Donovan: Last Man Standing: Prescott Hill, #1

Chapter One

"A re you almost ready, dear? You’re up after that attractive firefighter and the man who runs the new bakery in town."

Donovan Sinclair adjusted his tie and straightened his shoulders as he glared at the back of his mother’s head. He’d never do it where she could see him. He probably wouldn’t live very long. I can’t believe you signed me up for a bachelor auction. Without telling me.

He glanced around the packed community center, then at the stage where Cissy Hanson was describing the poor sap who’d also gotten roped into being here.

Bitsy Beaumont-Sinclair swished her hand in the air like she was swatting a mosquito. Would you have shown up if I had?

No, because I have better things to do with my time than participate in some new version of The Dating Game. I don’t need help finding a woman.

His mother angled her head away, but he’d caught her eye roll. It’s for charity, Donovan.

Why me? Don’t your friends have kids to sacrifice on the auction block?

Her manicured nails tapped on the table next to her. Actually no. All my friends’ children are happily married and having families. You’re thirty-one, Donovan. It’s time for you to settle down.

I don’t want to settle down, Mom. I like being single. The last man standing, so to speak. I don’t need to report to anyone but myself.

She clutched her pearls. Literally. You’re planning to deprive me of grandchildren? How heartless can you be?

What do you need grandchildren for? To neglect them like you did me? No, he wouldn’t say those words out loud, but he had a feeling his mother knew they were there.

All of my friends are always bragging about their grandchildren and showing pictures of the little tykes. I have nothing to contribute to the conversations.

Great. Because she didn’t have pictures to share, he got set up on some ridiculous date. How about I get a puppy? They’re little and cute. You could even babysit occasionally if you want.

His mother gave him the look, the one that said she wasn’t amused.

I’m not interested in anything long term with any woman, Mom. If that’s what you hoped to achieve by signing me up for this circus, you’ll be sorely disappointed. When exactly is this date to take place? I have a lot of commitments back in Roanoke. Granddad won’t be too happy if I suddenly need to take a day off.

His mother pursed her perfectly made-up lips. I know that’s not true. Your grandfather informed me he was giving you and your cousins a month off. The office is closing, except for a few essential staff, and he expects all of you to do something interesting during that time.

Donovan shook his head and exhaled. I don’t understand what he’s trying to achieve with this mandatory time off.

Mom shifted closer and perused who was nearby. I’m not certain, but there’s a possibility he’s looking to see what each of you do in your spare time and use the information to place you and your cousins in the appropriate positions at the company. I suggest you don’t lounge on the beach during your forced vacation. Show him something better.

Donovan’s eyebrows inched together. How exactly is going on a date with some debutante going to make me look better than Travis, Chadwick, and Vance?

Mom’s eyes roamed the room again. You’ll be helping the Children’s Hospital. Far more altruistic than skiing like I know Chadwick will be doing. He sent an e-mail around last week saying he’d be using the Aspen lodge for a few weeks.

But an auction, Mom? I doubt Granddad thinks wining and dining a woman is key to running a corporation. And what if this woman wants more than a simple date?

Sweetie, you read the rules. They can ask you to do anything during the month of June, excluding anything immoral or illegal, and no hanky-panky. This auction is for the children, for goodness sake.

I’m supposed to drop everything and be at their beck and call for an entire month? She’d mentioned this when she’d dropped the bomb on him earlier today, but he still had a hard time buying it.

Oh, I doubt it will be the entire month. Maybe a few nice dinners or a day on the family yacht. Or it could be someone who simply wants you to take care of their cat while they’re away on vacation.

He cocked his head and groaned. Seriously? Someone’s going to bid a few thousand dollars for me to feed their cat? Wouldn’t it be easier and cheaper to hire a professional?

It could be anyone, Donovan. I’m not clairvoyant. She peeked around again. Although, I have it on good authority Mrs. Wisenthall was looking for someone to take her around to her doctor appointments. She’s lonely, poor woman, since her kids all moved away. Like me, since you moved to Roanoke.

Donovan snorted, then coughed to try and cover it up. No fooling his mother. She glared in the most proper way a person could glare. I hardly think you’re lonely, Mom. You’ve still got Dad at home, not to mention your million other committees.

His mother patted his cheek and smiled the syrupy smile he knew meant she expected to get her way. You work too hard, Donovan. You need to have some fun. Get away from the city.

He hardly thought Prescott Hill, Virginia was the place for a romping good time. The highlight of the town was the church potluck every Sunday. Not that he planned to go back there again. Too many bad memories stemmed from the little white chapel on the edge of town.

Mrs. Wisenthall wasn’t too bad. She had a tendency to go on and on about her late husband and how wonderful he was, but it was nice to see her face light up when she talked about him. He could do a few doctor appointments. And her grandkids were finally all married off. He didn’t need to worry she’d try and match him up with any of them.

The next bachelor we have on the docket is Donovan Sinclair. Cissy announced.

