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“Oh yeah.” She laughed at the shirt. The writing—If Lost, Return to This Lady—was typical Joan, along with an oversize picture of her mother’s face. “You have no idea what you’re in for tomorrow.”
Donovan clapped his hands together. “Speaking of tomorrow. I’ve got some good news.”
“What’s that?” British perked up.
“Right after giving me this shirt and before I came out here to talk to you, your mom said I could spend the night.”
British did a quick calculation of the six bedrooms they already had and the fact that her room was where the little kids were sleeping. Donovan would probably take the couch in the downstairs family room. She’d have to cross where her parents slept in order to get to where they’d put Donovan. She tried to weigh out her options and routes.
Reading her mind, he shook his head back and forth. “You’re really trying to get me killed today,” Donovan laughed. “We’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”
Except they didn’t. Donovan’s vacation had to end eventually.
* * *
“The building looks recently renovated,” Donovan said, taking hold of British’s keys to her apartment in downtown Southwood after a long and tiring day of Black Friday shopping. “Have you lived here long?”
They’d woken before dawn and hit the sales immediately, driving over to the malls in Peachville and Samaritan, and finishing up at the boutiques in Southwood. They’d headed back to the Woodburys’ for leftovers and dessert before dark if they got hungry. The only thing British had a taste for right now was Donovan. It took her forever to fall asleep last night. Knowing Donovan slept one floor below on the couch teased her light dreams with the things they could do. She’d replayed every way in her mind she could get to him, including him sneaking up to her room or climbing down the trellis of her childhood bedroom window.
It was weird having a man let himself into her apartment, but at the same time, not. After spending the last forty-eight hours with Donovan, he’d become almost a part of her. British lifted the straps of her purse off her shoulder and set it on the Victorian chair by the front door, which immediately opened into the neat living room with the Victorian floral couch facing them. Lesson plans cluttered the glass coffee table. The bookshelves were mingled with photographs of classrooms and after-school accomplishments. She
wondered if Donovan expected to see a shrine to Christian.
“I moved in about four and a half years ago after Christian died.” Without looking at him, she knew Donovan quickly calculated the timing of everything. She kicked out of her canvas sneakers and pushed them against the shoe rack by the door. “I lived with my parents the first six months after the funeral.”
“Only six?” His voice hinted at humor.
“You’ve met my parents,” British said with a laugh. She watched Donovan stroll into the living room with his hands clasped behind his back, inspecting all the photographs and then the view from the balcony. He wore a pair of fitted denim jeans and a long-sleeved, hunter green Henley shirt that he’d picked up while shopping today. Since Thursday morning he hadn’t shaved. The beard he sported had thickened. The rugged look was rather sexy. He turned with a questioning stare.
“There’s only so much a grown woman can handle living under the roof of her parents,” she went on to explain, “but the deciding factor was listening to my dad speak with a Jamaican accent.”
Her answer only left Donovan waiting for another. He folded his arms across his broad chest. His size made him look like a giant against her dainty couch. “I’m confused.”
British inhaled deeply, hating to explain her parents’ oddities. “My dad was born and raised in Black Wolf Creek.”
“Which you pointed out on the Ferris wheel the other night.”
“Nice memory,” British said with a nod.
“The company helped,” Donovan replied with a wink.
“Anyway, my parents grew up just a few miles apart and it took a foreign exchange student photo shoot to bring them together. My mom was modeling at this big-time shoot and had just finished a semester overseas. The photographer needed an interpreter for another model and since my dad was friends with the photographer and right over at Clark Atlanta University, he came over to help.”
“Was the model Jamaican?”
Confused, British shook her head. “No? Oh, because of the Jamaican accent my dad did? So, like I said, what attracted my mom to him was his way with foreign languages. The model who needed a translator was from Finland.”
Donovan laughed. “Oh, okay, so what? They named your oldest brother after her country.”
“I wish.” British gulped and resisted the disgusted shiver creeping under her skin. “Let’s just say we are all aware of each accent my dad used when they conceived us. For some people it’s a song that puts them in a mood. For my mom it was my dad’s accents.”
It took him a moment to get what she meant. It took a minute and a half to stop laughing. “How did I miss this?”
“Trust me,” she groaned, “I’ve gone through all types of attempts to forget it. As a kid it flew over my head, but as an adult, I understood and, for my sanity, I needed to leave the house.”
Once Donovan sobered, he nodded. “I get it. I couldn’t wait to move out when I turned eighteen.”
“Did you live on your own?”
