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“I’m waiting for you to say it’s quaint.”
“Quaint isn’t a bad thing, Ms. B.” He paused and chuckled to make sure his formality pushed her buttons. For his benefit, British huffed. “My sister-in-law grew up here,” said Donovan. “Are you familiar with the Mas Beauty School?”
Everyone in the Four Points area knew about the famous Mas building, once run by Sadie Baldwin. Decades ago, Mas was a cosmetology school for young girls who came and lived in part of the old brick house in dorm-like rooms and used other portions of the home for school work. They learned how to do makeup and hair and even create makeup, all to land them sustainable jobs for their futures. Back when British’s goals were to become Miss America or Miss USA, she wanted to learn all the ins and outs of the business; there hadn’t been a summer British didn’t spend studying cosmetology. British prided herself on being a makeup expert. She’d perfected the wingtip, mastered the glue for her lashes so well that she could place them on her own lids without a mirror and with just one hand. But she also wanted to know what went into the glue and its effects on a person’s skin. Spending time at Mas helped redirect British’s focus in science. Of course, it had been scientists who made British feel self-conscious about her makeup.
“I remember Zoe,” British finally answered. She smiled fondly and decided not to share how fascinated Zoe had been with the success of the Ravens family. Donovan’s face filled with pride talking about his great-grandparents and how they’d come up with the first Ravens products and created what became a conglomerate in today’s world.
“You know my brother married her after meeting her at Magnolia Palace,” he said, filling the silence.
“Yep.” British’s throat went dry. “There is something romantic about the hotel.”
The higher their car went, the smaller the people below became and the more intimate the space between them became. British glanced up at Donovan at the same time he looked at her. The moment was spontaneous, especially for her. With half-closed eyes, she arched her neck and Donovan leaned down. The air thinned. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart pounded against her ribs.
From below a heavy thud of the high-striker carnival game thundered up through the sky as a silver ball traveled along a metal post at their eye level as their car began to lower. The bell rang out, echoing between them. British pulled away and cleared her throat. Their ride slowed to a disappointing stop. Had she wanted more time with Donovan? No, not at all, she thought as she glanced from side to side to find her extra-tall mother. No sign. More than likely Joan had headed over to the grocery store to buy every sweet potato left in town in order to make enough pies to feed everyone.
Donovan turned his head. British studied his profile. His jaw twitched under his close-cropped beard. His long nose jutted out with a slight bend as if it had been broken at one point. A part of her wondered if it happened in the accident that had left him with the scar or if it had come from a brawl. Donovan seemed to relish his playboy status. Perhaps he’d pissed off a few people along the way.
“I guess I need to thank you for not killing me on the ride,” Donovan joked, stepping off the car once the ride-handler lifted the lap bar. He turned and extended his hand for British to take. She obliged but not before glancing around the park. A teensy spark set off at their touch. Logic told her it was the combination of the cold air and them sliding out of a metal seat. But the little voice in the back of her head told her to accept the chemistry.
“Are we in the clear?” Donovan asked when they stepped onto solid ground.
“Yes.” British breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, well, well.”
British cursed under her breath. “Hi, Maggie.”
“Hi, British and Hot Guy from the Other Day,” said Maggie with a wink. She balanced a round lavender tray of cupcakes as she wagged a finger at Donovan. “I couldn’t recall your face the other day at the Cupcakery but I remember you now, Donovan Ravens.”
Donovan nodded and extended his hand. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“I’m forgoing lash extensions and makeup, no offense to Ravens Cosmetics.” Maggie wiggled her eyebrows, held the tray in one hand above her head and reached in her pocket for her cell phone to pose for a faux selfie, her lips pressed together.
“Magnolia Swayne.” Donovan snapped his fingers and pointed. “How are you? What are you doing here? And without your entourage?” He leaned over and gave Maggie a hug.
British bobbed her head between the two of them. Maggie’s socialite life had brought her to South Florida for every high-fashion event. It made sense they knew each other.
Another whirlwind from a ride blew a breeze across British’s face. Her eyes twitched—correction, just her right eye twitched—as she calculated the distance, arm length and timing of the hug between Donovan and Maggie. She scratched the back of her head and tried to diagnose the sudden irritation rising in her. She liked Maggie. She was the cool big sister of Kenzie. Maggie was also very clear she didn’t want a serious relationship, which meant she could be perfect for Donovan. But what did British care?
British cleared her throat. “Well, if you two will excuse me,” she began and turned around, right into the six-foot-tall woman who’d given birth to her. “Mom.”
“I knew I saw you,” exclaimed Joan, who began talking a mile a minute as she wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. The pink-glittered letters of her mother’s black, pink and white baseball shirt spelled out Glam-Ma and lit up under the changing lights of the rides behind British. When she pulled back from the hug Joan began wiping the messy glitter off British’s cheek. “You haven’t answered any of my calls. Where have you been?”
British gently swatted the smothering touch away with the back of her hand. Joan would never change and British loved that about her. She commanded attention, not just because of her stature but because her mother was drop-dead gorgeous, with her short-cropped brown pixie cut that framed her perfectly symmetrical face and bright green eyes. While British had not inherited her mother’s height, she did get her light brown skin from her. She hoped when she reached her mother’s age her skin would be just as flawless.
“Hey, Mrs. Woodbury,” Maggie said, appearing at British’s side.
“Dahling,” Joan cooed, flashing her pearly white teeth. The pet name was often used when her mother, a former Miss Southwood and Miss Georgia Runner-Up, forgot the other person’s name. Maggie lacked makeup, but not that much. “I heard you were in town. Oh? And who is this handsome man escorting you to the fair?”
British prayed the fairgrounds would open up and swallow her whole before she had to listen to her mother flirt. How many times had Joan drilled into British’s adult head that she was free to look at the menu? Levi Woodbury felt the same way as his wife and, on the rare occasions British went over to her parents’ house for lunch during the day, she caught him catching up on reality shows set on paradise beaches. British’s parents recently celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary over the summer. They still fawned all over each other and it became worse when all their children came home for the holidays. The bigger the audience, the better.
Maggie pulled Donovan forward and up against British’s frame. “No, ma’am, not my date. British’s.”
“Well,” Joan gasped, clutching the pearls around her neck. Only a Glam-Ma wore pearls, a baseball T-shirt, denim and heel
s to the fair. “I’m British’s mother.”
“Mrs. Woodbury,” Donovan’s deep voice greeted her. He stepped closer and his size overpowered British’s supersize mother as he took her hand in his. “I see where British gets her beauty from.” A kiss to the back of Joan’s palm followed the cheesy line.
