Page 14 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

NINE

LONDON

We never settled on the matter of payment. I plan on bringing it up to West today, as soon as I show him my first completed piece for the bar.

I carry my weathered portfolio with me as I race down the stairs of Selene’s apartment, then to the subway that takes me to the other side of the city to The Veiled Door.

Living here in New York has been an adjustment from Boston.

The air is different. The people are different.

The feel of it. The smell of it. Even the sounds.

All overwhelming but growing on me. As if there’s an invisible pull this city has had on me and it’s satisfied, knowing this is where I was meant to be all along. Like my heart belongs here.

Selene was right. There was nothing and no one left for me in Boston, and the longer I stay here in New York, the further my marriage to Heath and my abusive past fades into the distance.

As usual, I show up to the bar right after the bartender unlocks the door for opening.

West introduced me to the bar manager Piper and a few of the other bartenders during my first week here.

Most work the same shifts, and sometimes I only ever see a handful of them more than the others, including Lewis, the one I see the most. But Piper is the one opening today.

She stops me before I make it to the base of the stairs, telling me all about the man who sat next to her wearing a hot dog costume on the subway.

I laugh and nod along, aching to get upstairs to start working.

She’s sweet and kind, but ever since I’ve started working on these pieces for this bar, my motivation to begin my new life here in New York has been at an all-time high.

Once she’s finished, I leave Piper to slice her lemons in peace and race upstairs.

The boards creak under my feet. The quiet music of the bar below my studio fades in the distance, muffled by floors that have probably been around for at least a century.

I push my shoulder into the door of my studio.

Once a storeroom for all the bar’s supplies, West has done his best to make it my own.

He’s reorganized the liquor and cleaning supplies, stacking them on one side of the room.

The other side is mine, filled with bits of charcoal and a fresh stack of sketchbooks.

Even a few brushes and palettes of watercolor if the mood strikes.

All of it set up just for me. There are probably a million other places in the city I could work, but I like it here.

It’s private, quiet, and though I know West has other bars to run, the chances of seeing him while here are better than if I were anywhere else.

The room is more like a closet. If I were to estimate it’s size, I’d say probably only about six by six feet, but I’ve done my best to put the lack of space out of my mind. Normally tight spaces are a trigger for me, but they haven’t been here.

Although there are boxes piled on one side of the room, blocking half the filled shelves, I decide to work on the floor today. Sometimes I can get a different perspective on a piece when I’m looking down on it.

Dropping to me knees, I place my portfolio on the wooden floorboards in front of me and open it up. I slip out a piece of charcoal and the piece I’ve been working on the past several weeks. I ignore the sheets tucked in the back, the ones more personal to me.

I’m thankful I decided to wear leggings today so the splinters from the aging wood don’t cut into my skin.

Popping my ear buds in, I unlock my phone, press play on my favorite playlist and open up the image I’ve been using as reference for my first piece: a photograph of an older New York City in the nineteen twenties, filled with T-model cars and women in fancy dresses and bowl hats.

All the men are dressed in perfectly-tailored suits.

The charcoal tip meets the paper, and my mind doesn’t immediately go blank like it usually does when I work on pieces that aren’t close to the heart. I stop, my hand shaking just above the paper.

I’m thinking about West.

Again.

Maybe it’s the men in suits. They’re faceless strangers who could be anyone, but all I see is West’s face on every single one.

We’ve spent the past few weeks getting closer to one another. I don’t know if it’s part of West’s usual routine to spend as much time here as he does over his other bars, but almost every time I’m here, he is too.

Over that time, I’ve felt it building between us.

What it is, I have no clue, but I do know it’s electric.

Not the kind that’s jolting and startling.

It’s a quiet, unsuspecting constant buzz, humming beneath my skin, like we both know it’s there but refuse to acknowledge its presence.

And as the days have passed, with me up here in my studio and him below, I have nothing but him on my mind.

At night, I think about West, anticipating seeing him again the next time he decides to show up at The Veiled Door.

Ridiculously, I find myself filled with more disappointment when he doesn’t show up than the last time he wasn’t there.

I add shading to the man’s back, using my fingertip to smudge the delicate black powder across the faded yellow paper.

My hands are covered in charcoal as I kneel on the floor on all fours.

My back aches and my legs tremble, the day’s work wearing on me already when my breath gets caught in my throat.

I glance over my shoulder to the propped-open door, expecting West to be standing there. He isn’t. At least not yet.

It’s stupid, and I shake my head, turning back to look at my drawing.

“You can’t, London,” I mutter under my breath.

I shouldn’t want West.

I shouldn’t be imagining him touching me. Kissing me in all the places an ex-brother-in-law has no business being.

And despite his reassurances that he was never close with Heath, I can’t help resisting. Even if it means I’m only kidding myself.

I sit back on my heels, trading glances between my drawing and my phone, searching for what’s missing. When I find it, I bend back down and add a little more detail to the man again, sharpening the edge of his hat.

One of my ear buds pops out and tumbles to the floor. It rolls on the hard wood, and I lean forward, stretching to catch it before it slips under the metal shelf. I crawl several feet before catching it, but I’m startled when I hear a loud grating sound coming from behind me.

Stunned and remaining on all fours, I glance over my shoulder.

This time West is standing in the doorway .

He fills the entire threshold. A tall, towering frame that sends chills along the length of my spine, his arms crossed over his chest. The peaks and valleys of his muscles are strained against his dark blue button-down shirt.

A black tie is wrapped around his neck, concealing the necklace I know he’s wearing and have yet to see fully.

