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“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.
