver, “How close are we?”

  “Five minutes!”

  Five minutes. “We’ll make it,” I tell her. “Don’t worry.”

  “Just Google it!” she says through gritted teeth. “If I’m going to have a baby in the back of a limo, I want to know!”

  “Don’t have a baby in my limo!” the driver shouts. “I just cleaned the seats!”

  “I’ll have your damn car cleaned!” I shout back. I could purchase this limo a million times over. Jesus.

  I fumble with my phone to Google “timing of contractions.”

  Havannah lets out a long, guttural moan. I’m feeling the uncomfortable, slow rise of panic. I thought I was unshakable. I’ve sat in board meetings with angry CEOs, entire rooms shouting at me.

  But this a hell of a lot more stressful.

  I find a good link. “It says here less than five minutes apart and lasting a minute or more is active labor.”

  “I think we’re beyond that,” she says. “How much longer until he comes?”

  “We should have an hour. You’re not in transition.”

  This calms her, and while her breathing continues in short, huffing spurts, she relaxes on the seat, eyes closed, hand on her belly.

  “We’ll make it fine,” I tell her.

  One of her shoes has partially come off, so I pull it away, as well as the other, and set them on the ground. “Should we call your doctor and let him know?”

  “I would,” she says. “But no phone, remember?”

  “I can look him up.”

  “The hospital can do it.” Her shoulders relax. “That one’s done. I’m so tired.”

  She has a long way to go, though. I pocket the phone. “What can I do?”

  “I’m super thirsty.”

  I sort through the cabinet. Beer. Wine. Finally I locate a bottle of water and unscrew the cap. “Here you go.”

  She props up on her elbow again. “Thanks.”

  Her smooth throat bobs as she chugs half the bottle. I take it from her. “Next round will be soon.”

  “I’ll probably puke this up, actually,” she says. “Are there any towels?”

  Folded silk napkins are tucked inside a row of chunky crystal highball glasses. I pull one out. “I’m
not sure this will help much, but I’ll give you them all.” I tug out all the napkins and spread them along the seat near her head.

  “Maybe a plastic bag?” she suggests.

  I sort through the cabinets and locate a small trash can. I pull it out. “How about this?”

  “Good.” She drops her head.

  “Anything else?”

  Havannah shakes her head, eyes drooping. “We wait.”

  She looks exhausted and forlorn, her tiny frame with its basketball belly curled on the long leather seat. I scoot close to her, sitting on the floor, my arm bracing her so she doesn’t shift with every movement of the car.

  “We’re here!” the driver calls. A big red sign penetrates the dark tint on the windows. The hospital.

  “You ready for this?” I ask her.

  She nods, and I help her sit up. “Thank you.”

  The driver throws open the back door. “Woman in labor!” he shouts.

  Havannah looks up at me. “Did he really do that?”

  “He did.”

  After a moment, a medic peers inside. “Can you walk?” he asks.

  Havannah nods. We help her out of the car, and the team loads her on a rolling stretcher.

  “Should I come with you?” I ask, suddenly unsure.

  But at that moment, Magnolia runs up. “We made it.” She glances at me. “Dell called Anthony.”

  Then her mother is there. And her father.

  “Thank you, son,” her father says. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “Her phone is at Julio’s Bistro,” I say. “We forgot it in the race here.”

  John Paul nods, following his daughter through the sliding doors. “We’ll handle it. Thank you!”

  The driver ducks to peer at the interior of his car, sighing in relief that it isn’t whatever he pictured. “Where should I take you?”

  “Back to the hotel, I guess,” I say.

  I head inside the car and wait for the driver to walk around.

  Havannah and her family have already disappeared inside the hospital. As we pull away, I pick up the pile of silk napkins and set them on the bar.

  A sparkle catches my eye.

  On the floor of the limo, gleaming like Cinderella’s slippers, are Havannah’s fancy shoes.

  I’ll have to bring those back to her sometime.

  3

  Havannah

  Having a baby is the worst!

  The ER doc decides I’m not in any imminent birthing stage, so the staff leisurely sends everyone but my sister out to wait until a labor and delivery room is ready for me.

  “Make that doctor get back in here!” I tell Magnolia. “I’m going to have this baby any second.” I huff my way through another contraction.

  Magnolia bites her lip in a way I know means she’s trying to figure out how to be tactful. She looks a mess. Her hair is in a loose, twisty bun that doesn’t look intentionally tousled. She’s wearing sweatpants and a Boulder Pickle T-shirt. What was she doing on a Saturday night? Eating ice cream and watching Hallmark movies?

  “What?” I finally say when she doesn’t speak up. “What is that face for?”

  She straightens the paper sheet covering my knees. I’m still in the black dress, inched up to my waist. Am I going to deliver Junior in a cocktail gown that’s two sizes too small?

  I fling my arm over my face. This is too much.

  “You’re only three centimeters dilated and your contractions are irregular,” she says.

  “They were three minutes apart in the limo!” I’ve been saying “limo” every other sentence. I don’t know why. To brag, I guess. Like I have anything to brag on, knocked up with a deadbeat dad and unable to finish a first date with someone normal.

  Tears leak out of my eyes and I dash them away. No time for a pity party.

  “That can happen as things get started,” Magnolia says gently. “I think you probably have hours to go.”

  “So I could have finished my date?”

  Yeah, yeah, I know it’s an irrational thought. Hush.

