Page 5 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

Glenna’s eyes are now as wide as they will go. I can’t tell from where I’m standing, but I’m certain her crow’s feet will have completely disappeared.

My neck prickles with anxiety, and this time, I feel the tears coming. My boots are sinking into the ground, attempting to bury me right alongside Heath .

Panic starts to take over, when a pair of shiny, black shoes catch my attention.

I follow them as they move across the front row and stop beside Glenna. They glisten on the rain-soaked, manicured lawn, and my eyes move up the long legs of the man wearing them, taking in his black suit, before I’m staring back at a pair of familiar blue eyes.

Kind blue eyes.

A sharp jaw hidden by a well-kept beard.

Dark, slicked-back hair, revealing those eyes that warm me in places that have lied dormant for months.

His stare stops the ground from swallowing me whole.

The man beside my mother-in-law is the bartender I met at The Veiled Door.

Then it all clicks.

He’s sitting beside Glenna. He’s Heath’s brother.

He must be. Right? Why else would he be sitting beside Glenna? She hasn’t told him to leave like she did with Wyatt.

Memories of my conversation with the green-eyed stranger come flooding back to me like a torrential storm raging against the shore.

The air is sucked from my lungs, and I grip the edge of the lectern to stop myself from fainting.

The Bible in front of me begins to blur, the gold-etched lettering melding together.

The one time I was honest about Heath, the one time I told the truth about my husband, I said it to his brother.

My attention falls back to Heath’s grave. Our secrets will no longer be buried with him. They’re out in the open, living in the mind of his brother.

Fuck.

My nails cut into the wood, and my eyes roam over the crowd before finding Heath’s brother again. With a watery gaze, I inhale a shaky, unsteady breath. The same erratic beat of my heart returns .

His dark eyebrows pinch together, and a look of concern washes over his gorgeous face. With his hand resting on his thigh, he closes his fist, tightening his fingers as if he’s holding himself back. Back from what, I don’t know.

But the worry etched in his expression is unmistakable. My stomach warms at the sight of him, mingling with the humiliation I feel. He’s too familiar, but I know I’ve never met him before. The puzzle pieces are scattered even farther apart now, and the walls close in on me.

I’m suffocating. Again.

“I’m…” I’m certain I’m going to die right here beside Heath. And what a fucking shame that would be.

I shift to find Glenna staring at me. Her lips have disappeared as she presses her mouth firmly shut. A look of disapproval shielded by the mesh fabric draping over the front of her black hat.

“I’m sorry,” I quickly whisper into the microphone, stifling my sob by covering my mouth before I leave the lectern as fast as my feet will carry me.

I swipe my purse from my empty chair, unable to look Glenna in the eye.

Then I run for the hills.

I let my feet carry me as fast as they can, considering the terrain. My boots land across a landmine of puddles and mud, the liquid splashing up past my ankles. Dots of water and mud spatter onto my bare legs, but I push through, putting as much distance between the funeral and me as possible.

I’ve nearly made it to the road winding through the cemetery when a hand latches onto my arm, pulling me to a stop.

“Hey,” he softly says. “Wait, wait, wait.”

I spin around, finding his blue eyes staring back at me. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I shiver at his touch, the pulse of electricity shooting straight for my heart. “I need to go. ”

He frowns, his eyes soft. “You don’t have to leave,” he says, breathless from catching up to me.

“You said it yourself. The truth is easier than the lies. I can’t stand up there and lie to hundreds of people.”

He hasn’t let go of my arm as he allows the silence to descend around us.

I want to tell him all the reasons I shouldn’t have come, but he already knows the truth.

I want to tell him more. I want to tell him that the other reason I can’t stay has nothing to do with my blank eulogy and everything to do with this feeling.

The one taking over every nerve and muscle in my body.

Instead, the words lodge in my throat and my tears fall for a loss felt deep in my bones. One I can’t place, but know it definitely has nothing to do with Heath.

“Don’t leave,” he pleads quietly on a heavy breath.

I sniff and stare into his eyes. “Was Heath your brother?”

His lack of response is enough for me to have my answer.

My body slumps, and he finally loosens his grip enough for me to back away, only for him to take a step closer.

“He was,” I whisper for him, wiping the tears away from my face and nodding. “Heath never mentioned you.”

“We—”

“And I told you everything,” I cut in, clamping my hand over my mouth, cursing myself for opening up to him. I shake my head, tears welling in my eyes. “Oh, God.” I lower my hand and press it to my chest. “I told you all those horrible things about him, and you’re his brother .”

