Page 23 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

FOURTEEN

WEST

Reality is a fucking bitch.

Always has been.

I haven’t thought of anything else but what happened with London upstairs. I still feel her. The way her pussy clenched around my fingers and her clit throbbed against the inside of my hand. I can still feel her slick, warm flesh even as I load the last glass into the dishwasher.

Lewis watches me as if I have a third eye or an extra arm growing out of my head.

“Seriously,” he says, cutting in and tearing the glass from my hand. “I can do this.”

“Seriously,” I bite back, frustration getting the better of me. “I can, too. I’m fully capable of loading a dishwasher, Lewis.”

Honestly, I’m just trying to stay distracted.

“You’re the owner.” Lewis shrugs. “You don’t need to be doing my job for me. When you do, it makes me think I’m slacking or that you’re second guessing why you hired me in the first place.”

“You aren’t slacking, and that’s sort of dramatic.” I swing my eyes up to the stairs for the thousandth time in the past hour .

The police left about thirty minutes ago, after I’d showed them the surveillance video of what went down between the two men.

Fists broke out after one of them caught the other flirting with his girlfriend.

Multiple statements and two citations later, the bar is finally nearing closing time.

There are still a few customers sitting around the bar and in the dining room.

Lewis sent our other bartender home and has insisted he can finish the rest of the night on his own.

“I didn’t think you came to work tonight,” Lewis says, closing the lid to the dishwasher and starting the wash.

“I’m always working,” I tell him, my eyes lifting to the staircase again.

I want to see London.

“I meant not to bartend,” Lewis argues. “I know you came for London.”

I bite back a barking laugh.

I wish.

My face heats and my heart races. Does Lewis know the depth of my feelings for London?

Am I that obvious? I eye the ceiling, knowing she’s still upstairs, most likely getting lost in her artwork.

Just like she used to in the foster home.

It’s her escape from reality. I look back down at the stack of receipts next to the register, pretending to read the countless numbers stamped onto them.

I want to get back upstairs and finish what we started.

Instead, I overhear a customer sitting at the bar order a mojito.

Before Lewis has a chance, I snatch a tall cocktail glass and muddler, and begin stuffing a few mint leaves into the bottom of it.

I crush the leaves, the scent of mint filling my nostrils almost immediately.

I grip the wooden muddler stick, twisting and pounding it into the glass with more force than is probably necessary.

I feel Lewis’s uneasy gaze on me, but I don’t give a fuck.

I need to channel this frustration somewhere .

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a large case of blue balls as I do right now, but fuck, I can’t get the last look in London’s eyes out of my mind. The look of regret.

The thought brings a sickening feeling to my stomach that I shove aside, remembering the feeling of her against my skin and the way she quivered for me instead. She was close, painstakingly close to falling apart for me.

It was a feeling I’ve only ever dreamed about for the past decade. A feeling I never thought I’d have.

Despite the assurance I have from her reaction to my touch, I can’t get those last crucial seconds out of my head.

Like reality was crashing down around her.

See, reality is a fucking bitch.

“Yeah, I think that’s enough of that,” Lewis mutters, snatching the glass from my hand. At first, I resist but, snapping out of my thoughts, I let it go. I’ve turned the mint into jam at this point.

Lewis eyes me curiously as he grabs the rest of the mojito ingredients, and this time, I let him.

I sift through the stack of receipts for absolutely no other reason than to buy me time before racing back to London, when I hear the floorboards creak upstairs.

My eyes immediately dart to the staircase, and London appears.

First, her black and white chucks, then her long legs.

Then her long, black hair flowing behind her as she bounds down the stairs.

She’s unraveled her hair from her silk green scrunchie.

The dress Julianna lent her is draped over one arm, her portfolio tucked under the other.

I’m forcing myself to remain calm as I watch her move through the opening of the bar, already making her way toward the front.

She’s leaving.

She catches my and Lewis’s attention, and he quickly glances at me over his shoulder. I’m not paying attention to him, though. I drop the receipts and race around the end of the bar, stopping her before she makes it to the front door.

“London, wait,” I say, jogging after her like the fucking idiot I am. I wrap my hand around hers.

London stops, but doesn’t immediately turn around. Her head rolls back before she spins on her heel to face me.

“You’re leaving?” I blurt out.

She won’t look me in the eye. She focuses on the back of the bar, the wall behind me, the customers in the back. Anywhere but on me.

Her hand slips from mine, and she places it on the top of the dress bag still draped over her arm. She tugs her bottom lip under her teeth before finally looking at me. “I should go home.”

Distance. I don’t only see it in her gray eyes. It’s in all of her, her body curling in on itself, closing me off.

Seeing her this way toward me feels like a lead weight is dragging me under water. We took a million steps forward, and now we’re taking half those back.

“Why?” I ask her.

She moistens her lips and shakes her head, looking down at her feet. “I’m sorry if I distracted you tonight.”

“You didn’t distract me.” I take a step forward, forcing her to look up. “Why would you think that?”

“I insisted you meet me tonight to look at my drawing, but I don’t want you to stop what you’re doing around here for me.” She stares vacantly over my shoulder. “You were on a call earlier and I could tell it was still weighing on you.”

Oh, that .

I rake my fingers through my hair. “It was nothing.”

Her shoulders sag. She’s growing more distant with every word that spills from my mouth. I sigh, knowing I need to tell the truth. That’s all London ever wants. I just wish I could give her all of mine.

