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

  I return to my corner while they settle at the round table, the mirrors and lights gone, now outfitted with tablecloths and place settings. This place is slick.

  When I pass the camera back to Dell, I realize I have a text from Havannah.

  I’m sure your life is way more sophisticated than mine.

  An image follows. It’s a selfie, her hair a wild twist on top of her head, the baby on her shoulder. She looks at the camera soulfully. She’s incredibly beautiful.

  But I’ll show her.

  I elbow Dell. “Show me what you took of me.”

  He scrolls through the images. They aren’t half bad. When we find the one of me with Grace on my shoulder, I snap a shot of the screen with my phone.

  I text Havannah. You mean as sophisticated as this? I attach the image.

  I get a reply right away, which is unusual. I love it so much! Is that your niece?

  Yes, she is five today.

  And you’re there! Dressed as Maui!

  I chuckle. Anything for Grace.

  I love it! I bet all the women are swooning.

  I want to text her that the only one I care about is her. But I resist. Instead I ask, How are you and Rebel?

  Baby is sleeping. Grandmama did all the laundry, and Mom did the dishes. I’m practically a free woman.

  I clamp my jaw, suddenly wishing we were in the same city. I could see her then. But I’m hours away by plane. Hours and hours. I type, Enjoy it.

  I will try! Probably sleep right through it.

  The party manager approaches with a slice of cake. She seems completely fine about our moment in the back. “Something sweet for Uncle Don?”

  I shove the phone in my pocket. In other circumstances, I’d be very interested. But I simply accept the plate. “Thank you. It’s a great setup.”

  She looks over the party. “It takes up all my weekends.”

  “I bet that’s tiring.”

  She glances back at me. “I can manage. Our last party ends at six. The perk of catering to children. I’m finished early enough to have a night on the town.”

  There it is again. She’s suggesting she’s available.

  “You’ve done a wonderful job with the party,” I tell her. “Excuse me. The birthday girl awaits.”

  I don’t look back as I head over to Grace. Dell has already wrecked his camera settings again, so I set down my cake to help him.

  I might be technically single. And I might not have any idea of how to have a relationship with Havannah right now.

  But I do know where my interests lie.

  7

  Havannah

  I’m officially jealous of my sister.

  She’s currently raiding my closet for a wedding outfit.

  “Don’t you have all those fancy dresses from when you were on the talk shows?” I whisper.

  Rebel is asleep on my shoulder. Six weeks old and he’s decided sleeping vertically is where it’s at. But as a bonus, I’m getting cut deltoid muscles from holding him in place for hours a day. I’m going to look killer in a sundress.

  If one ever fits me again. I don’t understand how two hundred gallons of water poured out of me in a restaurant, then eight pounds of baby, but I weigh almost exactly what I did at my last prenatal checkup.

  I may or may not have dropped our bathroom scale off our second-floor balcony into the dumpster behind the building. The crunch may have been pretty satisfying.

  Magnolia doesn’t answer until she’s close enough to whisper. “Most of those were borrowed from designers and had to be returned. I need something Anthony has never seen.”

  I can’t argue with that. I’ve been known to buy new dresses every weekend when dating someone amazing so he never sees me in the same outfit twice.

  Of course, ninety percent of those cute purchases may never fit me again.

  “You might as well take ’em all,” I say. “I’ve got a mom bod.”

  Mags bends down to kiss Rebel’s noggin. “And totally worth it.” She straightens. “But I don’t want to hear a word of it. Most people would kill for your mom bod.”

  “You haven’t seen the stretch marks.”

  She returns to the closet and pulls out a red dress with an asymmetrical neckline. When I wore it, people compared me to Alexis from Schitt’s Creek.

  Mags holds it up, her golden hair flowing over the shoulder. “Tell me the truth. Can I pull this off?”

  Of course she can. She looks amazing. One thing the talk show stylists did for her last year was give her confidence. “You’ll knock everyone dead.”

  She turns to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. “I’m nervous. This wedding supposedly has four hundred guests.”

  “Wow.” My sister is engaged to the youngest Pickle brother, and the middle brother Max is marrying his girl Camryn next weekend in the South of France.

  They’ve rented a friggin’ castle.

  Everyone’s going. Mags. Her fiancé Anthony, of course. He’s the best man. Even Mom and Dad are flying out, both as a vacation and to spend quality time with the future in-laws.

  Grandmama is staying behind to help me with Rebel, although we have a decent routine. She’s also watching over the delis. She’s had a bit of a rebound in her energy levels since Mags and Anthony got so much publicity last year, and we opened the second deli.

  She’s been fired up by the renewed success of her franchise. Instead of hanging out at her retirement community, she’s taken over greeting customers, alternating delis for her shift.

  Thankfully, we have solid staffs and great managers at both locations. The family sees this trip as a trial run for when Mags and Anthony have their own wedding. They haven’t set a date or a place, but it’s bound to be a production that takes all our attention.

  And I’ll be involved, as well as Grandmama. The Tasty Pepper and Tasty Mango delis will have to run on their own for a few days.

  Magnolia pulls out a pale yellow sundress. “This is lovely. Looks like France.”

