Tasty Mango: A Billionaire and Single Mom Romantic Comedy Page 8

  “The cold air often makes them go,” Dell says in between laughs. “Arianna has gotten hit many times when changing a kid in her daycare.”

  I’m barely listening. I’m out of wipes. I decide to hell with it and grab a corner of the sheet to dry off my hands and wipe off Rebel.

  I place the once-clean diaper on the stack with all the dirty stuff. “At least it’s all out,” I say, just as the second round spurts into the air. “Seriously!”

  I grab another section of the sheet to wipe my hands and the baby again. This time I tuck the sheet over his parts as I rummage around for another diaper. I pull it out, quickly lift his legs, slide the diaper under him, move the sheet, and press the front down before he can pee again.

  When the tabs are set, I finally relax.

  “It’s done,” I tell Dell.

  “The outfit too?”

  “I’m going to wrap him in a blanket and call it a day.”

  Dell continues to chuckle. “Next time, call Bianca. She’s more qualified than you.”

  “Shut up, Dell.”

  He laughs again. “See you in France.” He ends the call.

  I survey the bed. One corner is covered with yellow sludge, wet wipes, and a leaking diaper. Two sections are wet with pee. This is a disaster.

  Rebel wriggles on the changing pad, naked except for his diaper. I pick him up and put him on my shoulder. There’s a small blanket inside the diaper bag, so I cover him with it.

  “Baby, I know when I’m beat.”

  I move the diaper bag and my phone to a side table so I can roll everything up in the soiled sheet. “Remind me to give Bianca a hazard bonus for this trip.”

  I use my free hand to ball up the sheet and shove it in the corner. By the time Havannah comes out of the bathroom, smelling of shampoo and floral soap, Rebel is asleep again, wrapped in the blanket on my lap. “How’d it go?” she asks.

  “Just fine,” I say. “I had to change him, so I wrapped him in a blanket.”

  “You changed him?” She lifts Rebel into her arm and tucks the blanket around his sleeping form. “Good for you. I guess there’s nothing you can’t do.”

  I shrug. “Some things come naturally.”

  11

  Havannah

  We touch down at the Paris airport around six in the morning. I’ve mostly stayed in the bedroom area with the baby. Donovan started making phone calls at the table in front starting around three.

  I’m not sure what to think. When we set out on this journey, I had a vision of a coed slumber party. We’d talk and laugh and get to know each other better.

  But I didn’t count on how tired I would get or how hard it would be to manage the baby in a new space. We slept most of it. So by the time Bianca restores the bedroom to its normal configuration, and the metal stairs are rolled up to the jet, I’m not sure I know anything more about Donovan than I did when he came to get me.

  Other than he’s super handsome when he sleeps.

  But also, I guess I know he cares what I think about his ability to handle the baby. I totally noticed the missing sheet, the damp spots where he pulled off only the top layer without realizing the telltale line of baby pee had soaked through. Every time I picture Rebel going boy fountain on a billionaire, I have to hold in the eruption of giggles. Oh, to have seen that.

  Bianca returns the hand-washed onesie and the wiped-down changing pad to me as we pack. “Looks like Donovan tried to help.”

  We both get a good giggle out of that.

  When I stand at the top of the exit stairs looking down, I decide maybe this time I don’t want to carry the baby myself. Going down looks a lot scarier than climbing up.

  Donovan solves the problem by going down several steps ahead of me and letting me pass the bucket seat to him, and then he passes it down to the driver. I hold my breath until Rebel is safely on the ground.

  The limo waits on the tarmac. When we’re seated in the back, Rebel strapped in, I say, “So isn’t Paris pretty far from the wedding?”

  “Two hours by train. No closer airports. Plus I need to get the jet back to Dell so he can make it here in time.”

  “We should have picked him up!”

  “He wasn’t ready to go. Big meeting this morning.”

  As we leave the airport, I press close to the windows to see everything. It’s my first trip to France.

