Merging Hearts (Smitten Hearts #1)

Chapter Twenty

Hazel and Rain

“I’ll pass on breakfast today, Angela.” That’s what he said to our housekeeper on Monday. And Tuesday. And this morning. I don’t even want to talk about dinner, because he returns home when I’m fast asleep.

I stand at the kitchen counter, my eyes on the Italian marinated chicken, it’s golden brown skin glistening with the Italian sauce I’d prepare. Hurt simmers in my chest like a slow-burning fire as I think of every ‘ I’ll pass ’ he said to Angela.

It’s not about Rain, or the food. It’s about the memories his rejections bring. A lump forms in my throat as my mind snaps back to the past, where I remember it all again –the dismissal of disgust I received from my own father after spending hours in the kitchen, pouring my heart into every meal. A rejection that’s only because I’m the one cooking.

The kitchen used to be my safe space. It still is, but this particular one keeps echoing in my ears that I’m about to relive a particular trauma if I keep insisting on cooking. But how can I not when it’s the only part of myself I can share without thinking twice?

I feel a stinging sensation in my eyes, and I scoff before raising my head to the chandelier above, an attempt to make sure tears don’t fall. How will I ever explain to anyone who sees me that I’m not crying because of their boss, even though he’s more of a jerk than my Dad was?

God, I hate Rain. And above all, I hate that ever since Angela expressed her concern over how he’s eating, I haven’t stopped worrying too. How foolish can he be to reject every food in the house? Is the idea of eating a meal I prepare that repulsive to him?

I’m still lost in thoughts when Angela bursts into the kitchen. “Oh no, oh no!” she says in alarm, rushing to turn off the gas cooker. “The broth is boiling over.” Truly the chicken broth is in a furious boil, with hot liquid spilling over the edge of the pot.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” In a split second, I react without thinking. While Angela searches for the kitchen cloth, I grab the hot pot cover, feeling the scorching heat sear into my skin. I wince and drop the cover with a clang as the pain registers, the sound echoing through the kitchen.

“Are you okay? Oh no! How can you grab a hot cover like that?” she asks, rushing over to me.

“I’m fine,” my voice shakes, but it’s hard to ignore the throbbing sensation in my fingers. Angela holds my hand gently, and turns on the cold faucet, thrusting my hand under the cold water to cool the burn.

“Where were you? You need to be careful in the kitchen. Why don’t you go to your room while I finish your work here?” She passes me a wet compress foam. “Place this on it, I’ll bring you an ointment and ibuprofen.” I nod obediently. “What are you planning to do with this?”

“Please put the chicken in a ziplock bag with the sauce, and transfer the broth into a container. Both of them go in the refrigerator. I’m thinking of making chicken wraps tonight, but you can use the broth whenever you feel like.”

“Okay. Now you go.” I nod again and make my way up the stairs, my mind lingering on how everything seems to be going sour for me again. I don’t even feel the excitement of burning my hand in the kitchen like I used to.

I move from the bed and settle into the couch, cradling my phone between my ear and shoulder, with Su-mi’s voice being a companion to my monotonous day.

“I’m fine, really.”

“You said you were burned!” she blurts out, concern etched in her voice, and I let out a small laugh at her dramatics. After Angela gave me pain relief medicine and dressed the burn, I called Su-mi to tell her about it while I was dressing for work, and the woman called in sick for me. I can’t tell who’s more extra between her and Ysabelle.

“I said I had a small burn. I can’t believe you called in sick for me over that.”

“Just stay at home, girl. To begin with, you’re supposed to be on a wedding leave, but because it’s ‘secret’, you have to work instead of staying with your husband. Now that there’s a chance to stay two days at home, you’re still rejecting it. Are you crazy?”

I twist my lips and wince as the pain throbs when I try to grab the AC remote to lower the cooling pressure. “I’m glad it’s a secret. You don’t expect me to stay three weeks in this soulless house for a leave. These three days have been the longest days of my life. If six months plan to pass like this, I might die.”