  She has to keep saying that. France, France, France. I’ve never been out of the country. I’ve barely been out of Colorado. I stuff down my jealousy. “It is. Take it. You can’t have too many pretty things.”

  She sets it on the stack at the end of the bed. “I’m grateful, H. You sure you don’t want to come? There’s a spot for you and the baby in my room.”

  “Twelve-hour plane ride with a newborn? Even I’m not that brave.”

  She sits close to us on the bed, running the back of her knuckles across the baby’s wispy hair. “I’m going to miss this little guy.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  It seems like she’s going to say something else, but she only presses her lips together. She’s about to stand when I throw out my hand to stop her. “Say it.”

  She folds her hands in her lap. “Donovan’s coming. He and Dell and Arianna and Grace.” She bites her lip like she’s divulging some big secret.

  “I know that. Donovan is already in Europe. He’s planned several business meetings around the wedding.”

  “So you’re still talking to him?” She settles beside me, leaning against the headboard. “You haven’t mentioned it in a couple of weeks.”

  “There isn’t a lot to tell.” And there isn’t. I get occasional texts with pictures of clouds from a plane window. He likes to send food images, too. Sometimes there’s a selfie from an exotic location. I save those.

  “He must travel a lot.”

  “He does.” Rebel stirs, and I stop talking to see if he is going to wake. He settles back in.

  “Are you going to see him again?” Mags can never hide her emotions. Her worry is all over her knitted brow, her lips pulled into a frown.

  “I have no idea. Look, I know he’s not a real boyfriend or anything. We text occasionally.”

  “But you wish he was?”

  “Of course!” I say, too loudly, and Rebel makes a soft whine. I pat his back. “Of course,” I whisper. “He’s gorgeous an
d thoughtful.”

  “And rich.”

  I smack her lightly with the back of my hand. “So’s Anthony.”

  “I’d only call them very comfortable. It’s not like Donovan and Dell. They have a jet!”

  “I know.” I close my eyes and tilt my head to the ceiling. “I daydream about it. Me and Donovan, heading up the metal stairs, my scarf flying behind me. We fly to Italy or Paris or a Swiss chalet.”

  “It could happen. He’s certainly not dating anyone else.”

  I pretend not to know what she’s talking about. “Really?”

  She squints an eye at me in suspicion. “You telling me you don’t have a Google Alert on his name?”

  I sink onto the pillows. “I don’t have time for random Internet searches.”

  She stares me down a moment more, then apparently decides to believe me. “Well, he made a gossip rag last week.” She wriggles her phone out of her jean pocket. “Here, see?” She turns the screen.

  New York’s most eligible bachelor off the market?

  I know the headline. Of course I have a Google Alert on Donovan. I won’t admit it, though.

  “What’s it say?” I ask, as if I don’t know.

  She reads it aloud.

  Financial magnate Donovan McDonald has been buying tables at all the best charity events, as usual. But instead of attending, he has donated the pricey tickets to lucky volunteers working at New York’s soup kitchens, homeless shelters, and refugee houses.

  The dashing billionaire is known for his relationships with powerful femmes fatales, including actress Heather McCabe, district attorney Angela Lisbon, and a string of socialites and prominent family heiresses.

  But this year, his splashy arrivals with beautiful women have been notably absent, even for the causes he personally supports. Where is Donovan McDonald, and has some lucky lady taken this favored bachelor off the market?

  I can almost recite along. I’ve read the article a thousand times, not even daring to hope that Donovan’s disappearance from big events has anything to do with me.

  “He’s traveling like crazy,” I say. “He hasn’t had time. They needed a story, and speculation is fun to them.”

  Mags turns off the screen. “Maybe. Seems interesting he had time for them before, though.”

  I shrug, holding on to Rebel’s back so I don’t disturb him. Mags starts pulling hangers out of the dresses she’s chosen.

  “What time is your flight?” I ask her.

  “Eight. So weird to leave at night.”

  “I suppose so you can sleep on the way.”

  “We’ll see.” Her eyes are bright as she collects the dresses in her arms. “I guess I better pack these. Only a few hours until we head to the airport.”

  When she’s gone, I slide down the head of the bed until I’m lying down, Rebel tucked in my arm. If I’m going to go it alone with the baby for a week, I better sneak in a nap while I can.

  8

  Donovan

  My life consists of airports, cars, and conference rooms.

  I’m accustomed to the grind, traveling from one continent to the next, ushered into one boardroom after another.

  But lately, it’s been getting to me.

  I’m not sure if it’s seeing Havannah’s birth, or going to Grace’s fifth birthday party, or if it’s simply time. But this life that many would envy has gotten old.

  Today I’m spending my time in a chilly gray meeting room trying to maintain a calm demeanor while the founder of a failing company rails at me for buying out the majority of shares.

  Never mind that, had I not done that, he would’ve been in liquidation in less than a year.

  Everyone always wants someone to blame when things go wrong. When the day finally ends, I shove it from my mind as a porter unlocks the door to my suite, and a bellboy pushes a rolling cart with my bags inside.

