Chapter Twenty-five
Rain
I tune out the voices in the meeting I’m in when an inexplicable warmth fills me for the thousandth time. Three days. Three damn days and I still can’t shake the memory of that kiss from my head, the bittersweet aftertaste still weirdly lingering on my mouth.
Her warm lips that parted on mine, her soft body that flushed against my chest, her body heat that enveloped me, and her body scent that invaded my senses. Her body. Her. Just her.
I can’t stop replaying the scene in a loop. The way her eyes widened in surprise then closed in surrender. It wasn’t love, passion or even lust, it was just me being an idiot who couldn’t control his impulsive thoughts.
I’ve already breached the terms of our agreements by kissing her, now I can’t stop thinking about her, leaving me grappling with a turmoil that I didn’t anticipate. It’s been hard enough sharing breakfast with her each morning, because my eyes followed every single movement she made with her lips, craving them on mine again.
For heaven’s sake, I cannot do this to myself.
This unexpected warmth, the foreign sensation and the unsettled thoughts, it’s my hormones. Simple. I haven’t been intimate in almost a year and a half, of course I’m bound to get wind up by any woman living in such close proximity with me.
She isn’t the special one. It’s just hormones working crazy, telling me that I need to release and loosen up. She only has less than five months to spend in my house. After that, she leaves and my life returns to normal.
A tightness grips my heart at the last thought. Let’s not do this, you freaking sadistic masochist.
But her eyes. Those brown eyes convey too many contrasting emotions at once—defiance and submission, vulnerability and strength. Her eyes serve as a mirror to her heart and whatever I see in there scares me.
‘ Mr Dacosta . ’ I hear her from far away, her velvety breathless voice purring my name like a siren calling onto her next victim.
‘ Mr Dacosta. ’ She calls again, her voice a little sharper, like the times she admonishes me in a stern but low voice.
“Mr Dacosta.” The last call makes me realize that she hasn’t been the one saying my name, but one of the major Shanghai investors. I’m in a freaking board meeting, but I can’t stop imagining her in my mind, thinking about her in my head, and seeing her everywhere.
“Yes?”
“We’re casting a vote.” I have no idea how we got to that. This is the first time I’m zoning out in a meeting. I’ve done so many first-time things recently, and it’s all because of Hazel Wilmer.
She’s so quickly disrupting all my principles and I’m hating her for it. I hate myself for it. If I had chosen one of the random escorts I usually went to functions with, nothing would have changed.
“Fill me in again,” I request and without as much as a crease on their expressions, they share with me a recap of the meeting swiftly, giving me an insight of what my vote is needed for. The meeting is wrapped up and the rest of the day moves by quickly like a breeze.
I return home an hour or two earlier than usual, and after changing into my house slippers (which I’m quickly getting accustomed to), Angela comes out to welcome me.
“Rain, welcome.” She wipes her hand on her black apron and smiles at me. “You’re home early. Should I put a plate down for you?”
“Yes.” My eyes narrow at why my wife is not seated at the table yet like she always does, but I ignore it and make my way into my room.
On the way, I notice Hazel’s slightly ajar door with the lights all glimmered on. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen that door opened, as Hazel always makes sure it’s shut, so seeing it wide open causes curiosity and my feet take me into her room without permission.
The room is empty with no living soul in it, but the remnants of her presence lingers in the air. Freshly dry cleaned clothes are arranged on the bed, preparing to go in the closet. No sound from the shower either. A possessive feeling surges through my body, and I lift my hand to check the time on my wristwatch.
Nine fifteen.
If she isn’t closed yet, I’m going to ruin that restaurant she works at. How much do they make her work? My jaw grits together and I consider driving to her workplace with the intention of picking her up and never letting her work in that place again.
I’m about to leave her room, when my eyes catch a blue notebook on her bedside table. I wince. For God’s sake, what’s this woman’s obsession with the color blue? Intrigued, I pick it up and flip through the pages, revealing a series of emails structured for Henri Leclair where she proclaimed that her greatest wish in life is to be his student. I snigger when a certain conversation snaps back into my mind at the very moment.