  At first, it’s only a tree-lined freeway that could be anywhere. But then buildings begin appearing, industrial, but with a different character than ones you see in the States.

  “How far is it to the city?” I ask.

  “For the things you might think of, like the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower, it’s about an hour from the airport.”

  “Oh. That’s far. Are we going directly to the train?” I try to hide my disappointment that I will be so close to Paris but not get to see it.

  “I thought we could spend the night in Paris, and then leisurely take the train tomorrow to the castle. We’ll be there in plenty of time for the rehearsal dinner.”

  “So we’re going into Paris?” I can’t contain my excitement.

  He grins, and I’m reminded again how handsome he is. “Yes, we are. We’ll take a drive around, settle into the hotel, and work around Rebel’s schedule as we think about shopping or sightseeing.”

  I can barely contain myself. “I can’t believe it!”

  Even as this fantasy comes true, something prickles at the back of my mind. Why did he come and get me? How is this happening?

  But he’s staring at his phone with a frown, so I return to the window to take it all in.

  Soon the character of the buildings begins to change. Everything seems so old. Stone cathedrals. Towering archways. I realize this is what it looks like for a city to have history. Everything in America is so new by comparison.

  We come to a giant circle, and I squeal as the limo dashes into the wild churn of cars making the loop. “I could never drive in this!”

  Donovan tucks his phone away. “It does take some mettle to manage a roundabout in the heart of Paris. We’re coming up on the famous Rue de Rivoli. You’ll see mostly tourists here. We’ll pass the Louvre.”

  The street is wide, with a bus lane and a tiny divider down the middle. The buildings go unbroken for blocks and blocks, arches all across the bottom floor, and narrow balconies lined with metal rails.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. I press my fingers to the glass like a kid.

  “Here comes the Louvre,” Donovan says. He’s not looking out the window, but at me.

  I can’t stop staring. The museum isn’t open yet, and the walkways are quiet. We pass by, and I look ahead at another stretch of arches and classic buildings. “Do you come to Paris a lot?”

  “Every few months.” Donovan sits back in the seat, his hands interlocked behind his head. It’s becoming the posture I recognize most in him. He wears a suit, as usual, but his white shirt is unbuttoned at the throat.

  Damn, he’s brutally gorgeous. Bits that haven’t thought about anything more than pregnancy pee leakage and recovering from birth start to tingle. Hey-o, girl parts. Simmer down. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

  “We’re coming up on the Champs-Élysées,” he says.

  The streets are lined with cafés. My stomach grumbles. “I’ve always dreamed of sitting at a café and having a croissant and a bit of coffee in Paris.”

  “Consider it done.”

  He rolls down the window between the back of the limo and the driver. “Can you pull over at your first convenience?” he asks the driver. “We’re going to pop into one of the cafés. We can walk.”

  I glance down at Rebel. He’s sleeping. He usually does in cars. I dig through my diaper bag for the sling. I don’t think I want the bucket seat for this excursion.

  “This is exciting,” I say as I unlatch the harness on Rebel’s car seat. He stirs sleepily as I lift him out, but when I tuck him into the sling on my chest, he’s out again. Good thing I fed him right before w
e got off the plane.

  The limo turns a corner and stops. Donovan picks up the diaper bag. “Anything else you need?”

  “I don’t think so.” My excitement is growing as we step outside. The air feels different here. Heavy, like it might rain any moment. The light is blue, golden on the edges. It’s magic.

  We walk along the sidewalk, pausing to peruse the menus at a couple of the cafés.

  “I can vouch for this one,” Donovan says. “Perfect pastry and strong, aromatic coffee.”

  “Sounds heavenly.” The outdoor tables are surrounded by a low wrought-iron fence. Donovan opens a small gate and ushers us inside.

  We find a table in the far corner near the street. I hold Rebel close to my belly as I settle on a small wooden chair. The café table is barely large enough for two. Cars roll by, swishing in wet parts of the street.

  I can’t believe I’m here.

  A young woman in a short skirt and perfectly braided bun approaches. “Bonjour,” she says. Then I lose it all in a stream of French. My anxiety prickles.

