Page 46 of From West, With Regret

I move past Alden and duck my head as I push my way through another group of people near the opening in the bar, leading to the open doorway to the stairs.

I always keep the door propped open, and I pop my ear buds in to drown out the darkness that plays at the edges of my mind. Although I’m supposed to be working on sketches for the bar, I keep wandering to the sheets tucked into the back of my portfolio. I hang the dress Julianna gave me on the shelf to my right—the one filled with toilet paper and paper towels.

I don’t know how long West will take before he comes up here, but I need to look at the drawing I abandoned yesterday. The pull it has on me is suffocating.

I keep my playlist low so I can still hear what’s going on in the bar below. The music playing is a little more upbeat thanusual, the deeper bass and the beating of drums vibrating into the soles of my black and white chucks. I pinch the paper between my fingers and slide it out from the back of my portfolio.

The second my eyes land on the palm covered in specks of dirt sketched on my sheet of paper, I close them. The memory flashes in my mind. Cold, wet hands touching warm skin. The soft grating of dirt, and the scent of wet earth surrounding me.

Comfort and safety wrap around me, but then it’s quickly replaced with panic. My neck prickles with fear, and I shiver.

I’m here, London. I’m here.

His light, cracked voice is a whisper in the back of my mind. Not the voice of a man, but a boy. A teenager, maybe. What once was the smell of fresh earth is now laced with the metallic, acrid scent of blood. Another puzzle piece I have yet to put together.

I open my eyes to focus on the drawing of hands. Do they belong to the voice in my head?

Grabbing a piece of charcoal, I add a few more dots of dirt and add the detail under his fingernails that suggests he’s been digging in the ground for days.

They’re beautiful, I think, as I add the final touch.

The mixture of smells dissipates, and all I’m left with is the scent of mint, wood, and charcoal.

I’m lost in smudging the charcoal over the fingers, adding shadows, when I know I’m no longer alone. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I feel footsteps inside the closet of a room. I drop the piece of charcoal quickly and flip the sheet of paper over.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” West’s muffled voice says behind me.

These earbuds really aren’t that great at drowning out outside noise.

I already feel his body heat behind me. Not like there ismuch space for him to move with the door shut. I scramble to tuck my drawing in the back of my portfolio, and I slam it shut before spinning around to face him. I’m met with his broad chest. My eyes fall to his shirt, open at the top, revealing hardened muscle.

He’s smells good. Too good.

My thighs clench and heat expands in my belly.

We’ve never been this close, not even in here.

Somehow the room feels impossibly smaller. West’s towering frame takes up nearly all the wiggle room, and his growingly familiar scent of mint and leather is overwhelming. I can practically taste it.

“What was that?” I ask him, plucking one of the buds from my ear.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he repeats. “I was on a call I couldn’t pull away from.”

“It’s okay. Doesn’t surprise me.”

“No?” he asks playfully.

“You’re a billionaire bar owner. Aren’t you always talking to someone?”

He chuckles, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Would it bother you if I was always on calls?”

“No.” My heart flutters. “Why would I care what calls you’re on?”

“You may. You may not.” He shrugs.

“From the look on your face, it was pretty important.”

“No.” He frowns, shaking his head. “I just needed to get some facts straight and get a better understanding of something concerning a conversation I had earlier.”