Page 48 of From West, With Regret

West’s smile fades, and he closes his mouth. His neck bobbles as the chorus starts back up. Benson’s raw voice rings in my right ear, but West’s breath floats in my other.

Intense heat runs through my veins when he lifts his hand again, this time grabbing mine. He slips the other around my waist, pulling my hips against his. I gasp, not doing anything to stop this.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, searching his face for answers I know he won’t give.

The steady, heavy beat of the music playing downstairs vibrates through the creaking floorboards as I follow West’s lead. He takes a step to his right, then the left.

We’re dancing.

His hand on my lower back is a branding iron. My body hums, electricity crackling across my skin as he moves us back and forth. With each sway, we’re close to bumping into the shelves on either side of us. We bounce between the stacks of boxes and kegs, but West doesn’t seem to notice or care. His eyes don’t leave my face.

The song is a mixture of slow and fast beats, and West doesn’t miss a single one, keeping up with the fast-changing rhythm. I giggle as he moves gently when the song slows, then quickens when the beat picks up.

My cheeks grow sore from smiling, but as the song comes to an end, the reality of this moment kicks in. West’s hands are on me, and I don’t want them to leave. I feel safe and cared for. The hopelessness I often feel is gone. West has given me all the clarity without ever helping put anything together. Again, how is this possible?

Looking at West now, he’s no longer my dead husband’s brother. He’s simply West.

My hand is wrapped across his shoulder, and I slide it down the front of his chest. His muscles harden beneath my touch, and I move lower, trailing my fingers over the curves of his abs.

We stop dancing, and I can’t make sense of what I’m doing anymore. I can’t stop the pull he has on me.

The song changes to “Fade” by Lewis Capaldi.

West’s hand moves from my lower back to the front of my jean shorts. His fingers slip down my hip and over the torn fabric. Leaning forward, he brings his mouth close to mine.

“West.” His name falls from my mouth with what little sanity I have left in me.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, his lips torturingly teasing. If he were to lean forward even just a fraction of an inch, he’d be on my mouth.

I stick my tongue out and sweep it across my lips. My nerves are all over the place. So are my eyes. I don’t know where to look or what to think. “What is it?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

His confession rocks me to my core. Brazen and bold. I don’t know what to do with this information. I should correct him. Tell him this isn’t right, but I don’t want to.

Because it doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels right.

It feelssoright.

“What do you mean?” I squeak out. “Since the day on Holt’s yacht?”

“No,” he hums. “Before then.”

It’s a vague answer that does something to my insides. A fuse sparks inside my stomach, my chest, between my legs. It’s impossible for it not to when we’re in a tight space like this one.

“You’re beautiful, London.”

“I’m not.” It’s a bit of a lie. I’ve always thought I’ve been beautiful, but as far as others are concerned, that’s another story. A knee jerk reaction for someone who always seems to attract men who never take the time to appreciate.

“You are,” he muses with wandering hands. “You’re beautiful in the way that makes my heart ache. The way your eyes light up when you’re talking about something you love. The way you smile, and suddenly two dimples appear out of nowhere on those smooth cheeks of yours.”

“West…” I didn’t realize how much he’d noticed about me.

“It’s impossible to think straight when I’m around you, and when you walk away from me, I can’t help but stumble over finding the words to try make you stay. Anything to make you stay.”

I grasp onto his shirt, clutching onto the expensive fabric, using it as an anchor.