Page 12 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)
EIGHT
LONDON
I stand at the foot of Selene’s bed with my hands on my hips, not knowing what to take to The Veiled Door. Is this a job interview? Or have I already secured the job based on a crappy, two-inch napkin sketch?
I take inventory of my pencils and charcoal again before tucking them into the pocket of my leather portfolio.
I hiss through my teeth when my finger slips along the edge.
The leather is frayed and torn with a piece of sharp-edged plastic sticking out.
I shake my hand and suck on the tip, catching the blood before it spills.
“Ow.” I pull my finger away and study the edge of my favorite portfolio. It wasn’t this damaged before.
Selene woke me up before daylight broke to tell me there was a pile of my belongings blocking the hallway.
Like a gremlin, I rolled out of bed, not believing her.
Sure enough, though, she was right. Boxes of my belongings from my home with Heath in Boston were piled three feet high and two feet wide in the hallway.
She’d helped me slide the first few boxes inside her apartment before needing to race to the subway in time to make it to open Charleigh’s flower shop, complete with a laptop case swinging from her shoulder and coffee perched in her hand.
Although we’ve been living with each other, it feels as if we haven’t really spent much time together, mostly talking to each other through our girls’ group chat.
I’m thankful Charleigh and Julianna came up with the idea of a planned hang out once a week.
I’ve always been an introvert to my core, but these women are different.
I’ve never had friends that genuinely cared like they do.
Most have ulterior motives, but not them.
Like me, they just want to find happiness in whatever form that might be.
“Assholes,” I grumble, knowing it will have been Heath’s henchman who damaged my belongings when they shipped them out from Boston and literally dropped them at Selene’s doorstep without a care.
Once I finish taking inventory, gathering all the supplies I think I might need to bring to The Veiled Door, I finish getting dressed, opting for my favorite pair of skinny jeans, with my silk tank top and royal purple blazer.
I figure if I end up working with charcoal, I can take off my blazer without worrying about ruining my clothes.
Normally, I work in torn jeans or shorts and an old T-shirt, but something tells me West wouldn’t appreciate me showing up so casually.
After applying a thin layer of lip gloss, I wrap a Band-Aid around the tip of my finger, over the small cut.
I laugh under my breath at the Disney Princess bandage, wondering why the hell my sister opted to buy them when she doesn’t have kids.
Then after leaving the bathroom, I stuff my tote bag with my supplies and tuck my portfolio under my arm, careful not to cut myself or my clothes on the exposed edge.
I decide to take the subway, telling myself I need to get used to it if I’m going to live in the city for the foreseeable future.
Once I find an open seat, I stare at my reflection in the window across from me, taking note of my appearance.
I run the tips of my fingers down the length of my face before twirling the end of my braid around my pointer finger.
Nerves hum in the base of my stomach. Not only for the job but at the idea of seeing West again.
I still can’t explain the sensation he gives me, like this nagging prick to the back of my head.
Like knowing you left the oven on after you leave the house.
Or realizing you’ve forgotten something when travelling.
When I arrive at The Veiled Door, I tug the door open, immediately looking for West, but the bar is empty. At first I think it’s odd, but then I remember the time. It’s just after eight thirty in the morning. The bar isn’t open, and I’m early.
I glance around, slowly walking farther into the room.
Soft music plays overhead, similar to what I heard the first time I came here.
The bar is dark, save for a few sconces hanging on the dark forest green painted walls.
It looks like a cave in here. I drop my bag on one of the wooden tables in the dining area and peek down the corridor behind the bar.
“West?” I call out.
I hear a crash and what sounds like boxes sliding across the floor from upstairs. I didn’t even think about there being an upstairs. But this is New York. There’s no such thing as a one-story building.
A shiver slinks down the length of my spine, and I swallow my nerves, not understanding where this reaction is coming from. I shake the feeling, forcing my breathing to calm, but the air I’m managing to pull in burns.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and a cloud of black feathers the edges of my vision.
This suffocating feeling catches me off guard, consuming me without warning.
I stop, bend forward, and catch myself on the bar counter.
Another crash upstairs, and I’m gasping for air again. The scent of wet dirt fills my nostrils, the acrid smell souring my stomach.