  But Donovan smoothly returns her “bonjour” and asks several long questions. He turns to me. “How hungry are you?”

  “So hungry.”

  He nods and gives an order. I pick out fromage and croissant and café noir.

  When she’s gone, Donovan sits back in his chair with a sigh. “I love it here, too.”

  “What did you order?”

  “Meat and cheese, pastries, coffee, and juice.”

  “Cheese for breakfast?”

  “Cheese is around the clock here.”

  “Sounds lovely.” Rebel stirs, and I glance down at him. He opens his eyes for a moment, then falls dreamily back to sleep. Good boy.

  “He’s doing well,” Donovan says.

  “So far.” I sigh. “I can’t believe that at this time yesterday I was putting a load of burp cloths in the wash.”

  “I’m glad I could make that happen,” Donovan says. “Weddings are important, and you’re about to be part of the Pickle clan. Have your sister and Anthony set a date?”

  “Not yet. We’re getting used to having a second deli, and that’s a big event that will knock out the whole family. That’s one thing about a business like ours—when something happens to one of us, we’re all involved.”

  “I can see how that will be a concern when their big day arrives. Even your grandmother will be away.”

  “I guess it’s different for you and Dell? It’s the same business, right?”

  “We’re not a business so much as a conglomerate. These days, Dell seems happy to work on Arianna’s dream school for kids. He doesn’t do as much buying and reselling of businesses as he once did.”

  The woman delivers our coffee. I pick up my cup and inhale the heavenly French roast. I blow on the surface. The first sip is like an orgasm.

  Okay, not quite, but given my love life lately, it’s close.

  “So is that what you do?” I ask. “Buy and sell businesses?”

  “Mostly. And often in difficult circumstances. I had a particularly thorny meeting two days ago.”

  This is the most we’ve talked about his life since we met. “What happened?”

  “The founder didn’t appreciate being bought out, even though it’s the only option the board had left.”

  “Did you restructure and lay everybody off?”

  He picks up his cup and breathes in the smell. This makes me smile. Even billionaires have simple pleasures.

  After he takes a sip, he says, “I try to avoid it if I can. The dynamic is different depending on the country. I’m always about trying to retain the heart of a place. But businesses have to change with the times. Their unwillingness to pivot is often what got them into dire straits.”

  “Oh, that’s like us when we opened Tasty Mango,” I say. “The original was based on my grandparents’ tradition, but ours needed to be more modern.”

  “Exactly,” Donovan says. “And you did it. You kept some of the old feel but appealed to a new demographic.”

  The woman returns and sets so many plates on our table that I don’t think they will fit.

  But she works jigsaw magic, leaving us a basket of croissants, pats of butter, a plate of meats and cheese, and an array of colorful jams in white dishes.

  “This looks amazing.” I pick up a croissant. The first bite is all buttery layers that dissolve before I can chew.

  I want to swoon. The food. The just-after-a-rain air. The sleeping baby. And Donovan.

  This has to be a dream.

  Donovan pinches the end of a croissant. I watch him eat, realizing we never got past the salad course of our dinner date. “Do you only go to fine restaurants, or are you down for fast food?” I smile over my croissant. “These are the important questions, no?”

  His grin is infectious. “I’ve traveled across the world, and I’m pretty sure the only place I’m completely happy with my food is Milo’s Burgers.”

  “I’ve never heard of it—are they fast-food burgers?”

  “You bet. Only in Birmingham, Alabama.”

  “That’s where you grew up?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why do you think fast food is so good, even when your tastes change?”

  Donovan takes another bite of the croissant while he ponders. “I think it’s because you’re always starving when you go to a place like that.”

  “Genius. Of course that’s it. You go to fast food when you’re dying and in a hurry to get something to eat. So naturally it tastes like heaven.”

  I fill my plate with meat and cheese. I want to try everything.

  But when I lift a small square chunk of soft cheese to my nose, I have to immediately jerk it away. “Oh my gosh! What is that?”

