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“Am I interrupting?” British asked. She bit her lip and shifted nervously back and forth on her bare feet. Instead of the sweater and jeans from earlier, she was wearing a pale blue nightgown. A sweet hourglass silhouette taunted him through the material.
Donovan blinked in disbelief. His throat closed and his body tensed.
British snapped her fingers in his face. “Did I wake you?”
“No.” He finally breathed. “Would you like to come in?” Donovan stepped aside but British shook her head.
“No, I won’t keep you up.”
Too late, Donovan thought, with his erection rising. A towel could only hide so much. For British to not see how immature he was, he leaned forward at an angle and pressed his arm against the jamb. “What’s up?”
“I wanted to thank you again for a lovely evening,” she said. Her fingers reached for a coil of her hair and twirled it. “And...”
A bit distracted by not seeing the rock on her finger, Donovan shook his head. “And what?” he inquired. If it got any quieter between them, she might be able to hear the pounding of his heart.
“I believe in finishing what I start.”
“Which is—?” He barely got his question out before British leaped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, dragging him to her level. Her soft lips pressed against his. Their mouths opened and tongues discovered each other. She tasted minty and fresh. The warmth of her body scorched his. Bells rang in his head. Never in his life had a kiss from a woman rocked him to his core. He needed more. Donovan let go of the door frame to wrap his arms around her waist, but she pulled away.
“We were interrupted twice,” British breathed, “and I don’t like going to bed with regrets. Good night, Donovan.”
Chapter 6
For the most part, British tried to live without regret, but perhaps she felt a watered-down version of it when she bounced down the steps into the dining room, only to find Donovan seated at the table scanning the front page of the Southwood Democrat, the local paper, the following morning. From his profile she noticed he wore a pair of black basketball shorts and a black University of Miami muscle shirt. His arms bulged and British wished she’d worn her hair loose around her face instead of in a bun. Heat crept up from her neck to her ears.
Last night, when he wore nothing but a towel, she’d spotted a tribal half tattoo sleeve over his left shoulder and chest. And here she was, cringing at the flu shot she received last week. The pages crinkled at the fold when he lowered it when she walked into the room. His sideburns rose with the corners of his mouth as he smiled.
“Good morning,” he greeted in his deep voice.
Steam rose from the white porcelain cup of black coffee by his side. On the long cherrywood table sat two empty cereal bowls, each one on a place mat on either side of Donovan. The smell of savory bacon filled the air.
“Good morning.” British made her way over to the credenza to the wicker bowl of fresh fruit, well aware he was staring at her. As a teacher of middle school kids, British felt it important to be a role model and to dress appropriately for her audience. She wore modest-length pencil skirts and loose-fitting slacks and always paired them with a decent heel and pretty blouse. But away from work, British prided herself on her collection of New Edition T-shirts and jeans. Now she questioned the pink sweats she wore with her white canvas shoes. Anticipating the cooler weather, British also wore a plain white V-necked shirt with a matching zipper hoodie. The kind of women who threw themselves at Donovan were probably six-feet-plus, impeccably dressed women with flawless skin, like her mother.
Damn it, she did not focus on beauty and now here she was, one kiss in and underestimating herself. British palmed an apple and turned to face him, resting her hip on the wooden furniture. “I see the girls have eaten.”
“They have,” said Donovan. “I sent them to the store to pick up the things they’re going to need for their STEM-Off.”
“I have an account for them at the hardware store downtown,” she said, taking hold of the stem from the fruit. For some reason, she mentally played a juvenile game, twisting the apple in her hand and sounding off the letters of the alphabet. When the stem broke away, the initial landed on would be the person you’d marry. A-B-C-D. D? “Seriously?” she mumbled under her breath. This was not what her PhD in STEM Education was about.
“Why spend your own money when I said I’d be a sponsor?”
“Donovan,” she said with a warning tone.
“If you agree to being RC’s spokesmodel, I believe you can even write it off as a business expense.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she responded.
Donovan lifted a brow over the paper and studied her for a moment. “I didn’t hear a ‘no’ in there.”
“Absolutely and unequivocally no, especially not now,” British said in a clipped tone.
The gossip column on the front page disappeared as he folded the paper. His thick brows rose in question. “Don’t tell me after last night you’re changing your mind about me.”
To warn him, British glanced in his direction and then darted a glance toward the vacant dining room entrance. She sat down beside him and spoke in a whisper. “The last thing I want is for my students to get the wrong idea.”
“That we kissed?”
She hushed him with her furrowed brows and frown. Before she got the chance to scold him verbally, Jessilyn opened the swinging dining room door with her hip. The chef offered British a snarl.
