Merging Hearts (Smitten Hearts #1)

Chapter Eleven

Rain

God forbid I ever take another advice from my friends. If they dare to give me one, I’m punching them into the next century.

Distaste spills on my tongue as I look around the house. In all honesty, it’s neat and smells like Angela’s cheap perfume that I hate with passion. But instead of inside this house, I have places I’d rather be.

In my company office, working on the hundred projects I have. In my house office, going through my thousand emails. Just anywhere but…here.

I saw the look on Hazel Wilmer’s face. Can I blame her? Like me, she never expected us to meet again, but my stupid friends won’t stop playing cupids.

My fists tighten and I bob my legs on the hard surface of the floor as I wait for her to return with her friend. Thirty minutes is all I give them before I haul off and return to the comfort of the only staunch thing in my life–business.

My phone gives one beep, then another and another. I grit my teeth, knowing who those messages are from.

ANTON: Did you see her yet?

KNOX: He should have. Right, Rain?

RENZO: Tell me what she looks like in the dress, okay?

Renzo illustrated the dress for a client who was supposed to get it yesterday, but because I have to hold a gift for Hazel Wilmer, he gave the illustration to a designer all by himself to turn it into a dress, making him lose the deal.

The illustration alone would have brought him forty seven thousand dollars had he continued his part of the deal –he is that high paid– but he had no problem losing it because he has to ‘spoil my girl.’

I’ve sworn that if he calls her my girl again, I’ll make him lick his ass with his tongue.

ANTON: Hey, I didn’t know we had to give her a gift.

ME: You didn’t. It’s just a dinner dress.

ANTON: FINE!

There he goes with the unnecessary capitalization to prove he’s angry. Anton can be such a big terror to the people around him, but he acts like a little child in our group chat, it’s so annoying.

I hear mumbles from Hazel Wilmer and her friend, and I puff out a breath before raising my head to see her, ignoring the way my heart almost breaks out of my ribcage.

Even I am curious to know what she looks like in the dress.

My eyes trail her as she walks down the stairs and heat rushes to my groin.

Pretty? Ethereal? I have no appropriate word to describe how she looks at the moment.

The dress is a swath of light blue ombre that seems to shift with every movement, like the ocean waving on a summer day. The gown falls around her like a river of sapphire, the color complementing her olive skin that calls on me to touch.

How will she feel if I run my fingers down her arm and watch goosebumps erupt on her skin? Will she lean into me and shiver from my touch or will she push me away and pretend to be innocent when we both know she’s just waiting for someone to properly unravel her?

The halter neck of the dress reveals her shoulders and accentuates her neck. Her hair (that’s now braided unlike last time) is styled as a donut at the back of her head and the silver necklace I ordered earlier in the morning sits on her neck as though it has always been there.

I partly hate myself for getting it. It’s never my intention to admire it on her, but now I can’t help it.

I feel myself twitch in my pants when my gray eyes envelope her hazel ones. I cuss and arrange my uncomfortable pants to hide the evidence of my thoughts about her dress.

The dress fits her perfectly and my eyes narrow at how it’s possible that Renzo knows her size correctly. He couldn’t have guessed it so perfectly, right?

All suspicion flies out of the window when her lips part. “Hi.” I fight the urge to shut my eyes. Her voice matches her face. Light as a feather, soft as a wisp, calm as a dove.

“You look … beautiful.” The words rush out of my mouth faster than I can catch them. The corners of her eyes twinkle and her lips lift in a smile. She bites on them, a gentle flush spreading on her face.

I lock eyes with her, and she meets my gaze without flinching, her unwavering stare holding mine without blinking. My eyes drift to her lips, and I suppress a primal growl.

Warmth fills my chest and I grit my molars against each other. If she keeps biting her lips like that, I might lose control and do something we’ll both regret.

What is that supposed to mean?

I curse.

I can never and will never kiss her. I don’t know what brought that thought.

Yeah sure.

I try looking away, but it’s like the only thing I can’t do at the moment is take my eyes off her.

Her friend gives a mocking cough that ruins the moment like iced water is thrown on me. Hazel Wilmer breaks contact first to turn to her friend and I clear my throat, the back of my neck warming in embarrassment.

“Is the date still happening or should I get you both a room?”

“It’s not a date,” Hazel and I chorus, although I can tell she’s mocking me with the way her eyes shine with restrained laughter.