The familiar feeling fills my heart, and seeing him does something to my insides. Heat pricks the insides of my thighs, and the electric buzz I get when near him comes at full force.

West’s eyes shoot straight for my backside, and I swear I see his muscles twitch. A groan rumbles from his chest before his eyes dart back to mine.

“Oh.” I stumble, realizing how I must look.

Ass is in the air, pointed directly at him.

Also, I’m wearing thin black leggings that when stretched, don’t exactly leave much to the imagination.

“I’m sorry. I, um, I dropped my ear bud.

” I scramble backward to my set up with my drawing.

Then I sit on my heels, turning so I’m facing the wall.

I turn my head to my left and look up at West, holding up my ear bud as I’m removing the other one.

My cheeks are flamed red, and I’m waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Anything to break this awkwardness.

I. Am. Mortified.

“It’s a beautiful view,” he finally says, his voice is deep and low.

“What?”

He flicks his gaze to my drawing on the floor. “The picture.”

“Oh.” I laugh nervously. “Right.” I wipe my hands on my leggings and stand, picking up the piece on the way.

Why am I disappointed he wasn’t talking about my practically bare ass staring directly up at his face?

Crossing the room, I meet West and hold the piece of parchment out to him. He studies it intently, his eyes roaming over the page.

“Truly.” His eyes dart to mine. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping back. I’m too close. We’re always too close.

Watching West in front of me has me thinking thoughts one shouldn’t have for their ex-brother-in-law. Boss. Whatever he is to me.

I keep my focus on the drawing, but all I feel is his heat on me. Warning signs blare inside my head. Is he feeling what I am, or is it just my imagination?

I need a distraction.

Work, London. Focus on work.

“I have a few questions.”

West’s blue eyes widen. “Questions?”

“We never talked about how many drawings you want me to create.” I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth.

His gaze drops to my mouth. “That isn’t exactly a question.” I expect his statement to be followed up with a laugh or a chuckle, but it isn’t. We’re both keeping up conversation, but it seems our minds are clearly somewhere else.

Again, am I imagining this?

“Okay,” I draw out. “How many drawings are you wanting me to create?”

Scratching at his chin, his mouth turns down into a frown as he studies my almost completed piece. “I’m not sure. You’ve been downstairs. What do you think is a good amount?”

“Julianna is the interior designer, not me. I could always ask her.”

“It’s okay. Why don’t you just create whatever your mind comes up with?”

A slow smile creeps onto my face. “Sounds good. ”

His heated gaze falls to my mouth again. “Did you have another question?”

“I did.” I pick my portfolio off the floor and glance over my shoulder as I’m bent at the hip.

West’s eyes move to the shelf containing a dozen rolls of paper towels and toilet paper.

“We never figured out the payment,” I state.

His jaw ticks as he absentmindedly runs his finger across each roll. “How much do you usually charge for your drawings?”

I shrug my shoulder, organizing my various pencils and pieces of charcoal. “It depends. Usually around fifty to sixty dollars for an eight by ten canvas.”

“Your art is worth more than that,” he blurts out.

I snap my head in his direction, caught off guard by his brazen opinion.

I turn back around, planting my feet firmly to the floor. “I want my art to be accessible to everyone. Why should custom pieces only be available to the rich and well off?”

He smiles slowly and chuckles under his breath.

His stare burns a hole straight through me.

“What?” I ask.

He frowns, shaking his head. “Nothing. I just like that you’re strong willed.”

“Well, when you’re part of the top one percent, I guess it’s easy and comfortable to stay in your bubble rather than think of others who are scraping by just to survive.”

“Is that what you think of me?”

My chest caves in. “No. I didn’t mean to insinuate I was talking about you.”

“You were talking about Heath.”

I wring my fingers in front of me. “Well, Heath traded more money in a day than others could ever dream of making in a lifetime. So, what do you think?”

He smirks. Then nothing. Several beats of silence weigh between us before he takes two steps away from the toilet paper. “I have an idea.”

“For?”

He scratches at his chin, looks at the ceiling before dropping his gaze. “Twenty pieces. You create at least twenty pieces to be framed and displayed for The Veiled Door’s reopening.”

“Reopening?”

“Does twenty pieces sound reasonable?” he asks, ignoring me.

“I guess.”

“Good. You create twenty pieces, and when you’re finished, we can decide which ones we’d like to keep displayed here at The Veiled Door.”

“What happens to the other ones that won’t be displayed?”

“We’ll put them up for auction at the reopening.”

“Like the other night at Holt’s place?” I ask, holding back a chuckle.

“Yes. Whatever we raise with the auction money will be donated to whichever charity of your choosing. As far as your payment, I’ll match what is raised and pay you that amount.”

“West, that’s, um…” I can’t help but smile.

“What?” he asks, his eyebrows pinching.

“That’s amazing.”

His face relaxes. “I thought you were going to say complicated.”

I laugh. “Well, it kind of is.”

“But we have a deal?”

“Yeah.” I nod quickly. “Sounds good.”

“I’m glad we finally have that figured out.” He laughs under his breath and points to the floor. “Now, get back to work.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek as I watch him turn toward the door. My drawing isn’t even on the floor anymore, along with my portfolio.

Before he’s made it out the door, I’m slipping a blank sheet of parchment out of my portfolio and kneeling to the floor.

And before he disappears down the small stairway, I swear I see him flex his fingers before curling them into a tight fist.

Yeah, working for West is definitely going to be interesting.