His mother shooed him up the stairs on the side of the stage. Man, this was embarrassing. Pushing aside his suit coat, he shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants and strolled to the center where a small catwalk had been set up. Yeah, this wasn’t where he wanted to be right now. Or ever.

Donovan Sinclair hails from right here in Prescott Hill, son of Drake and Bitsy Sinclair. Once a member of the Three Oaks Country Club, he now calls Roanoke his home. He has several degrees in business from William and Mary University and works for Beaumont Industries as a business analyst. Donovan will be free to help you with any tasks you might need him for over the next month. Who wouldn’t want such a handsome accessory on her arm? We’ll start the bidding at a thousand dollars.

Donovan cringed as dollar amounts were called out as if he were at a livestock sale. Cissy shooed him down the small runway. The lights set up beside it glared so much he couldn’t see the people in the audience, yet he could hear them yelling out amounts.

Four thousand.

Five thousand.

Seven thousand. Oh, Mrs. Wisenthall was getting serious, upping the bid quickly.

Eight thousand.

Eight thousand for this strong, strapping man to do with as you please. According to our rules, of course, Cissy clarified, but Donovan wondered how vigorously they enforced those rules.

Do I hear nine thousand for Donovan Sinclair?

Nine thousand. Mrs. Wisenthall was determined. The others seemed to have dropped out of the race.

We have nine thousand dollars for this handsome man. Any other takers? Cissy waited and glanced around. Donovan couldn’t see more than shapes sitting at the tables.

Okay, then. Going once, going twice—

Fifteen thousand dollars.

Donovan froze. The voice wasn’t one of the ones who’d been bidding before. This one was soft as a breeze and sweet as honey with a lilting southern accent.

Fifteen thousand. Any other bids? Cissy cocked her head, but Mrs. Wisenthall remained silent. Going once. Going twice. I think we have a winner.

Donovan could make out the shape of a woman walking toward the stage. And what a shape it was. The dress was classy, floral, and hugged her figure lovingly, stopping about an inch above her knee. High heels accentuated her long, trim legs and clicked on the wood floor as she approached. A white, large-brimmed hat perched on top of her head, covering all but a long curl of brunette hair that swirled across one shoulder, then dipped between her breasts.

Well now. This was a new circumstance. Maybe he could forgive his mother if he got to spend some quality time with this exquisite creature. Provided she knew it was a temporary situation.

Cissy cleared her throat as the mystery woman sauntered closer and tipped her head up. As Donovan took in her features, memories drifted through his mind, and the blood drained from his face.

Donovan Sinclair sold for fifteen thousand dollars to Magnolia Popham.

Magnolia Popham—Maggie to her friends and family—grinned at the stunned expression on Donovan Sinclair’s face as she tilted her head back, exposing herself to his gaze. She figured he’d be pole-axed by her appearance. When the color drained from his face, it was sweeter than even she’d imagined.

Poppy?

The name had her stomach clenching, doubting her decision to bid on Donovan. But no. She needed his help, and watching him sweat the way she and her mother had done for many years for him and his family would be so satisfying.

Donovan’s pale cheeks filled with pink again as he studied her. Yup, she didn’t doubt she looked a little different from when she’d been making his bed and scrubbing his dishes. With this designer dress she’d gotten secondhand, she almost looked like she fit in his world.

His million-dollar suit hugged his trim figure like a glove, while his dark brown conservative hairstyle attempted to curl just to defy him. Angular features mixed with his deep brown eyes were a potent combination. One she’d tried to avoid thinking about for nine years.

You can pay the cashier near the door. Next up on our list is none other than…

The words Cissy spoke faded into the background as Donovan trotted down the stairs and marched over to her. Swiftly, she glided to the back of the room. Pretend she was eager to pay for her purchase. No one needed to know about the maelstrom in her stomach with the thought of facing Donovan after all these years. Not after what he’d done to her.

Poppy? he called after her, his voice soft but clear.

Little Poppy Popham. It’s what he’d called her from the time she’d first met him. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight when her mom had taken the job as housekeeper for the Sinclair family. Occasionally, she’d accompanied her mom to work to do menial jobs that were easy for a child her age. Pulling weeds. Washing the chairs by the pool. Emptying trash after a party. Once she was older, she’d graduated to making beds and doing laundry or dishes. The extra money had helped support the family, since the farm they lived on barely made enough to pay the bills.

When she got to the table to pay, she whipped out her checkbook and scribbled in the amount.

If you’ll sign here, Mr. Sinclair, we’ll be all official, Tabitha Dailey, the church secretary and one of Maggie’s good friends, said.

Donovan scowled, intent on talking to her apparently and frustrated by the interruption. He quickly scrawled his name on the document which was then handed over to her. Maggie clutched the paper tightly in her fist and exited the community center, Donovan hot on her thrift store heels.

Poppy? How’ve you been?

Maggie could tell that wasn’t the question he’d been dying to ask since she topped the bid at fifteen thousand dollars, sending poor Mrs. Wisenthall into histrionics.

How does it look like I’ve been? Had he kept in touch with his family since deserting the town six years ago?

You look great. But then you always looked great.

