Page 7 of The Billionaire's Lost Family

Instead, she sniffed and gritted her teeth. “He was supposed to be here ten minutes ago.” Or she thought it’d been ten minutes. She didn’t have a watch—her phone was her only source of the time. She couldn’t believe how much she relied on the device.

“Maybe something happened,” Wesley suggested.

Hazel shook her head. Her attempts at fighting back the frustration failed. The tears won yet again, pushing through, trailing down her face, and she admitted the most troubling part of this entire thing. “You know what the worst part is? My mother’s hat was in that bag.”

Lines formed over Wesley’s brows. “You mean…”

Tears fell harder at the admission. Her voice climbed in pitch. “The one she gave to the Stricklands when they adopted me. The hat that kept me coming to your shop, that brought us together again. It was the only thing I had that can convince the Silvas of who I am, and it’s gone.”

Hazel had all but given up on anything happening between her and Wesley. When she’d sought out his mother’s hat shop back in Eureka Springs, she hadn’t known he would be there. She hadn’t wanted anything to do with him again since he’d broken her heart years before. But that hat, the overarching search for Elina Silva, her birth mother, had been the key—the excuse, really—to keep Hazel close to Wesley. To allow them to patch up the pain of the past.

She stared at the ring on her finger. She wouldn’t be wearing her ring if it wasn’t for that hat. When all was said and done, losing the bag itself wasn’t all that bad. Even her credit cards could be cancelled, and her passport replaced.

But that hat? That hat was all she had of her true heritage. Of her past.

Wesley coaxed her into an embrace. His heart pounded heavier than usual, drumming in her ear. “I’m sorry, babe,” he said. “This sucks.”

“What do we do?” She made a mental list of their possible options. She couldn’t even remember Franco’s last name, which didn’t exactly help. What about the police? Or an American Embassy? They probably didn’t have an embassy in a small town like Calma. Maybe there was a pay phone somewhere that she could use to call Melanie, her PA, since Wesley’s phone wasn’t getting service.

Wesley inhaled and stared around. “For now, let’s see about contacting your assistant. She has Franco’s number, right?”

Hazel scuffed a hand beneath her nose. “Yeah.”

“Come on.” He held out a hand, somehow managing to smile. The sun beamed behind him, adding an angelic hue to his skin. Hazel could have kissed him; except she was too heartbroken to move.

She’d had her heart set on this trip. Everything had been in her favor thus far. Why did this have to go and happen?

4

The last time Wesley had felt this helpless was when he tried calling Hazel after the first time he’d planned on proposing to her. He’d botched the whole thing, accusing her of being too busy for him and instead of proposing, he’d ended their relationship.

Kicking himself afterward, he’d called her. He’d tried messaging her on social media, then looked up her accounts, only to find himself completely and utterly blocked. She had shut him out of her life for good.

This feeling of powerlessness was similarly crippling. If they were in America, he knew the protocols for handling a missing bag.

Even still, they kept trying. They stopped several people on the street to ask for help. Finally, an elderly woman with kind eyes and a sweet smile pointed them toward what looked like a pawn shop on the corner. There must have been a bakery nearby; the smell of freshly baking bread was wafting through, teasing his stomach. At least they split their cash between them and left some behind in the hotel room rather than leaving it all in Hazel’s missing bag.

The pawn shop was stocked with colorful beach totes made of straw, glass bottles of pimento, and bottles of locally made cachaça, a drink made from fermented sugarcane juice. There were also hammocks, along with musical instruments like bongos and guitars. Other more modern, recognizable items were given tags, including TVs and used bicycles.

A middle-aged woman with caramel skin like Hazel’s wiped her hands on her apron and greeted them. “Bom dia,” she said with a wave, adding a few more Portuguese words Wesley couldn’t hope to translate.

Hazel attempted to greet her in Portuguese. “Como você está?”

The woman answered with a smile and a string of Portuguese in return, none of which Hazel seemed to be able to follow.

Hazel went on with a timid smile. “Você fala inglês?” Wesley inhaled with relief, grateful he recognized that phrase: Do you speak English?

The woman gave another friendly smile. “Ah, inglês. Sim, I do. What can I do for you?”

Relief stole over him. Hazel’s hand slipped free from his and she spoke before he could. “Hello, there. My name is Hazel. Do you have a phone we could possibly use? We need to make a call to America—I can pay you for the expense.”

“Okay, yes,” the woman said with another smile. She pulled an old touch dial phone from beneath her glass counter.

“Thank you,” she said, and Wesley echoed it. He stood patiently, rubbing Hazel’s back as she held the phone to her ear.

“Come on,” Hazel said under her breath, almost like a prayer, coiling her fingers through the cord. Then her face brightened more than it had since before they’d left their room that morning. “Oh, Melanie. Thank goodness. We need help.”

Hazel explained the situation, and Wesley couldn’t help but notice how avidly the shopkeeper listened in on her conversation. The woman was busily rearranging things within the glass case on which the phone was sitting. She glanced at Hazel more than the objects she was pretending to adjust.

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