  Donovan leans in, and I hold it up to him. “Camembert,” he says. “It’s a popular French cheese, but it’s an acquired taste.” He grins, then moves lightning fast to bite the cheese right out of my fingers. His lips close over my skin and slide down the tip.

  I pull back, astonished. My heart is hammering. Him snatching the cheese with his mouth is literally the sexiest non-sex thing I’ve ever done.

  He sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. His eyebrows are raised. I can barely calm myself. Everything is sparking. I’m thinking wild thoughts. Mouths. Fingers. Body parts. Sweat.

  Slow your roll, Havannah Boudreaux.

  I’ve kissed this man exactly one time, and here I am alone with him in Paris. Where is this going to go? Time to ask more questions.

  “So you could have asked me out when we were mentoring that week. But you didn’t. Why did you wait?”

  He watches me a moment. “You want an explanation?”

  “I do.” It’s not like I can do anything if I don’t like the answer. I’m stuck in Paris with him. “Was it because I was pregnant?”

  “Not really. You were still very pregnant when I came back to Colorado.”

  “Then why?”

  Donovan picks up his mug and takes a sip. I have a feeling it’s a common tactic he uses to gather his thoughts. He’s not the type to speak rashly.

  “I wasn’t in a relationship, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m known for my avoidance of entanglements.”

  I tug apart another croissant. I’m not going to starve while he takes his time explaining.

  “But I had been on a couple of dates with a woman in New York prior to flying with Dell to meet with you and your sister. I already knew there would be no more, but I hadn’t spoken with her about it. It seemed wiser to ensure I spoke to her myself before she caught a photo or online mention of me with someone else.”

  I pick up a different piece of cheese, sniff it, and set it on my plate. “That sounds fair. Did she take it well?”

  “I spotted pictures of her with someone else before we even had the conversation.”

  Ugh. “Did that upset you?”

  He sips his coffee. “Not in the least. Quite a relief, actually. Anything else you want to k
now about my personal history?”

  About a million things. “Have you ever had a relationship longer than a couple of dates?”

  “Sure. I was with the woman for almost a year during undergrad. She got a job in California, and I moved to New York to work with my brother. We mutually agreed that was for the best.”

  “And since then?”

  “I travel a lot. It’s hard to build a relationship. But I like to have a date for fundraisers and society events. I find the evenings go faster.”

  I want to ask him how fast he goes, but instead I say, “I’ve seen pictures,” and shove a piece of cheese in my mouth.

  “I bet. Some of the press I can control. But not always. Photographers like to suggest I’m involved in a torrid love affair so the price of the images goes higher. It’s just commerce. I don’t take it personally.”

  I glance around as if expecting the paparazzi to show up. “Do you expect them here?” My hands move to my hair subconsciously. It’s not particularly styled after the rushed shower on the jet. I did manage to get makeup on early this morning. But I’m wearing one of my loose floral dresses, and the striped baby sling clashes completely. The National Enquirer would love that headline:

  Hot-mess baby mama attempts to entrap billionaire.

  “The wedding should be private, but still, we will want to decide how to present ourselves if we find ourselves in a more public social event.”

  I shove another piece of cheese into my mouth. This one is not smelly, and as creamy as milk. “I guess you’re not sure if we should be seen seated together? Or dancing?”

  “I can mingle. Or I can be all yours.”

  The words make me freeze. Donovan McDonald. All mine. I have to gulp to swallow my mouthful. “I see.”

  “No reason to decide that now. I’m not exactly followed like a Hollywood actress. Oh look, he’s awake.” His eyes are on the baby sling.

  I look down. Rebel is gazing up at me. Then he turns to my chest, his little mouth opening and closing.

  “Chap looks hungry,” Donovan says.

  He is. I have a few bottles packed in ice in the bag. I could ask the waitress to warm it, or I guess Donovan could. I should probably learn a few French phrases. “I was going to save the bottles for sightseeing,” I say. “I doubt I will have much time to pump.”