Tasty Mango

Ladies, you’ve never had a first date quite like this.
He’s a billionaire.
Desperately handsome.
Wildly charismatic.

In fact, a certain article of clothing of mine has gotten quite damp.
Except…
It’s not the good kind of damp.
In fact, I’m suddenly very, very wet.
Oh no.

I’ve left out something important.
I’m nine months pregnant.
Don’t ask about the father.
I’d rather forget.

But I’m sitting in the fanciest restaurant you can imagine.
Opposite the man of my dreams.
It’s our first time alone together.
The start of something spectacular.
And…
My water just broke.

Chapter 1 of Tasty Mango: Havannah


I’ve always pictured this moment.

Me, in a little black dress.

My hair swept into a perfect chignon.

An exclusive restaurant filled with elegant diners.

China clinks. Crystal glasses gleam on linen tablecloths.

Seated opposite me is the ideal man. Tall, dark, handsome.

Custom suit. Gold cuff links.

He’s charming and witty.

Wildly successful in business.

And he only has eyes for me.

It could have been the greatest first date of my life.

Except.

My belly is too big to let me pull up to the table properly.

The baby is kicking like crazy for me to eat something—now.

And a funny trickle of wetness is forming deep in the recesses of my panties.

And not the good kind.

Am I peeing myself?

“Havannah, are you okay?” Donovan McDonald pauses, his water goblet halfway to his lips. He’s a gentleman, so he’s not drinking wine, since I can’t.

His eyes are on me, his thick brows knitted in concern. His gaze dips to the table’s edge, where I’m hunched, trying to hide my bump. I’m desperately trying to appear like a normal date from the chest up.

“Perfect!” I say, keeping my voice as chipper as possible, wondering if a wet spot will show on the dress. I really want to sneak away to the bathroom to see what’s going on.

God. This is horrible.

Of course, it’s mid-June, so I don’t have a wrap to tie around my waist. Just my foolishly tight dress that fit fine at six months pregnant but is snug at nine.

I shift on the chair, making sure my legs are hidden by the tablecloth. I spread my knees in hopes that I can air-dry.

Pregnancy is a beast.

Donovan takes a sip of water, watching me.

I flash him a bright smile. “I’m so glad we got to do this!”

He nods. “Me too. How has the first week of the new deli gone?” This question isn’t random filler. He wants to know. Donovan and his brother Dell Brant have been our mentors as my sister and I launch our restaurant, the Tasty Mango.

I wave my knees back and forth beneath the table in hopes of drying the errant pregnancy pee. “Your advice helped. We’ve exceeded our sales expectations for the grand opening.”

“That’s great,” he says. “I was hoping to stay the whole week, but duty called.”

“You did so much. And you were there to cut the ribbon.” I abruptly shut off the conversation when his expression shifts.

He’s remembering the awkward hauling of the pregnant chick to the car. He had helped carry me when I panicked right after the ribbon cutting, thinking I was in labor.

I wasn’t.

So humiliating.

Then I didn’t see him again, as he was off to New York by the time my lack of labor was sorted.

But two days ago he called, saying he was going to drop into Boulder between his meetings in California and Chicago.

And would I like to have dinner?

I squealed so loud that my sister Magnolia raced into the bedroom with towels and my overnight bag, sure I was in labor for real this time.

But I have a few days to go until I’m due, and I hear first babies are always late. I’ve vowed to be nothing but chic and put together on this date. He’ll see my elegance, my poise—

Uh oh.

Another squirt of wetness slips out.

How can this be? I peed right before I came. I’m not coughing, or laughing too hard, or sneezing.

I push my cloth napkin under the tablecloth and shove it up under my dress. Sorry, fancy restaurant. I’m stealing this. It’s an emergency.

The waiter approaches. “Your salads.”

He sets two perfectly arranged wedges in front of us, artfully cut on a square plate with a fan of tomato slivers.

At the smell of bleu cheese, Junior kicks hard enough to make my belly jump. Another bit of water slides out. He must be aiming for the bladder. So that’s what’s happening.

I let out a sigh, relieved to have figured it out. I squeeze my thighs around the cloth napkin and pick up my fork.

“This looks amazing,” I say.

“You look amazing,” Donovan says.

Our gazes meet over the vase of roses in the center of the table. He is such a hunk. His dark eyes sparkle. His beard is neatly trimmed. Everything about him is absolutely perfect.

And he’s here with me.

Everything is fine. We’ll have a lovely dinner. Then he’ll leave again and think about me on his travels.

This will work.

“How is the new financial manager working out?” he asks.

I cut off a sliver of lettuce, despite Junior’s insistence that I eat the entire thing whole. I’m a delicate flower, baby. Don’t make me look bad.