“Shall we?” I ask her and she nods. As we make our way to the door, her friend holds my arm. My muscles contract and I jerk it away from her instantly. How dare she touch me?

“Return my friend in one piece, Mr Rain Dacosta.” She waves her phone up in the air. “I have video evidence that you indeed came to pick her up. You know, when you both were gazing loving at each other.”

“Su-mi,” Hazel Wilmer chastises her friend.

With a stern look, I dust off Kang Su-mi’s touch and leave the house first.

Hesitancy washes over me. Do I really want Hazel Wilmer to be my fake wife? There’s no doubt she and her friend are close, and I don’t think I can stand another hour with that woman. She’s worse than my brother.

Hazel Wilmer finally comes out to join me. A smile grazes her lips, but when I fail to return it, her face morphs into a scowl.

“Is your friend always a menace?”

Her angry gaze locks onto mine, and I fight the urge to let a smile appear at her scowl. Way too cute to be mad.

Way too cute? Rain, please stop.

“She’s not a menace, she’s just … energetic,” she rears back after pausing to find the right word to describe her menace of a friend.

Joe pushes himself off the car when Hazel Wilmer and I near him. He smiles at her and she smiles back brightly, earning a scoff from me.

“Hello there, Ms. Wilmer.”

“Hi, Joe.” I stand there looking like a third wheel when it’s, in fact, my own dinner plans.

Joe is three minutes away from losing his job.

I open the car door for Hazel Wilmer and my ‘get in’ is sharper than intended. She looks at me with a half-shocked, half-amused expression, but I don’t get the chance to ask what the reaction is for before she slides into the black Tesla.

I shut the door and raise a brow at Joe who’s still standing there. Does he want me to open the door for him too? At this point, I might as well let them go to the dinner that I planned, so I can return to her house and discuss my day with her friend.

“Should I have to write you a letter before you get in and drive?”

“Sir? Oh, yes sir. Of course.” He runs into the car and I narrow my eyes.

I take my place beside her in the car and silence reigns as Joe drives us to the plan of the night.

Hazel Wilmer plays with the small diamond pendant of her new necklace. Her eyes skims outside the window and I wonder how she feels on seeing me again.

Especially since I came into her house and ordered her on a date without prior communication. If this doesn’t scream creepy, I don’t know what else does.

“Thank you for the necklace.” I hear her speak. Because of my lack of interest in having casual conversations with her, I give her no response and pull out my phone to keep myself busy.

From the corners of my eyes, I see her smooth her hands on her dress. After a long intake of breath, she speaks again. “The dress is beautiful.”

I scroll through my emails and wince at the amount of them I have. I should be in my house, responding to some and ignoring some, but here I am at a dinner that I would never, in my original right senses, sign up for.

My Dad is in his villain era and I’m this close to losing my shit with him. Especially not after the message he sent to me last night about the ‘progress’ of finding a wife. Like it’s a business deal–which it is.

“If you aren’t going to speak with me, then why did you ask me to dinner? Can you stop being a jerk and reply to me once?” Hazel Wilmer snaps, directing my attention to her.

Her eyes averts quickly. She lowers her voice and fiddles with her fingers. “I just want to know why you came to see me.”

Before I can reply–not that I plan to, but thank God–Joe pulls up into the packing lot of the restaurant. Hazel Wilmer gets down with a dreamy look on her face and she takes in the building in front of her.

It’s a four story building and one of the hottest Food Houses in Florida–for those who can afford it. Unlike the others who tend to add bars and clubs to their businesses, Taste Buddies only focuses on food.

They have branches in other states like D.C and New York, and in other countries like Australia and Germany.

Their ability to stick to one field is as commendable as it is shocking.

Hazel’s jaw drops at the gold (for T) and red (for B) logo stamped to the front of the building. Her eyes twinkle the same color as the lights illuminating the restaurant. Her hands clamp and she places them under her chin with the softest sigh I’ve ever heard. A smile tugs at my lips, but I swallow it back. I refuse to entertain my satisfaction at her reaction.

After a little research on her, I knew what picking this restaurant meant for her. I have a big bomb request to ask her, so I may as well soothe her before it drops.

The stoic-faced guard confirms my reservation, presses a button on the wall and the thick glass door slides open for us.

Their logo is stamped on everything in the restaurant. On the wall, on the red carpet laying on the hard marble floor, on the tables and even printed on their cups.

Narcissist much.

I guide my stunned guest into our booth and pull the chair out for her. She comes out of her haze and raises a brow at me.