  She shrugs. “I guess if you’d thought to wear an adult undergarment.” She turns to a steel cabinet, the only furniture in this curtained space. “I think there might be an extra in here. Want me to fetch one and we’ll call back the limo?”

  I can’t help but laugh. “Why is this happening?”

  She leans her hip against the bedrail. “Because you’re one wild and crazy chick, and you were destined to live a hot-mess life.”

  A nurse in pink scrubs arrives with two young men in blue. “Havannah, I’m Nurse Cindy. These two gentlemen are going to wheel you to labor and delivery. We’ve got a room all ready for you.” She holds up a white plastic band. “Can you verify this is you?”

  I peer at it. Havannah Boudreaux. DOB April 17, 1994. “That’s me.”

  She fastens it to my wrist. “You’ll have a matching one for your baby when it’s time. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “A boy,” I say. I’m already feeling calmer.

  “Nice.” She nods at the two men, and they bend down to unlock the wheels to my bed. “Have you picked out a name?”

  I shake my head. I have a list, but the arrival of the baby has been hard to picture. I’ve put all my energy into our new deli. Until now, the baby has been a rather fuzzy idea in the far-off future.

  Magnolia walks alongside us as we navigate the sectioned-off curtains of the ER. “I brought the name book. It’s in the bag.”

  I glance at her. “Where’s the bag?”

  “With Dad.”

  “Will you tell him to head to the maternity floor?”

  “Your parents are already there,” Cindy says. “They seem to have quite a setup for you.”

  Oh, right. I vaguely remember a big rant about the perfect birth. The music, a silk robe, lavender-scented handkerchiefs. I might have asked for a gurgling fountain.

  The reality of labor makes my suggestions seem silly. A real-life baby is coming.

  We enter an elevator. “I take it this is your first,” Cindy says.

  I nod.

  “Are you expecting any other arrivals?” I figure this is her tactful way of asking about the father.

  “I don’t think so.” The familiar sinking feeling takes over. The real-life baby isn’t going to have a real-life father.

  “Grandmama will certainly come later,” Magnolia says. I know she’s trying to make my mind shift gears. I can’t go spiraling down a pity hole.

  It’s taken a lot to convince my family not to ask about the baby’s paternity. But Magnolia knows. She’s sworn to take the secret to her grave.

  Not that I’ll leave him out of the picture forever. But right now, he’s in jail, and since I didn’t even know his last name when we did the deed, I’m sure I’m only the vaguest memory to him.

  If he ever gets his life together, I might tell him. Or if Junior ever needs him, like for a kidney transplant or whatever, maybe I’ll track his awful ass down.

  But for now, he’s out. He’s a horrible person and deserves to be where he is. I don’t think they let you out of jail to attend your baby’s birth even if you do know one’s coming.

  I’m on my own.

  Magnolia squeezes my arm as we exit the elevator to the happy colors of the maternity ward. I’m not entirely alone. I’ve got my sister. And my parents. And the Pickles have been extremely involved since Magnolia and Anthony got engaged. In fact, the only reason I have a nursery is that Anthony’s family keeps sending gifts.

  Our family is stretched pretty thin with the second deli so new. But we have hand-me-downs they saved. And I have a beautiful new crib, courtesy of Anthony. A ton of baby clothes. All the necessities.

  I’m fine.

  It’s going to be fine.

  The orderlies push open the door to my room. Mom and Dad are there, as promised. The music is playing, the air smells of lavender, and a tiny rock fountain gurgles on the side table.

  Tears prick my eyes again. “
You did it all!” I say.

  Dad leans down to kiss my head. “Anything for our baby girl.”

  “And our grandbaby!” Mom says.

  The two men lower the rails to the bed. “Can you stand?” Cindy asks.

  I nod. I haven’t had a contraction in a while. They were right. This is the beginning of a long night. I swing my legs over, keeping my paper sheet wrapped around me, to move to the larger bed.

  Dad heads out so the nurse, Mom, and Magnolia can help me get changed and settled. I have my cotton gown, my silk robe, and a pillowcase embroidered with stars.

  Mom’s eyes glisten as she adjusts the pillow. “You were born with this pillow on the bed,” she says. “And your sister.” She swallows. “I’m pleased it’s here for our first grandchild.” She holds my hand.

  Magnolia goes to fetch Dad. The next contraction hits, finally, and I breathe through it.

  “Good girl,” Mom says.

  The anesthesiologist arrives, and we talk about options. I choose an epidural, and everyone leaves while he sprays my back and sticks me.

  Something icy flows through my veins. At first I don’t think anything is different, but when the next contraction hits, mercy me. It’s better. They dialed it down.

  My family returns, and we settle in for a long, crazy night that will change my life completely.

  4

  Donovan

  After leaving the hospital, I head back to the restaurant to fetch Havannah’s bag myself.

  Then I text my brother, asking for numbers so I can directly contact a member of the family. He comes up with Magnolia’s.

  I send her a message saying I have Havannah’s bag and shoes, and I can bring them by tomorrow before my flight.

  It’s almost an hour before I hear back.

  Leave them with your hotel desk in the morning. Dad can fetch it tomorrow.

  I’m not clear if she is keeping me away or being courteous.

  After a few hours of fitful sleep, I wake up, immediately wondering how Havannah might be faring. I have no way of knowing. Her phone is with me.

  By morning, I’m not going to wait one minute more. I tell my assistant to have the pilot submit a new flight plan and delay all my meetings in Boston. I pack up my suits and put on a casual cotton Henley and a pair of jeans, and make a stop by a baby store for an appropriate purchase.