AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Donovan watched British’s eyes rise as if willing the chef to read her mind. He gathered she didn’t, or at least didn’t want to, when the chef folded her arms over her chest. The whole scene reminded Donovan of being younger and having his older brother, Marcus, hold information over his head. British was up to something.
“You can’t possibly still be mad,” said British. “It’s not like you failed.”
“But I did not graduate with a perfect 4.0.”
Not sure if this was a private conversation or not, Donovan decided to leave—with his plate. He headed for the porch and sat on the front swing. Along with accepting he’d be alone for the rest of his life, Donovan figured getting involved at any level with another woman was a good thing to avoid.
In three more bites, the tuna melt disappeared. Besides the bickering inside the kitchen, the rest of the property was quiet. Birds chirped in the afternoon sun. At least it had stopped raining. Someone nearby had a fire going. Donovan didn’t think there were any neighbors close to the hotel.
Footsteps neared and squeaked on the black-and-white tiles of the foyer. The door pulled open; Donovan wasn’t disappointed to find British standing in front of him.
“I apologize, Mr. Ravens, for misrepresenting myself. When you opened the door I was a bit confused myself. You thought I was the chef and you seemed starving.” British nodded her head. “I wanted to help.”
Donovan set the plate on the seat beside him and crossed one leg over the other. “You said you had a favor to ask of me. I’m curious, what is it?”
“How much of a fan are you of peace and quiet?” British asked with a half grin. Her heart-shaped face flushed with anxiety, probably from having been caught in a lie.
“Humor me and ask.”
“Well, now, that’s mighty cocky of you, Mr. Ravens,” said British. Both hands went to her hips. The stance put Donovan at an even eye level with Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, Mike and Ralph of New Edition. The next time the band got together for a concert, Donovan was going to have to tell them how close he’d been to them. Realizing she misread his gaze, British folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t realize you weren’t a gentleman,” British drawled.
“Not a nice thing to say when you’re asking for favors.”
British pressed her index finger against the dimple of her right cheek. “Perhaps I was wrong in stating I needed a favor. It is more like a warning.”
Amused, Donovan came to his feet. He stood a good foot taller than her. “I don’t respond well to threats, British.”
“It’s not a threat. I came over here to warn you that your peace-and-quiet vacation is about to be disrupted by my GRITS.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Donovan said, enjoying the way she spoke. Who was this woman? Chef? Teacher? Mad scientist?
“Girls Raised in the South.” British added an annoyed sigh. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand the importance of women and science and math.”
To the contrary, he knew. His family’s company succeeded due to the efforts of women in chemistry and accounting. Great-Grandma Naomi Ravens owed her success to the cosmetic products she’d helped develop, combining natural ingredients with science. For the last fifty years the family has partnered with chemists to create bright quick-drying nail polish, products to keep hair healthy and long-lasting lipsticks.
With her hands on her hips, British took a step backward. Her foot kicked the basket he’d forgotten she’d left on the porch. “You sell makeup.” The way she said it made his job sound like a dirty deed.
“I am having a hard time understanding what is wrong with cosmetics.”
“Nothing,” British said through her gritted, pearly white teeth. She really had an untouched beauty, something he didn’t see in the industry. Donovan crossed his arms and listened. “Makeup is fine and all, I just want my girls to realize there’s more to life than lip gloss and mascara.”
“Okay?” Donovan responded slowly. “Why are you mad at me all of a sudden?”
“Because I know your type.”
And before Donovan had a chance to form the thoughts to defend himself, British bounced down the stairs toward a pink bicycle. “Unbelievable.”
* * *
“So how did it go today?”
Before looking up, British swiped her index finger along the rim of the white paper liner of her sweet potato pecan pie cupcake to savor the rich vanilla frosting oozing on the side. A moan escaped her throat. She loved being a taste tester at the Cupcakery.
“I have no idea how or where to start, Maggie,” British said to her friend, who waltzed over with a pink-and-black polka-dot apron draped around her tiny waist. For the life of her, British had no idea, one, how Maggie Swayne stayed so skinny working here and, two, why she was even here at all. The social butterfly flitted from fashion week to fashion week yet for the last month she’d resided here in Southwood, her hometown.
“That bad, huh?” Maggie set her round serving tray on the new bar, recently installed. Maggie propped her elbows on the counter. “Want to tell me about it?”
>