I can’t hold in the question anymore, so I decide to ask. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

She shakes her head with a smile. “I’m just surprised. You opened the door for me, and now you hold out my chair. It’s good to know that you can be nice when you want to.”

I scoffed. She doesn’t even know me.

But she still guessed right.

“This is not me being nice, Ms Wilmer. This is basic manners for every man.”

I pick up the menu knowing her eyes are fixated on me. I can’t pinpoint exactly what she is staring at, but I loathe it.

In an attempt to intimidate her, I lift my head from the brochure and hold her gaze with mine, expecting her to break contact.

She doesn’t.

Normally, it’s women who can’t hold eye contact, but this woman? She isn’t shying away from my stare, and it amuses and unsettles me at the same time.

She called you a jerk earlier.

“Is there something on my face?” My voice is hard when I ask.

“What?”

“You’re drooling.”

She scoffs. “What’s there to drool about?” Her face contrasts with her words, but I ignore it.

It’s good that she denies it. She better not like me or she’s out of my list of candidates. I don’t want someone who can’t fake anything to save her life.

I point the menu at her. “Tell me what you’ll like for starters.”

Instead of searching through the menu like I told her to, she drops it and shakes her head. I raise my brows, waiting for whatever she has to say instead.

“ You tell me what you want, because I know you want something.”

My face creases up in confusion, but then realization dawns on me and I give a low chuckle. “I do want something from you.” Why else would I search for you again after swearing to forget about you? “But I’d rather we eat first.”

“I’m not hungry,” she argues. Her stomach grumbles immediately, contradicting her statement.

“You’re not hungry at all,” I jab.

I flag down a waiter who has the same expression as the guard at the entrance. I catch a glimpse of Hazel Wilmer’s confused face and I hold back a laugh.

Every worker in the restaurant looks like that. Face hard, voice professional, and robot-like walks. Sometimes, it’s like they were forced by their necks to work here.

“We’ll take souffles for starters.” He nods and leaves, returning a few minutes later with our order–two plates of white chocolate souffle.

I engross myself with my phone while the woman in front of me attacks her starters. After some minutes, I drop my phone to take a bite from my slice, savoring my mouthful, until said woman speaks up again. I glance up to see her dabbing her mouth with her tissue, her souffle long gone.

And she said she wasn’t hungry.

“May I know what you want now?”

I can’t tell if she’s curious or just eager to get the hell out of this place. I relate to her if it’s the latter.

I drop my fork and go straight to the point. The lesser I drag it on, the less time we’ll have to spend together. “I want to strike a deal with you.”

Curiosity mixed with confusion highlights her features and she tilts her head. “What deal?”

“I know you want to be a chef. I’ll fund your restaurant start to finish.”

Her eyes yawned open.

I did my research on her a few days ago to make sure she’s not a criminal. Turns out she’s not. Her records are clean and she’s a totally normal person. So normal it’s almost suspicious.

Hazel Shanice Wilmer. Twenty-three-year old Jamaican. Lost her mother at one and her father at seventeen. Has a married older sister, Ysabelle Keisha Wilmer, a best friend, Kang Su-mi, and an ex-boyfriend, Kemar Munro. Worked one job at Savory Nooks restaurant in Jamaica, Portmore. Graduated top class in college with a degree in Culinary Arts and wishes to be a student under Henri Leclair, a popular French chef and the owner of the restaurant we’re in at the moment.

“Start to finish?” she rasps, voice still heavily laced with disbelief.

“Yes. Do you have a layout already? How much is the end calculation? Hundred million? Five hundred? A billion?”

“Bro, be for re… I mean, hold up, sir . I don’t know what someone like you wants from someone like me, but I can’t–” She trails off, but I can see the excitement in her eyes.

I know talking about a restaurant will pique her interest. It’s the same way I know mentioning that the location for the dinner is Taste Buddies will make her unable to turn me down. To cut the long story short, I didn’t get a phone call at her house, and there was no Mr Franco either.

“How do you know I want to be a chef or even want to own a restaurant?” She narrows her eyes on me.

“I did my research,” I answer truthfully.

“You stalked me?”

“A research,” I repeat matter-of-factly.

“What do you get out of it?” she asks carefully as if she’s scared to find that out.

“I want you to be my wife for six months.”

She stares blankly for approximately two minutes, then bursts into a full blown belly laugh.

Of all the ways I expect her to react, which includes freaking out and running out of the building, laughing isn’t one of them. Did my news break her?