“Magnolia says he’s great. I’m more of the branding expert.” I slip the tiny bite in my mouth.

Donovan’s grin disarms me completely. “I guess we shouldn’t talk shop on a date.”

A date.

It hits me one more time.

I’m on a date with a billionaire.

Junior kicks again. He couldn’t care less about the man. He wants the food.

Despite the distraction, I give Donovan a dreamy smile. “What do you do back in New York for fun?”

Another grin. “I have a collection of classic cars. I like to work on them myself. Get my hands dirty.”

Okay, that bit of wetness is for real.

“What kind of cars?” I cut another tiny bite, if only to keep Junior pacified.

“Two Mustangs. A 1986 yellow Camaro. A 1952 Jaguar. And a 1963 Porsche.”

“Dang. Are they all in good shape?”

“I’ve had them restored, but the motors require some upkeep.” Donovan’s eyes light up. He enjoys talking about the cars. I could listen all day.

“Do you drive them?”

“Not often. I don’t store them in the city. I bought a property in upstate New York with a garage to hold them all.” He tilts his head. “I hope you can come see them sometime. It’s quiet and peaceful up there.”

Junior thumps, as if to remind me that traveling isn’t going to be on my life agenda anytime soon. But I say, “That would be lovely.”

I go to stab more salad, but my plate is empty. I’ve inhaled it. My bites must have gotten bigger while Donovan talked.

A waiter rushes by, the white cloth tucked into his belt flying behind him. His movement disturbs the candle near my water glass, and a waft of smoke reaches my nose.

Oh, no.

The tickle is small at first, and I try to suppress it.

Not a sneeze. No, no, no. Not when I’m already leaking.

Donovan’s gaze is resting on me. He’s smitten. I can see it.

But he’s also paying close attention. I can’t squeeze my nose or take preventive measures. That wouldn’t be elegant or chic.

The tickle becomes an itch, then expands to a burning need to sneeze. My eyes water slightly.

Donovan’s hand snakes across the table, heading toward mine. “I’m so glad we got to do this.”

The moment is here! We’re connecting! Me and this perfect man! I reach for him as well.

But I can’t hold back the sneeze.

It takes over my face, my lungs, my upper body. I inhale in a big “Aaah” then release in an alarming “Choooo!”

The candle goes out.

Several diners turn.

But Donovan’s hand doesn’t move. His lips quirk with a smile he’s trying to hide. “Bless you.”

He might say something else, but I can’t pay any attention whatsoever.

My legs feel warm and wet. Really wet. Like, to my ankles.

A weird sound sets off a panic. What is that? Rainfall? Water spilling?

My glass is still beside my plate.

Then realization dawns. It’s water hitting the floor below the table. Below me.

I’m soaked. My legs are drenched. I can feel it in my shoe.

I can’t seem to stop myself from abruptly standing up. My chair kicks back, then falls behind me.

Donovan leaps from his seat. “Havannah?”

I stare down at my bare, dripping legs. The soggy cloth napkin falls to the floor with a splat.

There’s no hiding it now. I have to say it.

“My water just broke.”

Pandemonium ensues. Several waiters rush forward to drop pristine linen towels on the floor. Diners crane their necks to watch.

Donovan rounds the table to put his arm around me. “Should we call an ambulance?”

I’m in shock. Not that I’m in labor…again. I’ve already done this whole routine, a week ago. But that something hasn’t bent to my will. I wanted this date. This dinner. This man.

And I’m not going to get it.

I shake my head. I’m crying, and I hate crying. But emotions are taking over. “I’m not even having contractions.”

“But your water,” he says.

I nod. “I know. We have to go. But we can drive. It’s no rush.”

Donovan whips out his phone and punches a button, then tucks it in his pocket again. “Let’s get you out of here.”

I take several mincing steps, hating the sloshing feeling of walking in the wet pumps. But then the next stage begins. A long, slow contraction, tightening in my belly like a giant fist.

“Oooooh,” I say. “Oooooh.”

I can’t move, breathing in and out. More water falls to the floor. More waiters drop their linens.

“Breathe,” Donovan says, gripping my waist.

I nod, focused on his chiseled, glorious face. Couldn’t I have had just one date with him?

As the contraction slows, I try to take a step forward, but I slip in the wet shoes.

Donovan catches me. “Here.” He lifts me into his arms. I’m airborne, his arms securely beneath my back and knees. “Let’s get you to the limo.”

I wrap my arms around his neck, breathing slowly, trying not to think about how my wet dress is probably getting him soaked.

As we hurry out of the restaurant, I close my eyes to avoid seeing the alarmed looks of the other diners as a soggy pregnant woman gets evacuated from a restaurant.

Instead, I pretend I’ve been swept off my feet.