Page 81 of From West, With Regret

Holt doesn’t ask any more questions, and I’m glad for it, because I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Instead, he leans forward, resting his arms on the edge of the bar top. He turns his head on a swivel and looks at me. “I came to tell you I got in touch with Emily Rapture.”

I sit up in my seat. I’d almost forgotten I’d asked him to look into getting in touch with her.

“You did?”

“Yep.” He smiles, scratching at his chin. “She agreed to do an interview for the magazine again. I was going to put one of my reporters on it, but she told me she would only do it if it were me.”

“Really?” I can’t help but laugh. What does that mean if she’s refusing anyone else but Holt?

“Anyway.” He waves me off. “I told her I had a friend who admired her work, asked if she’d get you into an early showing, and she agreed.”

“Seriously?” I feel like I’m going to jump out of my seat, but I contain my excitement because I don’t want to look like a fucking idiot. Or scare customers away.

Holt nods and finishes the last of his beer. He slides out of his stool and slips back into his suit jacket hanging on the back. “The gallery opens in a few months, but Emily said she’d be willing to get you in next month. I gave her your email, so keep an eye out for it.” He flicks his wrist and looks down at his watch. “I’ve got to meet someone for lunch, but I just wanted to give you that info in person.” He looks up. “And to make sure you were all right after last night. I’ll see you later.”

I can’t fucking wait to tell London.

“Hey,” I say, slipping out of my own stool. “Thanks, man.”

Holt’s smile meets his eyes. “No problem.”

Excitement builds inside me after Holt leaves, and I spin on my heel to head upstairs to meet London. It’s only been a few short hours since leaving her, and I already want to bury myself inside her again, just to make sure I didn’t dream up the past twenty-four hours.

“Weston Knight!”

A chill skates down my spine at the shrill voice screaming my name.

Frozen, I don’t immediately turn around. Customers seated at the dining room tables in front of me eye the person behind me. The sharp clicking of heels fills the silence of the bar, mingling with the music playing overhead.

Closing my eyes, I sigh heavily and pinch the bridge of my nose before I spin around.

My mother’s sharp, daggered eyes are zeroed in on me as she marches down the length of the bar. She tosses her handbag on the counter, points with demand at Piper. “Vodka soda on the rocks, hold the lemon.”

Piper’s eyes spread wide with fear. She puts her head down and immediately gets to work.

“If you’re going to barge into my bar, screaming my name, you’ll treat my staff with respect.” I grind my teeth.

“Fine.” My mother groans, rolling her black-lined eyes. She twists at the hip and places her hands on the back of the barstool. “Please.”

Piper only glances up quickly and gives her a curt nod before grabbing my most expensive bottle of vodka.

“See,” my mother muses, sweeping her hands down the front of her blouse, pretending to pick off a stray speck of dust. “I’m polite.”

“Why are you here, Mother?” I ask her, the memory of our last conversation still eliciting white hot anger within me. That doesn’t even begin to touch the hurt portion of my frustration with her.

“Oh, Weston.” She softens her voice, stepping forward. She lifts her hands and straightens my tie. “I came to tell you that all you needed to do was ask for it, and I would have agreed. No need to take it behind my back.”

“Take what?” I ask, confused.

She stops fussing with my tie and looks up at me with her hands pressed flat to my chest. Despite her bitterness, she’s still beautiful. Her hair is perfectly styled, and the lines embedded in the corners of her eyes are evidence of years of happiness and laughter. But ever since Heath’s death, I haven’t heard her laugh or seen her happy.

“The money.” She blinks.

I take a step back, and her hands fall away from my chest. “What money, Mom? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“In our account.”

Again, no fucking clue.