‘ I’m just a random woman who only has a social media account to stalk Henri Leclair . ’ Anger and a strange emotion snaps in me, and I shut the book with a thud and a petty unlike-Rain huff.
Fine then. Who cares that she spends all her time emailing and stalking another man on the internet while she’s married? It’ll only affect me if I care. It isn’t as if I like her anyway.
Footsteps match in, revealing Angela. Her eyes widen as she walks closer. “What are you doing here?” Before I can give a response, she shakes her head and walks toward the folded clothes. “Hazel will not be coming home tonight.”
“Why not?” Who works overnight in a restaurant? People don’t have homes to eat in?
Oblivious or dismissive of the current storm of anger brimming through my body, Angela calmly replies, “she’s having a sleepover with her friend.”
Of course, her friend. That woman is a bad influence on Hazel, but the latter goes on an auto-fight mode every time the truth is being spoken about her best friend. Pretty sure it was her who advised Hazel about stalking Henri Leclair when she has a husband.
And that Henri Leclair. I’m removing him from my VIP list first thing tomorrow morning. I used to view him as a noble man, but it’s always the quiet ones. His food isn’t even that great. It’s not that I’ve personally tasted any of his cooking, but let’s face it, it can’t be that good.
“And she didn’t think to inform–”
“Will your conscience even let you finish that sentence? Now you know how she felt when you packed up and ordered everyone to accept your trip with no questions asked. You both have the same rights in the marriage, Rain. It’s high time you start treating your wife the way she should be treated.”
Angela disappears into the closet and returns seconds later. “And please put that back on her table. The girl will lose her freaking mind if she can’t find it. We all tell her to send one of those emails to that dream teacher of hers, but she never listens. Such a stubborn girl. She’s too scared he won’t reply to her or that he might reject her because she has no significant credentials.”
She clicks her tongue in disapprobation. “Anyway, come down for dinner, she prepped it for you before leaving.” I’m left alone in the room.
I stare at the notebook in my hand, a rare flicker of something akin to understanding softening my expression, as I remember our discussion in the home theatre.
My mind turns inward, my eyes narrowing as a plan takes shape. What if I help her get accepted into Henri Leclair’s cooking academy? If she has a much busier schedule, I’ll see less of her, and maybe, just maybe, I can exorcize her and our kiss from my head.
It’ll be a win-win situation—her dream will come true, and I’ll get back my sanity.
Sealing the plan, I pull out my phone and dial Tia’s number. It gets accepted on the fourth ring.
“Sir?”
“Are we still on Henri Leclair’s VIP list?”
Some rustles, footsteps, and clicks on a keyboard later, her voice wakes back to the speaker of the phone. “We’re on Henri Leclair VIP list, sir, but there’s three of them. The Spanish photographer, the Paris Web President, and the French chef who owns the catering company we use.”
“Good, I’m talking about the French chef. I’ll send you the picture of an email now. Type it out, proofread it, and send it to him at exactly nine in the morning. The contact information for a reply will be sent to you alongside.”
“Okay, sir.” I hang up, take a picture of the last mail in the notebook with her contact email randomly doodled on the top of the page, send it to Tia, and return my phone into my pocket.
The ending endearment is titled Hazel Wilmer, which is perfect because of the status of our marriage. Henri Leclair will wonder how she got on his VIP list, but he’ll respond anyway, out of worry over offending an important person. That’s the benefit of being on major clients, close friends and families’ VIP list.
Twenty four hours is the longest time for him to reply to the mail.
I drop her book on her side table, noting a shift in my mood. I should feel satisfied that I’ve taken care of my problem—once she’s out of the house, she’ll be out of my head. But instead, a nagging thought creeps into my mind, making me feel … uneasy.
Hazel fangirls over Henri Leclair too much, what if they fall in love?
I feel a sudden sense of irritation. Not concern, not jealousy. I don’t care who she falls in love with, but is it not a taint on her reputation if she falls in love with another man while married? Also, Henri Leclair must have someone he likes, right?
My jaw clenches in annoyance as I push the thought away. I don’t care. We’re just business partners, nothing else. She can do whatever she wants.