Page 73 of From West, With Regret

London hadn’t forgotten me by choice. I was stolen from her, just like all her other memories before she was fourteen.

Now, when I press my lips to her forehead as she sleeps, I wonder what memories have come back to her. If any.

She moans and moves underneath me. I’ve stirred her awake, and a flash of guilt washes over me. That is until I hear her moan and watch the dimple in her cheek deepen.

“Good morning,” I hum across her skin, dragging my nose along her collarbone. I slip my hand over her breast, pinching her nipple.

She hums, too, constantly shifting beneath me. I know I’ve already driven her wild. My suspicion is confirmed when I slip my hand between her legs and am met with wetness. I start to circle her swollen bud, and her head jerks back, digging into my pillow. Her jaw falls slack as a loud moan escapes her.

“It is a good morning.” I growl. “Isn’t it?”

“It is.” She raises her hands and wraps them around my neck.

Her fingers touch the metal chain and then her eyes snap open as if a blaring alarm is sounding off.

Fuck.

I forgot that I put the necklace back on when I woke up an hour ago, or maybe it was two. However long ago it was, I woke up long enough to use the bathroom and grab myself a glass of water while London stayed in my bed, sleeping deeply andpeacefully. I pull my hand from between her legs and move over her, resting my arms on either side of her head.

It isn’t that I don’t want London to see the necklace I’ve worn since my fourteenth birthday. I’ve thought about this moment since seeing her again. Would she remember it? Would it stir up a memory for her?

It has to, right? Considering the drawing she did on the napkin?

Either way, I hold my breath and try as hard as I fucking can not to freak out as she delicately grabs the chain. She holds it between her fingers, using both hands to smooth down the length before her eyes fall to the tiny charm at the end.

I watch her with bated breath, terrified, naively believing this could be it. This could be the moment her memories are triggered. I feel nauseous. My stomach wobbles, and I can’t figure out what to say or do.

Deciding on saying absolutely nothing, I wait and watch, shaking like a leaf with anticipation.

Her brows pull together, and she pulls her chin back. She doesn’t say anything, turning the charm over in her hands.

I’m aware of every breath, and every second of waiting is spent in agony.

“Is this…?” She never looks away from the charm.

Holy shit. This is it.

I swear, I see the memories falling into place for her.

The three lines between her pinched eyebrows disappear as they settle back into their natural place, then she finally looks up at me.

“Big Ben?”

I swallow, loudly. “Yeah.”

“Why?” she asks, confused, her gaze dropping back to the tiny clock tower.

I’m wrong. This isn’t it. This isn’t the moment she remembers.

Disappointment floods my gut, but I try my best to keep breathing and not let it show.

“A birthday gift from a friend,” I tell her plainly. It’s the truth. A vague one, but true.

“Were they from London?” she asks, her mouth tilting into a ghost of a smile.

“No.” I clear my throat.

“Oh.” She frowns. This time, she’s the one who looks disappointed. “What’s the story behind it, then?”