  I’ve brought more luggage than usual because this stretch of travel will last so long. Max Pickle’s wedding is in four days. We’ve scheduled meetings leading up to it, although tomorrow should be the last one. I’ve been asked to attend the rehearsal dinner, as well as a low-key beer tasting, and I aim to enjoy a small break in the madness to take in some scenery.

  As I often do when I arrive at a new location, I take a quick shot of myself with the view through the open windows behind me and send it to Havannah. Even though I haven’t seen her in a month and a half, she’s become part of my routine.

  I’ve begun to figure out her schedule as well. She usually texts me during the baby’s morning nap, and she responds again around two a.m. Colorado time when the baby wakes up for a night feeding.

  She’s settling in and claims she’s getting enough sleep. I don’t know much about babies or their schedules, but it’s interesting to watch how her sporadic responses have become more measured and regular. I assume that means all is well.

  She has sent many pictures of the baby, but only a few of herself. I tend to picture her as I remember her the night we went out to dinner, and how she looked right after the baby was born. I have, of course, that first glowing image of her and the newborn, the one I took and sent her when we were alone that day.

  I often take it out and look at it. Her hair is pushed back where I smoothed it with my own hand. She is at peace, the calm that can only come after a great storm.

  She’s ethereally beautiful.

  It’s impossible, though. Our timing could not have been worse.

  The buzz of her reply arrives while I’m getting ready the next morning. It’s her usual middle-of-the-night feeding, but the time difference makes it a normal hour for me.

  It’s quiet in the apartment with Mags gone. She should be landing in France in about a few hours. Not jealous at all.

  I swiftly finish shaving so I can write back before my car arrives to take me to today’s meeting. I wish you could come. It’s going to be a great party.

  The baby must be quiet, as she responds quickly. Me too. But I can’t leave Rebel. The flight is too long. Everyone on the plane would want to kill me.

  My hand stills as I adjust my tie in the mirror. The phone sits on the bathroom counter, Havannah’s message staring up at me like a dare.

  An idea starts to form. So I ask her the question on my mind. Is it the commercial aspect of the flight that’s the problem? Can the baby fly otherwise?

  The row of dots precedes her reply. He could fly. You just have to nurse or bottle-feed them through takeoff so their ears can pop from the pressure. He’s kind of little to be around all those germs, though.

  So it is the commercial nature of the flight that’s knocked her out. My heart beats faster as I conjure a plan.

  Are the delis relying on you being there?

  I can almost hear her laugh in the reply. Oh, heck no. Rebel is way too hard. Grandmama is taking care of all that. Until I decide I’m ready to get a nanny, I’m stuck.

  I drum my fingers on the bathroom counter. Could this work? Or would Rebel be too hard for this, too?

  A second message pops up. My car is ready downstairs. I snatch up my phone and pull my suit jacket off a hanger as I pass through the living room of the suite.

  But even as the driver takes me across town to the office building, my mind keeps turning. Is there a way to get Havannah here?

  What will it take?

  I have no idea what’s about to happen.

  I sit in the limo for a full five minutes on the street in front of Havannah’s apartment complex before I work up the nerve to tell her I’m here.

  This driver is more professional than the last, keeping his face forward and asking no questions about why we’re parked on a random street.

  I try to remind myself that I have flown all the way from Europe to Boulder, Colorado, just for a chance at a yes. But if she says no, if I have misjudged her completely, it will be fine. We can go back to the low-key texting relationship we had before.

  But I have to try.

  Courtesy would normally dic
tate you tell a lady you’re coming. But this is no ordinary request. If I asked her over the phone, a woman like Havannah would say no. She’d be practical.

  I want her to be impractical.

  So I took the wild risk of flying here. I need to be right in front of her when I put in my request.

  I scroll to the end of our conversation. My last text from her arrived while we were flying.

  It’s a selfie this time, Havannah dressed and carrying Rebel in a sling. She’s wearing her Tasty Mango shirt. I can tell from the logo next to Rebel’s head.

  She told me she was stopping by the deli for a while. With the picture are the words I doubt we make it thirty minutes. But I’m going!

  That was four hours ago, and the deli closed about half an hour before I touched down.

  Havannah should be home. Fate has smiled on me—I’m not catching her in a position where she will be completely upset to see me. She’s been out in the world, gotten dressed. I know that some days, even a shower is a luxury.

  I text her.

  Look at that kid already representing your brand!

  The three dots appear immediately. This is good.

  Her words pop on screen. We made it almost two hours before I had to come home and feed him. It was a great day.

  I wonder if it’s about to get even better, or if she’ll be upset.

  I step out of the limo and close the door, leaning against its gleaming black side. Then I put through a voice call.

  She doesn’t pick up right away, and suddenly I worry she’s having to scramble to get to it. Maybe she’s changing the baby. Or feeding him.

  But I’m committed, so I wait. The call rolls over to her voicemail. What do I do now? What do I say?

  I have no time to think. I just talk.

  “Havannah. It’s Donovan. I wanted to put through a quick call to congratulate you on getting back to the deli.”

  Okay. That was good.

  “But I can text you,” I add.

  Right as I’m about to hang up, another call beeps in. She’s returning the call in the middle of my voicemail.