Page 24 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

FIFTEEN

LONDON

I wake with a start. My heart is pounding. My body is frozen and stiff.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I will my muscles to move like my therapist told me to do. I count my breaths and sort through what is reality and fiction. Finally, when I’m able to, I check the time on my phone, massaging away the ache in my chest with my fingertips.

Two thirty-eight in the morning.

Dropping my phone back onto the nightstand, I clutch the bedsheet, pulling it up under my chin as I stare through the small window of Selene’s bedroom. The view from here isn’t great, with nothing but a brick wall on the opposite side of the glass that belongs to the apartment building next door.

My fingers dig into the sheet as I struggle to catch my breath, curling in on myself. My stomach curdles as I stare at the brick wall still shrouded in darkness from the night.

All I see is West.

Not as when we first met. Not wearing the silver chain around his neck or the expensive watch around his tattooed wrist. Not with his overgrown beard .

This West is a younger version of the one I know.

While the dream is still fresh, the image of him is unfocused.

But I can still feel him, his warmth, his touch as he reached out and pressed his finger to my cheek.

Even though I’ve only known West for a short time, I know it was him in my dream.

He had the same crooked smile, the same laugh as he tilted his head, telling me I was beautiful.

The setting was somewhere we’d never been before, featuring a red plastic tablecloth and metal chairs that smelled of rust. Then there was the rapid beating of little feet racing through the kitchen.

All of it designed in my mind, coming together. But even as I stare at the brick wall, the vision of West fading from memory, I can’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t a dream at all. I’ve been there before.

I think.

It’s like unlocking a childhood memory. A smell. A sound. Or so I’ve heard. It’s never happened to me before.

My stomach curdles again. Needing to shake the feeling, I toss the blanket aside and slip into my sweatpants.

I pile my hair high on my head and tiptoe around the bed, but as I head toward the kitchen, I realize the bed is empty, so I make my way out of the bedroom, following the blue light coming from our tiny living room.

I make a beeline for the cabinet and pull a glass from the bottom shelf.

I fill it halfway with water, downing it in one go.

I quickly refill it, eyeing Selene settled on the small, plush chair situated in the corner of the room.

Her laptop sits open in her lap, her head resting against the cushion.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask her.

She shifts, lifting her head and sighing. “I couldn’t sleep. You?” She runs her hand down her face as she yawns.

“Dream. ”

“A bad one?”

I frown, swallowing down another gulp of cold water. It offers momentary relief from the heat in my throat. “I’m not sure.”

Setting the glass down, I grip onto the edge of the counter, thinking of the best way to answer.

As my dream begins to fade in the rearview, my mind wanders back to a few short hours ago.

The way West pleaded with me not to leave, watching me slip through his fingers.

But in all honesty, I haven’t stopped thinking about all of it.

The echo of the orgasm I was denied is still fresh.

My thighs ache with a painful need. I need relief, and living and sleeping with my sister isn’t exactly the best situation for someone like me.

Someone who has been denied any real satisfaction for years.

But I know what I’m feeling now is a self-inflicted wound.

I push down my regret from walking away from West earlier. Fear has taken hold, sinking its claws into every knee jerk reaction I’ve instilled over the years.

I ran from West because the truth was staring straight at me.

When I first met Heath the day he saved me from being crushed by a Porsche barreling down Newbury Street in Boston, he’d asked me out on a date.

He took me to the fanciest restaurant—one well-known to the richest names in Boston.

I felt out of place there, but Heath comforted me.

I fell for his charm, thankful he’d saved me.

Later that night, as he sat across from me with that charming smirk, I’d spilled my entire backstory to him.

At least the parts I’d remembered. I told him about my amnesia, and he listened on with fascination.

For several weeks after we officially became a couple, he pretended to care about helping me regain my memory.

He'd constantly ask me if any memories had risen to the surface. At times, he would even force me to watch an old movie or listen to an old song, asking me if it triggered any memories. Then, I suppose, after a while, he’d given up on being the one to help regain my memory.

Looking back, that’s when he’d started to change. He’d lost his charm and with it, his ability to truly care about me.

However, in the few weeks I’ve known West, he’s managed to do what Heath tried so hard to do in those first weeks.

I don’t know if what I’m seeing and feeling are memories, or if my imagination is playing tricks on me—the mind is notoriously unreliable—but I do know they mean something .

My feelings toward him mean something, and it’s a terrifying realization.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a dream.” Selene yawns, pulling me from my thoughts. “It sucks when you wake up and don’t know how you feel about it, though.” She uncrosses her legs and places her fuzzy, sock-covered feet on the faded carpet.

“Yeah,” I croak. I’m still tired and want to go back to bed, but when I close my eyes, will I have the same dream?

Several beats of silence descend upon the apartment. I’m setting my glass in the sink when Selene breaks it.

“I think I’m finished.” She slams her laptop shut.

“Really?” I move around the counter and stand at the edge of the living room.

“Yeah.” Her lips crack into a small smile. “It’s just the first draft and still needs work, but it’s done.”

“Selene.” I bounce on my heels. “That’s amazing. Congratulations!”