Su-mi chuckles. “Or I might kill Rain on your behalf.” I snort, nodding with a pout. “Greg asked about you four times today. He’s obsessed with you.”

My gaze narrows at the mention of Greg. “You don’t think that guy’s weird?”

“Mmh … weird, how?”

“He gives me the creeps,” I feel a shiver run down my spine as the memory of his intense stare. “He acts like a camera, and I’m using that word in the strictest sense. Our eyes meet almost every time. Even when I look at him by mistake, he’s already staring. I don’t find it romantic if that’s what he’s going for, I’m rather creeped out.”

Su-mi sighs and her voice turns serious. “I think I know what you mean. When he first joined Eat Right, Bri and I agreed that he gives off creepy vibes.”

I feel my heart race. “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice shaking slightly.

“I mean, we were joking about it, but we said he gives off serial killer vibes.”

A wave of fear washes over me, my mind racing with the worst case scenarios. “That’s not funny, Su-mi,” I say again, waiting for her to laugh.

“I’m not joking.” A moment of silence hit us, before she breaks it again. “I always thought he was just a shy boy, but we’re all starting to notice that it’s something different. We better take actions while we can.” Now I have a more growing sense of unease about him.

“What do you plan to do about it?”

“I’ll talk to the manager about him, so we can place him on watch, and we could also … Oh!” Su-mi screams, pulling a flinch out of me.

“What?”

“I should check the sex offender registry. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? I always used to do this with every man I knew. If he’s listed, then we know what we’re dealing with.”

“I’d feel bad if he’s not on the registry. He could just be a shy boy like you said.”

“The registry is there for you to check and be sure. You’re doing nothing wrong, we’re just taking precautions.”

“Okay.”

We talk for a few more minutes about other things, before she has to hang up because her break is over. Unsure of what else to do to brighten up my boring day, I decide to watch a movie. I make a mental note to ask Angela about the home theatre Frank showed me while touring around the house.

Rain

I run a fifth glance at the divorce papers my lawyer brought, carefully catching every letter, before signing on the last page. Once is a mistake, twice is stupidity.

“You should think about this, Mr Dacosta.”

“I’ve thought about it and as you can see …” I jerk my head at the papers lying on the table. “… I have made my decision.”

“What if she’s the one this time?” he pesters.

Wrath grips my heart and I fix the older man with a glacial stare. “Did my Dad pay you, Roberts?” My voice is dangerously too cool, and I say him a quick prayer that he catches on soon and stops talking.

“What!? No … no, of course not. I work for you, Mr Dacosta.”

I nod once. “Good. Then next time, you keep your opinion about my life, my wife, and my home to yourself because if you don’t, I might be tempted to make your career hit the ground.” I tilt my head and watch his throat bob. “And I’m not sure you can afford to let your career hit the ground, can you?”

My lawyer’s eyes morph into something like displeasure mixed with shocking distress, but I don’t lower my glare. I know nothing about how it works in the law bureau, but I know that I won’t have to spend up to a hundred million to get him blacklisted. He’s paid to run my business life, not put his freaking nose in my personal matters.

He eventually clears his throat and places his hands on the table between us. “It’s all completed on your side. All she needs to do when the time comes, is to sign and you’re done.”

That is a much better answer.

We share an eye contact that is uncomfortable—on his part—and after a while of realizing what I want, he scrambles up and inclines his head before making a bolt out of the door.

I open my black limited edition Dessel Pro laptop, the sleek device radiating power as I open it with just a swipe of my finger. It was bought in an auction as the rumor trended that a Dessel employee made the device. Only seven were made in total that year, and it cost me about forty grand.

As I dive into my work, the memory of the first—and hopefully last—breakfast I had with Hazel three days ago lingers, like a bitter aftertaste. The clinking of silverware against each other, her scents and smiles. Even recalling her attempts at holding up a conversation with me makes me feel a surge of frustration building within.

It’s why I’ve refused to have breakfast with her. It’s bad enough that I have to share it with her, now she’s the one preparing the food. I can’t.

I could have chosen anyone else. I should have chosen someone else.