“Stop,” I whisper. “Stop.” My voice rises, as a rhythmic pounding sound grows louder. “Stop. Please .”
Panic slinks down my spine. My grip on the bar top tightens, and my legs nearly give out.
But then his hand is on my back, his voice in my ear.
“Hey, hey, hey. London,” West soothes. “You’re okay. Look at me.” He places his hands on my face, pulling me up to look at him. “You’re okay,” he reassures, staring into my eyes, and I catch the hint of fear in his.
A tear slips down my cheek and falls to his thumb.
“I don’t know,” I say, shakily. “I don’t know what happened.”
“Here.” His hands slips away from my face, and he reaches behind him to pull out a barstool. “Sit down.”
West keeps his hand on my back as he guides me onto the stool. I rest my hands in my lap, staring at the slivers of lacquer and wood beneath my fingernails.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe out.
“Don’t say sorry.” He hands me a napkin.
With a shaky hand, I lift it to my face and wipe my cheeks. “I just came in and I heard some noises upstairs, and… I don’t know…” I can’t even finish the sentence.
“I should be the one saying sorry. It was stupid of me to try and rearrange upstairs right when you were supposed to be meeting me here.”
“You must think I’m crazy.” I shake my head, unable to look him in the eye, my embarrassment replacing the panic.
“I don’t.”
“It’s my first day, and I haven’t even started,” I say. “I don’t want you to think this happens all the time. ”
“You think a little panic attack will make me question wanting to keep you around?”
“I don’t know.” I whisper, stunned with his honesty. Does he realize what he’s saying?
“Does this happen often?” he asks, concern buried in his gaze. “You had one at the funeral, didn’t you?”
“It used to happen more when I was younger. Not long after the accident. But as I’ve gotten older, it doesn’t as much.” I swallow thickly. “I never know what triggers it. It could be a sound or a smell.”
I haven’t officially started working for West yet, and the last thing I want to do is dwell on this. I don’t want him to think I can’t handle these moments or that I’m bat shit crazy.
“Anyway.” I inhale an unsteady breath, lifting my eyes to his. “I’m okay now.”
“Are you sure?” He hasn’t removed his hand from my back, and all I can think about is his touch.
My skin is on fire. I stare into his eyes, and I swear, every ounce of fear dissolves.
I didn’t even notice until now how fucking good he looks today.
Heat swells across my entire body, and I start imagining what it might feel like to have his hand dip between my legs.
“I am.” I slide off the stool.
Startled, he steps back.
Needing to move on from my little episode, I cross the room and grab my bag and portfolio.
“I brought my portfolio to show you some more of my work,” I say over my shoulder. “These are better than a little napkin drawing.” I spin on my heel as West watches me.
He’s wearing a simple T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans torn at the knee—the complete opposite of the other times I’ve seen him—and I’m suddenly aware of how overdressed I am compared to him.
He’s even trimmed his beard, revealing a more chiseled jaw line that any woman would love to drag their finger along. I tighten my grip on my portfolio.
“Here.” I carry it over to him and unzip it on the bar top, careful not to cut my finger again.
Realizing he can see the princess bandage, I try to hide it the best I can, using my other hand to pull the zipper the rest of the way.
I open up my portfolio to the first sketch lying on top.
A charcoal drawing of one of the ports in Boston.
“I drew this one when I took a walk on the first warm spring day last year.” I flip the page to the next one. “And this one was the building next to my apartment.”
“But not your apartment?” he asks, not even looking down at my drawings. His eyes are on me, unwavering and unmoving. His gaze burns a hole in the left side of my face, and my body engulfs in unrelenting heat.
I keep my eyes on the sketch. “No.”
“Why not?” he’s quick to ask.
I clear my throat and finally flick my gaze up to his. I know what he’s truly asking. He wants to know why I didn’t bother drawing my home with Heath.
“It was never worth drawing,” I admit.
“So, you only draw things you deem worthy?”
“I don’t know if you want the answer to that question.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I never ask questions I’m not prepared to have answered.”
I release a weighted sigh. What the hell? How does West do this so effortlessly?
I look into his eyes, and that same familiarity comes over me. As if we’ve known each other for years. As if there are cosmic forces between us, constantly pulling us together.
It’s terrifying how I already feel closer to West than I have with anyone in recent memory .