“I was on the phone with some contacts I have in Boston.”

“Boston?” she asks, her gorgeous eyes widening, swinging back to me.

I see the pieces fall into place for her. Boston equals Heath.

“Is it true what he did to you?” I ask, blurting out the one question that’s been weighing on my mind since my mother told me this afternoon, even though I already know the answer. My call earlier confirmed it.

“What do you mean?” Her eyebrows pull together.

“My mother came by my apartment earlier,” I explain, the knot in my chest tightening. “She said...”

Fuck, her entire body tenses. She wrings her charcoal-stained hands.

“I never told your mom about Heath’s abuse,” she stammers. “How could I when I didn’t even talk to her until the day of his funeral?” She won’t look at me. “Did she find out what I told you and now she doesn’t believe me?” She finally shifts her attention to me.

I grip the back of the chair to keep myself from falling to my knees.

She thinks I don’t believe her.

“I’m not questioning the abuse, London. I wouldn’t. I’m asking you if it’s true what Heath did to you after his death. Did he truly kick you out and that’s why you’re staying in New York?”

Her silence is enough of an answer for me.

Not that I needed it anyway. After I got to the bar, before London showed up, I reached out to a few contacts I have in Boston and asked if it was true what my mother had said.

That Heath had told his lawyers to order her to never return to their home and had all her belongings shipped here to Boston .

I thought I was angry when they confirmed it was true, but seeing London’s broken heart takes it to another level. Rage consumes me.

The fucker can rot in Hell for what he’s done.

“It’s not right what he did, London.”

“I’m fine.” She isn’t cold or angry with me.

She’s firm, strong. But, fuck, if she only knew that I already know how strong she is.

If only she remembered how strong she was.

“I considered fighting back against Heath’s lawyers, but I’d rather not waste my time or money.

Even if he were alive, I wouldn’t have fought him on it. ”

“Di—” The name I’ve fought to keep locked away nearly breaks free. I clear my throat as blood drains from my face. I know the feeling of regret. It’s a demon I’ve become all too familiar with over the years. “London.” My voice cracks. “Are you already regretting what we did up there?”

Her eyes soften, and tears line her black lashes. When one slips down her cheek, I not only want to wipe it away, I want to lick it away, too.

“I don’t know,” she confesses, her chin wobbling.

“I’m not.” I say it so fast, it takes her several seconds to register what I’ve said. “I meant every word I said. If this is about Heath?—”

“It’s not about Heath.” She sighs.

“Then, what is it?”

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head, avoiding me again. “I like you, West. More than I should, but it’s hard to explain.”

“You know you can talk to me, right? About anything.”

An arrow aiming straight for my heart severs me and splits my chest in two when her eyes dart to mine.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” She inhales another shaky breath, her bottom lip quivering.

I wonder if there’s more to what she’s saying than she’s letting on. Is she afraid because she’s remembering? Even just a little bit? Is she afraid of me?

I hope to fucking hell she isn’t. I meant every word upstairs. This moment is a prime example. I’m stumbling to find the words to keep her here. I know I can’t forever, and I can’t shake the fear of her disappearing again. A fear I’ve held on to for far too many years. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around London and never let her go, willing her to remember me. Call me selfish; I don’t fucking care. I want her memories to come flooding back because I know in the midst of it all, I’d catch her. Just like I’m willing to catch her now.

But the truth sits at the edge of my tongue, refusing to leave, despite how fragile my soul has become these last few weeks with her.

I thought it was torture living in a world without her, but living in a world with her, with no memory of me, is a new kind of ache.

A slow, torturous one, like living in an endless black tunnel with no sign of light.

Is this how London feels?

She may be the one with amnesia, but it seems we’re both lost in the dark just the same.

I’m a fool if I think I can confess something like that without rocking her entire world.

Would she even believe me? Would that help jog her memory? If I told her about our ugly yet beautiful past?

Probably not.

The past isn’t easy to overcome. Even if you’ve forgotten it. Even if you haven’t.

Now wouldn’t be the best time to tell her, anyway. Not when she’s clearly wondering if she regrets what happened with us upstairs.

“I, um,” she says, shifting on her feet.

“I completed this one, and there’s another upstairs that I’ll come back to finish after the weekend.

” She removes her portfolio from under her arm and lays it on the top of the bag draped over it.

Tugging on the zipper, she opens it, slipping out the top sheet of paper.

She hands it to me, and I take it, careful not to smudge the charcoal.

My stomach flips when I see trees and a park bench with city buildings in the background.

“Central Park.”

“It’s beautiful, London.” Like you, I want to tell her. Again.

I lift my gaze.

“Thank you.” She brushes a few strands of her dark hair away from her face, then closes her portfolio. “We should stick to work, West. I think that’s best for now.”

“Tell me I didn’t imagine what happened up there,” I beg her. “Tell me it’s what you wanted as well.”

There’s hesitance in her eyes. She’s standing on the other side of the line drawn between us, too afraid to cross it.

“One thing I’ve learned over the years, living with half of my memories, is that it doesn’t matter how bad I want something, West. The real world doesn’t give a shit about feelings.” She sighs, and her gray eyes soften, still lined with tears. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

The words get caught somewhere between my head and my heart as I watch her leave my bar. My hand shakes as it holds onto her drawing. The echo of her against my skin, her voice moaning my name in my ear… I want it all.

And her last response tells me she does, too.

She doesn’t regret it. She doesn’t regret me .