‘ What are we in private? ’ What a silly question.

I shake my head, trying to focus on the dozens of work in front of me. But the more I work, the more her words echo, colliding with my parents and housekeeper’s.

First my Dad said, ‘ live with a woman for six months ’. Then my Mom said ‘ try it with her, it might work’. Then my housekeeper said ‘ being hauled up by the past is bad ’. Now my lawyer is saying ‘ give her a chance ’.

Give her a chance? Is it that simple? What do they know about the complexities and intricacies of my organized life?

Even if I wish to give her a chance—which I don’t—I’m not physically ready. Nor am I emotionally available to submit myself to a woman again. We’ll only open our hearts to get hurt.

Again, once is a mistake, twice is stupidity.

While reviewing the financial reports, I realize that it’s been three hours and I still haven’t moved forward. The screen of my laptop blurs as sudden anger shimmers in me, and I grip the edges of my desk.

I’m Rain Dacosta. I’m perfect. I’m surrounded by wealth and power. Why are they all making me feel like I need a woman to survive? I’m not lonely and I’m not in need of love.

The hours go by quickly and soon it’s night, although I’ve been done with my projects for the day since evening. With a sigh, I push away from my desk, grab my suit jacket, and head out of the office to Joe who brings us home.

I walk into the house and drop my keys on the console table, heading for the kitchen. I open the fridge, scanning the contents to make a quick snack. I’m not in the mood for anything elaborate, so I settle for a simple grilled cheese sandwich.

The sandwich is done, so I grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and head for the home theatre where I’ve been unwinding for the past three days.

I make my way into the dark room, the only sound is the soft hum of the AC. I drop into the chair, the leather creaking softly beneath me. Then I see her as I turn on my side lamp.

Hazel is sitting two chairs away from me, her eyes fixed on me with a startled expression. My heart jerks in surprise. I hadn’t expected her to be here. Her mouth open and without thinking, I launch myself out of the chair, and clamp my hand on her mouth before she can make a sound.

“Don’t scream,” I hiss in a low voice. Her eyes go wider, and she struggles against my grip, but I hold on firmer. “You won’t scream?” she nods frantically, and I slowly remove my hand from her mouth, returning to my seat.

“What are you doing here?” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Hazel’s mouth opens again to respond, but then she seems to think better of it as her jaw snaps shut with a resigned sign. The silence that follows is oppressive. I can still feel her gaze on me, but I refuse to look at her, my jaw clenched in frustration. I’ve been using work as an excuse, coming home late and staying in the theatre until I’m certain everyone is asleep, but it seems like no matter what I do, I can’t avoid her.

Finally, movement is heard from Hazel and my gaze turns to her. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, as she tries to figure out what to do next. Instead, she gets up and grabs her plate with a bandaged hand. “I’ll leave.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, my tone gruff. “I met you here, but I’m not leaving for you.”

Her eyes widen for a moment, surprise written across her face. But then she breathes a smile and sits, one empty chair separating us. “I guess I’ll stay then.”

I remain silent as I pick up my sandwich and bite into it.

“You’re eating?” she says, her voice full of wonder.

“That, I am.”

“Angela was very worried you don’t eat.” She stays silent for a nanosecond, then gasps. “Did you wake her to cook for you? That poor woman was so tired.”

I sigh. I should have known she isn’t going to give me the peaceful alone time I dream of.

“I prepared it myself.”

“You Can Cook?”

I plan to ignore her, but one look at her face has me deciding to go on. It’s the look of hope –she’s hoping I answer her. Just tonight. “Yes, I can.” A beat of silence. “Sometimes.” I shrug. “You think I can’t?” Hazel nods. “Why? Because I have money?”

She stares at me with a bored expression. “You don’t just ‘have money’, you’re a billionaire. I won’t even be mad if you can’t turn on a stove.”

“Wow, that’s a really harmful stereotype on us billionaires,” I retort with dry amusement that makes her giggle softly. The sound registers annoyingly in my groin.

“But how can you cook?” she asks again with genuine curiosity.

