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

I stare at the paper, running the tip of my black painted nail across the number ‘one’. “I’m supposed to speak at the funeral and give a eulogy.”

“Looks like you’re making a list more than a eulogy.”

I lift one shoulder. “I figured it would be easier this way. Short and straight to the point.”

“Why?” he asks, curiosity piquing his interest. “I’m sure the family will give you plenty of time to say whatever you want about him and your life together. You were his wife.”

I avoid his gaze, looking back toward the front of the bar. “I’ve actually never met his family. Today will be the first time.”

“Oh. So, were you not together very long?”

I turn back to him. “Not even a year. We were married for six months, together for a few months before then. He just never seemed to talk about them, and when I would ask, he’d shut me down.”

He nods, glancing toward the front window himself.

My attention falls to the silver chain wrapped around his neck.

Whatever is dangling from the end of it is concealed by his black, button-down shirt.

I fight the urge to ask him about it, wondering why, in the back of my mind, the sight of the metal causes my stomach to flutter.

He keeps his focus on the front of the bar. “Well, I’m sorry your marriage was cut short.”

“You don’t have to keep telling me that.” I look down into my lap and eye the enormous ring on my fourth finger.

“Telling you what?”

I lift my gaze, and now he’s staring at me again. My cheeks flush. “That you’re sorry for my loss. I’m not.”

Fuck, I’m being too honest with this stranger.

He keeps his mouth closed, but I feel like he’s cut me open and unearthed my deepest, darkest secrets. Like he already knows how I truly felt about Heath.

“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” The corner of his mouth lifts into an unnerving smirk.

A small chuckle climbs up my throat, and I blink. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Honesty reveals itself faster than fabrication. You were just being honest.”

“I think I’m just nervous. I don’t know why considering…” I trail off.

“Considering what?”

I smooth my hands down the front of my black dress. My funeral dress. A short sleeve wrap, with ruffles that hit mid-thigh. I’ve considered burning it after the ceremony is over. It’s a beautiful dress, but it’s hard to love anything Heath gave me.

The silk feels like butter under my fingers, and a shiver breaks across my bare shoulders.

I close my eyes and remember the way Heath spat in my face, angry when I’d worn my forest green dress to his company party instead of this one.

Suddenly, I’m regretting my decision to wear it. Or maybe, deep down, my subconscious wanted me to wear this dress to spite him.

“Are you okay?” the bartender asks.

Kind eyes. He has kind eyes.

“I am now.”

He’s right. Honesty does reveal itself faster than a lie.

He straightens his back and keeps his gaze trained on me before cutting it away. He grabs a small towel and starts wiping down the counter. I watch his hand move across the smooth surface, how his corded muscles stretch and flex.

“Have you ever done something, then regretted it when it was too late?”

He abruptly stops cleaning. I expect him to look up at me, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes trained on the glossy wood for ten long seconds before resuming his work. “No.” He clears his throat.

“Oh.” I look down in my lap and play with my wedding ring. I slip it up to my knuckle, then back to its place at the base of my finger.

“But I have regretted not doing something once it was too late,” he adds.

I snap my head back up to look at him, and my throat is suddenly dry. The necklace he’s wearing glints under the golden lights above. I swallow the heat rising in my throat, allowing my confession to pour out of me. “I regret marrying my husband. Heath.”

The bartender stops cleaning completely, dropping his towel back down behind the counter.

He glances around the bar. Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable, but I can’t help it.

I’m never going to see this man again, and I’ve kept my secrets locked in a box for far too long.

Freedom is now mine, and I have no one holding me back from speaking my truth.

“He was a horrible person.” My confession easily slips through my lips.

“At first, he was sweet. Said all the right things, did all the right things. He claimed to understand me and my hesitancy when it came to relationships.” I keep the details of my accident to myself, because exposing that part of my life seems a step too far with this stranger.

“He earned my trust, but it was almost as if he became a different person once we were married.”

The bartender’s shoulders tense, and his eyes harden. “Did he hurt you?”

“Physically, sometimes. Emotionally and mentally, always,” I say, heat blooming in my cheeks.

“He was an asshole. He’d get angry over the littlest things.

He was possessive in a way that made me want to scream.

He was controlling, and I felt trapped in a marriage with a man who promised everything but gave me nothing.

He did it in a way that wasn’t obvious, too.

First, it was him asking me to put aside my art to make sure I was already home when he stepped through the door.

Then it was the bank accounts, making sure I’d only spend a certain amount each day.

Then it was what I wore and when. He gloated about his wealth.

It became the spearhead for every aspect of his life, and he never made an effort to include me in it.

Which leads me to today.” I thumb the corner of my napkin.

“Where you’re making a list as a eulogy.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “You probably think I’m a terrible wife for not feeling sorry my husband is gone.”

“Out of everything you just confessed, you think that’s where my mind went?”

I shrug. “Whether he was a good person or not, a man is dead.”

“How you choose to live your life matters. Even in death,” he argues.

I blow out a heavy breath. “I guess you’re right.”

I’m staring at my napkin and the blank spaces, my mind just as blank. I’m not only talking about my lack of great things to say about Heath, either. In general, my mind is blank. There are nothing but black holes of emptiness begging to be filled with color, begging to be remembered.

My phone dings inside my purse, and I tug it free.

There’s a text from my sister, Selene. I send her a quick message back, telling her I’ll let her know when the funeral is over. After I hit send, I read the time in the top corner of the screen.

“Shit.” I hiss, sliding out of my stool. My black ankle boots land on the marble flooring with a heavy thud.

“Everything okay?” the bartender asks, his eyes wide.

I sling my purse over my shoulder. “I have to go. I’m going to be late.

” I turn on my heel and take a few steps before screeching to a halt, then spin around and march back over to my stool.

The beer I ordered still sits untouched.

I fish inside my purse for my wallet. “How much do I owe you for the drink?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

My heart hammers in my chest when my eyes lock on to his.

Kind eyes. He has kind eyes.

“Are you sure? Won’t your boss get upset with you giving away a drink?”

“My boss can handle it.”

I relax. “Thank you.” Despite my need to get going, I don’t want to leave. It’s a strange feeling. Like there’s an invisible string keeping me tethered to this place.

“No problem,” he says on a breath, so quiet I almost think I didn’t hear him.

I give him a smile, and when he doesn’t give me one back, I try not to let him see how it affects me. I don’t have time to decipher his sudden change in expression.

I turn to leave, and when I push through the door, I’m met with pelting rain. Sheets pour down on me, and I look up, squinting at the sky. Of course it would fucking rain.

Tucking my now-wet hair behind my ear, I march down the street toward the next block, knowing the inevitable is coming.

I’m about to meet my husband’s family.