Maggie’s teeth ground together at his ridiculous words. Not bad for the hired help, huh?

The color that had finally come back into his face drained again at her words. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, sincere regret flashed at her. How could she believe it?

I’ve wanted to apologize to you ever since then. I tried at a bunch of the church potluck dinners, but you always seemed to disappear whenever I attempted to find you. I’m sorry, Poppy.

Of course she’d disappeared. Why would she give him another opportunity to make a fool of her in front of his friends? She may not be rich, but she wasn’t stupid either.

First off, my name is Magnolia. Or Maggie. I expect to be called that during the duration of our working together.

Maggie. Sure. Sorry.

When he stared at her with those soulful brown eyes, she wanted to forgive him. She’d had such a crush on him growing up. He’d been four years older than her and barely acknowledged her presence, yet he’d never treated her poorly, unlike his mother who liked to lord it over the household help. The times he had spoken to her, he’d gotten a stink eye from his mother as if it was beneath him. Even so, he’d made attempts to make her jobs easier by putting his dishes in the sink, making sure his clothes were in the hamper and not all over the floor of his room, even tidying up some of the mess his friends made when they came over to hang out.

But it all hadn’t meant anything, apparently. She was still only the hired help.

When he’d come home after graduating from college, he’d smiled at her more often. She’d finally turned eighteen and had matured since he’d last seen her. One day, he’d taken a few minutes out by the back of the pool house to chat with her and ask how she was. It seemed he was truly interested in her.

Then, he’d kissed her. Nothing grand or passionate, yet it had made her see stars. For all of about a minute. When his buddies had wandered around the corner looking for him, he’d backed off quickly. As they tottered away, his friends had ribbed him about what they’d seen and wouldn’t his mother love that.

He’d laughed and joked, What else is the hired help for?

She’d been crushed and humiliated. The same day, she’d told her parents she wanted to start working on the farm more instead of at the Sinclair’s. Her parents had never asked, but she had a feeling they knew something had happened. Since it was nothing more than her heart being stomped on, she never told them.

Unfortunately, she’d still seen him at church each Sunday. Since his family sat up in the front pews and her family in the back, it was easy to slip away before he exited. Avoiding him at the weekly potlucks, on the other hand, had been more difficult. It had gotten to be a game with her. She always made sure she had an escape route at any given time. Soon enough, he’d left her alone and picked up with Gardenia Montague. The relationship hadn’t lasted much more than a year before he hightailed it to the city. Why he left was a different story, depending on who you heard it from.

Today’s Saturday, Maggie addressed him. I don’t expect you to start right away, but you need to be at the farm bright and early Monday morning. Since it’s your first day, I’ll let you sleep in a little. Be there at seven.

His eyes widened. Seven in the morning?

Yes, in the morning. I suggest ditching the Armani suit. It won’t mix too well with fertilizer, chicken feed, and cow manure.

For the third time that day, Magnolia Popham had the distinct pleasure of seeing the color drain from Donovan Sinclair’s face.

Chapter Two

The sun peeked over the horizon, and Donovan yawned as he drove down the country road. It had been years since he’d been anywhere near Popham Farm. Even then, it hadn’t been often. The last time had been when Sally Popham’s car hadn’t started after work one day. His mother’s version of helping had been to suggest she call her auto club. He knew the Pophams wouldn’t have an auto club. He’d offered to drop her off at home, then had her car towed and fixed on his dime.

Maybe he’d considered it some kind of penance for the way he’d treated Poppy—uh, Maggie—that day when he’d come home from college. What an idiot he’d been. When he dropped Sally off, he’d been hoping her daughter would come out and see what was going on. Maybe forgive him. Luck hadn’t been with him that day, because she hadn’t even been home.

Last night, he’d stayed at his parents’ place, something he hadn’t wanted to do and hadn’t done in many years. However, the almost two-hour drive from his apartment in Roanoke would have needed to start before five.

During yesterday’s dinner, he’d asked about the Pophams, realizing Sally wasn’t working for them anymore. It had been months since he’d visited his parents in Prescott Hill, and they’d neglected to inform him Sally’s husband had passed away from a heart attack.

When he’d pressed for more information, his mom had told him Sally had taken some time off, then decided not to come back. Retiring or something.

Isn’t she a little young to retire? She can’t be more than fifty-five.

His mother had lifted a shoulder casually. I believe she got some insurance money. I honestly didn’t ask.

The woman worked for you for over twenty years, and you didn’t ask how she was or if she needed any help?

Of course we helped. His mother had looked scandalized he would even suggest such a thing. We sent flowers, and Matilda made her a casserole. Not to mention, we paid her a full salary for the two weeks she was gone even though she hadn’t worked.

Leave it to his mother to think that showed compassion.

The old barns and farmhouse came into view as he passed acres and acres of fields. Who was tending them now?

He pulled into the drive that circled the front of the rambling white building and parked near the steps. It was six fifty-five. Was she even up yet? Most likely, if she told him to be here at seven. No way he wanted her to have anything to complain about, especially on his first day.

How long would