CHAPTER TWO
1393 Words
The offer
POV: Leah Amari
The first thing I do when I get home after the blind date is throw my heels across the room.
The second is pour myself a glass of wine.
The third is tell myself—firmly, repeatedly—that I’m not going to think about Daniel Carter again.
It doesn’t work.
His voice echoes in my head all night. Calm. Confident. Too collected for someone who asked deeply personal questions like he was skimming a report.
He hadn’t flirted. He hadn’t pried. But something about him had lingered. And not in a butterflies and bubbles kind of way. More like a splinter. Sharp. Subtle.
I fall asleep on the couch halfway through an old romcom. The irony isn’t lost on me.
The next morning, I opened the shop an hour late and with half a heart.
The bell jingled above the door like it always did, and the dusty scent of wilting roses greeted me like a tired sigh. The "OPEN" sign swung a little crooked in the window, much like my mood. I flipped it around with the enthusiasm of a brick.
It was a slow day. Tuesday always was. The phone didn’t ring. No walk-ins. Just me, a cracked vase I hadn’t gotten around to throwing out, and a Spotify playlist stuck on instrumental piano covers of sad love songs.
“Romantic,” I muttered, dusting pollen off a shelf.
My mind kept drifting back to the night before.
Daniel Carter.
Too clean. Too composed. Too rich for his own good. And yet, not nearly as cold as I’d expected. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it felt like he meant it. That was rare.
Still, it was just a blind date. One and done.
Except… that wasn’t how these things worked when your mother and his grandfather were determined to play matchmaker in their retirement years.
So when my phone buzzed with a message from Mom, I sighed.
Mom: “So? Wasn’t he lovely??”
Me: “Lovely like a tax form.”
Mom: “Smart, stable, clean-shaven. That’s better than half the city.” she texted back and I sighed knowing she was right
It was three days later when I get a message.
It was not a text
Daniel Carter doesn’t text. It’s an email.
Subject: A follow-up, if you’re open to it.
Leah,
If you're still curious or at least mildly tolerant of me.
I would like to talk again. Nothing formal. Just a conversation.
If you're free, meet me at Bellamare. Friday. 6:30 PM. Ask for the table under Carter.
– Daniel
No pressure. No smiley faces. No unnecessary words.
It’s annoyingly… respectful. And it makes me angrier than it should.
I stare at the screen for twenty minutes before I finally reply.
Sure. One drink. That’s all. – Leah
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Bellamare is quieter than the first place. Dimly lit and looking like a restaurant with a menu that doesn’t bother with prices.
The restaurant is too quiet, too polished. The kind of place that doesn’t serve water unless you ask for it with conviction. And of course, Daniel Carter fits right in—expensive watch, perfect posture, not a strand of hair out of place. He belongs here.
I don’t.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” he says, looking up from the menu. His voice is smooth—almost emotionless.
I shrug, folding my hands in my lap. “I wasn’t sure either even though I sent an email.” I said feeling so annoyed by the email.
We sit in silence. He doesn’t ask me anything. I don’t offer anything. Our drinks arrive before the conversation does.
“My grandfather tends to be… persistent,” he says, finally.
“That’s one word for it,” I mutter. “My mom ambushed me during lunch. I was elbow-deep in lavender stems.”
He glances at me. “Lavender?”
“I’m a florist,” I say simply, then add, “or I was. Now I mostly argue with wholesalers and beg the radiator to work.”
His mouth twitches, but not quite into a smile. “Sounds like a thriving business.”
I raise a brow. “And you? Let me guess—you wake up at 5 a.m., drink black coffee, ruin someone’s life before breakfast?”
To my surprise, he laughs. Just once. Quietly.
“Only on Mondays.”
“Lucky me,” I say, sipping my tea.
The silence that follows is lighter, almost tolerable. We slip into awkward small talk. I learn he develops properties. Big ones. International deals, foreign investors, the whole glossy empire. I don’t ask questions. He doesn’t volunteer details.
But there’s something about him that keeps pulling my curiosity like thread between fingers—tight and quiet. Controlled.
And he’s watching me, too. Not flirtatiously. Like I’m… puzzling.
I try not to fidget under his gaze.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
I set down my cup. “Let me guess—more emotional breakdowns? Maybe some glitter eyeshadow?”
“I know you’re honest but aren't you way too honest. I like that.”
That shuts me up.
He doesn't push. He sips his water. Waits.
And somehow, the words slip out. “I was supposed to be married six months ago.”
He looks up sharply. “You were left?”
“At the altar,” I say flatly. “With a bouquet in one hand and a canceled honeymoon in the other.”
Silence stretches between us again. This time it feels different. He doesn’t say sorry. He doesn’t say anything.
“I’m not telling you for pity,” I add. “It just tends to come out now. Like trauma’s version of small talk.”
His lips press together. “What made you say yes to today?”
I meet his eyes. “I wanted to feel... normal. Just for an hour. And maybe prove to my mom I’m not dying alone.”
A pause.
“I understand,” he says.
Something about the way he says it makes me believe him.
I tilt my head. “And what’s your excuse? Surely someone like you doesn’t need blind dates.”
“That depends on what someone like me looks like to you.”
“Cold. Busy. Ambitious. Rich.” I smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “But not lonely.”
He holds my gaze. “Appearances can lie.”
The table grows quiet again. People come and go. Dishes clink. Waiters pour. I forget the taste of my tea. His attention is unsettling, like it sees more than I want to reveal.
“Leah,” he says suddenly. My name drops between us like a weight.
“Yeah?”
He leans forward slightly, his tone shifting—measured, deliberate. “What if we didn’t leave this at just another failed date?”
I blink. “Sorry?”
“I have a proposal,” he says. “Not romantic. Practical.”
I freeze. My heart beats louder than the jazz playing overhead.
“Marry me.”
The words hang there—so calm, so absurd I think I must’ve misheard him.
“I beg your pardon?” I say, too quietly.
“Not real, not in the emotional sense,” he adds, like this is a board meeting. “Legal. Contracted. Mutually beneficial.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to feel.
“You’re asking me to fake-marry you?”
“I’m asking you to consider a situation where we both get what we need,” he says. “I need a wife. You need stability. A short-term agreement—no strings, no mess.”
A hollow laugh escapes me. “Wow. And here I thought dessert would be the surprise.”
His jaw tightens, but his eyes remain steady. “Just think about it.”
“I—” I stand up, the chair scraping behind me. “I need to go.”
He doesn’t stop me. He just nods.
I walk out of the restaurant and into the cool evening, my thoughts spinning like petals in a storm.
Marriage.
To a stranger.
What kind of man offers that?
What kind of woman doesn’t say no?
- Writer