“Well … Whenever Renzo and I wanted something from Mom, we always tried our best to impress and make her happy first. And she loves food. I love watching her eat because she does cute dances to no music when she’s enjoying a meal. Renzo was very friendly with our in-house chefs and the head chef at that time would teach us how to make all her favorites. It soon became a tradition to present food before our requests. It was fun at that time.”

My lips lift at the reminiscing, my mind drifting back to the yells from my Mom whenever Renzo and I made messess, and the claps from the chefs when we finally get a dish right.

From the corners of my eyes, I see a warm smile on Hazel, and I clear my throat, turning my attention to my sandwich. Hazel bites onto something and I scoff. “I guess you can cook too.”

She narrows her eyes at me with twitching lips. “I can. I even hurt myself doing it,” she lifts her bandaged hand for me, saving me the awkwardness of having to ask. “I want to be a chef actually.”

“Ahhh,” I drawl as if I don’t know.

“But I’m sure you know that, since you stalked me.”

My mouth falls open. False accusation is what I get for entertaining a discussion tonight, I see. “I didn’t stalk you, I did research.”

“Same thing! The almighty Rain all alone in his office staring at pictures of me and reading my biography. I’m flattered.”

“I had to know if my wife wasn’t a criminal,” I jab back. “You know, considering you got drunk on your first day here with your phone on one percent.”

I crown myself as the winner of the banter when I see her clamp her mouth shut. With a satisfied sigh, I refocus my attention on my sandwich.

“Why were you sitting here without lights?” I ask, referring to how dark the room was when I entered. I accept that it’s me entertaining small talks now, but again, silence with Hazel is not an endearing one.

“It helps me think better.” I stay silent. “My Dad was an absent man. He hated me especially, because my Mom had complications during my birth, which eventually took her life. He insisted I killed her, and it bothered him even more because my Mom named me Shanice, which was her name. He would always say I could never replace her. I mean I’m happy for my Mom that she had a man who loved her that much, but … but I needed a Dad too.”

My jaw clenches as Hazel speaks. What kind of father would say that? Why, exactly, would she want to replace her mother?

“I love cooking so much so I took on the responsibility as soon as I could turn on the gas. At first, he would refuse to eat in the house because I’m cooking, but soon, he started eating my food. He would even compliment me and say it tasted like my Mom’s. It made me so happy, because that was the only time we would gather as a family. That was when I decided I was going to be a chef.” She turns to me with a bright smile that contrasts her story. “Isn’t it so cool that food can join people together? Imagine my restaurant filled with people of different races, speaking different languages, but bonding over my cooking.” She laughs. “It’s a dream I can’t wait to accomplish.”

“I just need Henri Leclair to accept me as a student, and that’s it. Everything else is planned. Even my tuition fee. I’ve been saving up since secondary school.”

I stare on, amused at how she talks about food with so much passion that makes her eyes light up. Then it hits me. ‘ He would refuse to eat in the house because I’m cooking ’. That’s what I’m doing too. I stiffen, my entire body freezing in place as if I’ve been punched in the gut. In the process of trying to protect my heart, I’ve been helping her relive a trauma.

Wow, Rain, way to become a villain in a woman’s life.

“What’s that?” I ask instead. Hazel raises her brows as a silent ‘what’, and I tilt my head toward her plate.

“Oh, it’s chicken wrap.”

“I’ll eat that. You eat this. The cheese tastes burnt.”

“It does?” She takes the sandwich from me and bites into it. “Mmh, but it tastes fi … oh no, it does taste burnt. You overcooked it.”

I shrug and bite into her wrap, feeling the juice of the chicken burst into my mouth, with familiar Italian sauces and spices.

“Other than you with food and Renzo with fashion, I’ve never seen anyone with so much passion when talking about anything.”

“Is that a … compliment?”

“Maybe?”

She breathes a laugh and shakes her head. “You’re married to a woman you barely know, all to save your company. Nothing can be more passionate.”

I stay silent, hiding my smile. Talking with her isn’t as bad as I thought.