She covers her mouth with the back of her hand and wheezes, slowly calming down as her body fights to return to normal. What kind of laugh even is this?

“Is it funny?” Irritation coats my voice as I ask her.

“You’re so funny. You also made a joke back then at my house with a serious face and trust me, it’s impressive. If it were me, I’d be laughing way before I even told the joke.”

I frown at the insult. What part of my perfectly stoic face shows that I’m making a joke?

“That wasn’t a joke.” Why would I bring her to a restaurant to tell her a joke? What am I, a clown? I have tons of work.

She stares again, waiting for a crack in my character. When she finally figures out that I’m serious, her eyes double in size.

“With all due respect, sir, you’re crazy.”

“I can assure you that I’m not.”

“Oh you are!” she bites. “Doing research on me, finding my house, bringing me to my expensive dream restaurant, making me eat this sweet souffle that costs … how much?” She ends her list with a question and picks up the menu, searching for the amount of what we ate.

She chokes and I take it she has found it. Her eyes gloss as she keeps coughing, and I push a glass of water to her, which she chugs downs immediately.

“Two thousand? Two thousand freaking dollars? For this small plate with a single slice? What’s wrong with you? Was this your plan all along? ‘ Let’s take her to this very expensive restaurant and make her eat something before I pop the question. So if she says no, I’ll leave her there. ’ I can’t pay for this. God, I even drank their water. Am I going to jail?

“Whatever you eat here has been paid for. Nobody is going to jail for eating a two thousand dollar souffle. Stop being dramatic.”

She sighs concerningly deep and rubs the bridge of her nose. “I should have let Su-mi kick you out when she offered.” Her back ramrods straight with a pinched expression. “Why do you want me to be your… um wife?” She grimaces as the question rolls off her mouth.

It must sound sour in her mouth, but I can bet my life that it isn’t as nearly as it is for me. I, Rain Dacosta, having a wife is as worse as being thrown in jail.

“Finally a sensible question.” She glares at me when I retort. “My Dad is blackmailing me, and only a six-month-marriage can save me and my company.”

“What kind of father would do that to their own child?”

“I wonder too.”

“Look, Mr Dacosta. I’m sorry about what your Dad did to you, but I can’t marry you. You and I, we don’t fit together and I’m still over here wondering why you chose me when you can have any woman you want.”

“Then I want you.”

She squints her eyes at me. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t,” I confirm with a nod and she breathes out a laugh. “Why do you say we don’t fit together?” I ask, wanting to know her answer. Is it going to be the same old cliche reason or is there something new she’s going to add?

“You’re asking me that? You’re a public figure and I’m just a random lady who only has a social media account to stalk Henri Leclair. You’re a billionaire White man and I’m a struggling Black woman. Literally everyone is going to talk.”

“Why are you stalking Henri Leclair?” I ask the only important question at the moment.

She winces and stares at me with an unreadable expression. “That’s your take on everything I just said?”

Truthfully, yes.

If I’ll be doing this with her, then I’d very much like to know why my future wife has a social media account to stalk another man.

“Well I only stalk his page to know when his team does another ‘First to email gets to be student.’ It’s a giveaway that I’ll never win. Sometimes, only one minute into the post and he’d already have twelve thousand likes and hundreds of comments. I’m never going to get a chance with him.” She exhales as her face falls and I contemplate picking up my phone.

No, not now. I can use it as leverage later.

“Anyways, back to us. I can’t marry you because everyone will never stop talking about us.”

“Then we won’t care.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “How are you such a romantic red flag? This is exactly what a man says when he wants a woman to fall in love with him. Do you want me to fall in love with you?”

“No.”

“Then stop saying things like that.”

“So you’ll marry me?” I ask again adamantly.

She groans and throws her head back and my lips lift. Am I frustrating her? “No, Mr Dacosta, I will not marry you. That’s what I’ve been saying the entire time. Were you even listening?”

“First of all, people won’t talk because people won’t know. It’s going to be a secret marriage that’ll last six months. You and whoever knows about it will be signing a NDA contract. And after the time is up, we have the liberty to forget we ever met each other.”

Her face squints. “How is this so easy for you to say?”

“It’s easy because it’s business, Ms. Wilmer. We’re helping each other out here. I’ll fund your career and you’ll be my six-month-wife. It’s nothing personal.” She only gives a sigh in response and I wonder if I succeeded in convincing her.