“Thank you.” She slides her laptop onto the coffee table and crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m thinking about self-publishing it, like you said. I just have to find a way to come up with the money.”

“I know you can do it,” I reassure her.

She nods once, then leaves me with nothing.

My sister has always kept her thoughts and secrets to herself. Growing up, she kept a journal with a tiny gold lock and key, refusing to tell me where she hid the key. One day, I snuck into her room and searched everywhere for it, to no avail.

Now she keeps the lock and key around her heart.

I guess the same could be said for me. I want to open up to my sister, but I still haven’t worked out my feelings.

I want to tell her that I have feelings for West, but that there’s something inside me preventing me from giving in completely.

How can I tell her that when I barely understand it myself?

The longer the silence lingers, the tighter I wring my fingers. The dream is still there, but the events that unfolded in the storeroom of The Veiled Door come rushing back.

I think I’m falling for West.

That’s what I want to tell my sister.

Well, I didn’t mean to say I think I’ve fallen for him. I know I have.

Is what I would clarify to her if I spoke my truth out loud.

It isn’t that I don’t want to tell her what’s going on with me, but just like it is with West, it’s impossible to explain when you don’t understand the meaning yourself.

Selene crosses the living room, surprising me when she wraps her arms around me as if she’s reading my mind.

She knows I want to tell her everything but doesn’t beg for an explanation.

She simply wants me to know she’s here for me.

I wrap my arms around her, relishing her embrace.

When the world feels so lost, I at least know I have my sister.

“I’m here for you, London,” she mutters against my shoulder.

“Same here.” I bury my face against her shoulder and into her blonde hair.

She smells of vanilla and warmth. “I’m proud of you,” I tell her, breathing her in.

Even if I can’t wrap my mind around my feelings for West right now, I allow my sister’s love to wrap around me.

“My sister wrote a book!” I gush, shoving my restless, haunting thoughts aside.

“Thank you.” She chuckles, pulling away. She tilts her head and grins softly. “Let’s go back to bed.”

“Sounds good.”

We link arms and walk back down the hallway toward the tiny bedroom we share.

Although I know this isn’t permanent, I wonder how long I’ll be staying here.

I’ve been saving the money I’ve set aside in my separate bank account—the one Heath didn’t have access to—slowly adding to it over these past couple of weeks.

West and I still haven’t settled on payment for my works, though that’s the last thing on my mind when it comes to him.

One day soon, I plan on moving out of here.

My sister and I climb into her bed, and we turn our backs to one another.

“Goodnight, London,” Selene whispers. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I gently say over my shoulder.

I tuck my hands under my head and stare at the brick wall again. It’s still shrouded in darkness, but West’s face is no longer there.

Real West, nor dream West.

My eyes grow heavy, but nerves still flutter in my stomach at the memory of my dream reeling in my mind.

I reach for my phone and unlock my screen. It’s almost three in the morning, and even though my eyes felt heavy before I laid back down, I can’t shut off my thoughts.

Opening Instagram, I immediately search West’s name. His correct name.

Weston Knight.

His account is the first to pop up, and I scroll through his posts. There aren’t many, and most are of his bars throughout the city. Some I have yet to visit .

My thumb stops over a single picture of him. The one he did for the cover of Holt’s magazine, when he was featured for being a rising star in the nightlife community.

Heat climbs up my throat, and every drop of water from earlier is gone.

In the picture, West is sitting back, relaxed in a wooden chair, his arm draped over the back.

The sleeves of his black button-down shirt are rolled up to his elbows, displaying his corded muscles and tattoos.

A watch that probably costs more than three months of Selene’s rent is wrapped around his wrist, and he’s wearing rings on three of his fingers.

I study each of them, remembering how they were between my thighs only hours ago, bringing me to the edge of a tall precipice.

His blue eyes stare straight at me, which is a ridiculous thought because he’s on the cover of a magazine.

He was simply looking at a camera lens. But the emotion is still there, evident on his face, like he’s lived a life full of regret.

I’m lost in his eyes when the necklace wrapped around his neck catches my attention.

The air is lodged in my throat seeing it for the first time.

It isn’t tucked under his shirt like it always is when I’m with him.

I click on the picture and try to zoom in to get a better look at what I’m sure is a charm resting against his chest. The balloon in my chest pops when the details are too difficult to make out. All I can see is that it’s a long, pointed piece of metal. Maybe one to two inches in length.

I sigh, scrolling back up to the top, and I tap my finger on the blue follow button before closing out the app and practically tossing my phone back onto my nightstand as though it’s on fire.

Forcing myself to close my eyes, images of West on the cover of Holt’s magazine, then the younger version of him in my dream, immediately come to life.

West breathing in my ear.

Telling me I’m beautiful .

His finger.

My cheek.

Moments both real and imaginary blending and turning to memories.

I don’t know what any of it means.

Are all these moments real?

Or do they only exist in my dreams?

Is my mind playing tricks on me?

The mind is a notorious liar.

Sleep drags me further into the darkness, taking with it the unanswered questions and one simple fact:

I am, without a doubt, down bad for Weston Knight.