“Yes.” He grits his teeth. “And yes, I am his brother, but I think we’ve already established that.”

I soften my gaze. As with Glenna, I feel sorry for his loss, not mine. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I don’t know what I was thinking. ”

“You were being honest and spilling your secrets to a stranger you thought you’d never see again.”

“Yeah.” I scoff. “But now I’ve broken your mom’s heart and humiliated your family in front of everyone.”

“They will be fine, and so will my mother.”

My mind doesn’t have enough room in it to search for the deeper meaning to that statement, though. “I really shouldn’t be here. I’m not family anymore, and I’ve hurt too many people trying to do the right thing. I thought it was what I needed to do, but I was wrong. This was a mistake.”

I need to get out of here.

Then reality hits. I don’t have a car, and I have no clue where I’m heading. Maybe I can head back toward the city, toward the direction of The Veiled Door, and ask Selene to pick me up somewhere down that street.

“That isn’t why you’re leaving,” he says, his gaze falling to my mouth. He takes another step closer, and his scent surrounds me. Fresh rain and pine. I breathe him in when he steps closer, bringing his face inches in front of mine.

My attention falls to the chain around his neck once more. Whatever dangles at the end of it is still shielded by his buttoned black shirt, making it even more concealed than at the bar.

But he’s right. I’m not leaving because of my failed eulogy.

I’m leaving because of him.

“I shouldn’t be here.” I back away. “I’m sorry for your and your family’s loss.”

“Wait.” His hand flies to my arm again. This time, he starts at my bicep before slowly lowering his hand down the length of my arm, leaving a burning trail in its wake.

His fingers feather against my skin before he rests them on my hand, which they delicately hold onto before he drops it and fishes in his pocket, pulling out a small, folded, white napkin.

He unfolds it, then grabs my hands, turning it over.

He lays the napkin in my palm, and suddenly I’m staring at the drawing I made earlier.

A drawing of the same image that comes to mind every single day.

The tears I was shedding earlier had subsided only for a moment, but now they’re back.

“Did you draw this?” he asks, his hand resting under mine holding the napkin.

“I did.” I blink the tears away and look up at him. “But it’s nothing.”

“ Why did you draw it?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I can’t explain it.

” Confused, I shake my head again and wipe at the tear sliding down my cheek.

I look back down at the drawing of a clock tower.

“I don’t know why. Half of my life is covered in darkness.

I don’t even know if this has to do with it or not.

It probably doesn’t, but for some reason, when I close my eyes, it’s the first thing I see. ”

“You see a clock tower? Big Ben?”

I shrug, uncertain where our conversation is going. “I think that’s what it is, but it isn’t necessarily the clock itself. I don’t know, it’s fuzzy. The image of the clock is fuzzy every time.” I drop my shoulders. “Doesn’t matter anyway. You probably think I’m crazy and not making any sense.”

“I don’t think that.” He closes his mouth and looks down at the napkin. “You’re very talented. Are you an artist?” He lifts his gaze again, and my heart stops.

“I am.” My body hums with his touch and his breath and his voice. “But I’m not the best with pen. I usually go for charcoal or paint.”

“I want to hire you.”

My eyes shoot open, and my lips part. “What do you mean you want to hire me?”

“I don’t know if you’re still living in Boston or what your plans were, but I need an artist to design pieces for my one of my bars.”

“ One of your bars?”

“Yeah, I own The Veiled Door.”

“You own The Veiled Door?” I gape. Wow, this day just keeps getting better and better.

He nods, a small smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, and a few others scattered around the region.”

“How many others?”

He scrunches his nose. “A few.”

“How many is a few?”

“Twenty.”

“ Twenty ?” I raise my eyebrows. “Twenty isn’t a few.”

“Technically, it was only a few until this past year.”

I’m suddenly noticing everything about him.

The white, gold-plated rings on two of his fingers.

The silver chains on one wrist, and the chrome watch on his other.

The silken fabric of his suit jacket. Fuck, he even smells of money.

Despite these small details, though, there’s still that warmth I felt radiating off him when we first met.

He didn’t flaunt his wealth, never revealing his hand from behind that bar.

“You want to hire me based on a mindless drawing I did on one of your napkins?” I ask, shifting back to the original topic of conversation.

“Yes.” He doesn’t offer any further explanation.

I eye him skeptically, but the feelings stirring inside me are impossible to ignore.

His hand is still cradling mine, warming me in the most dormant of places deep inside me. The oddly comforting sound of his voice. His scent surrounding me. The familiarity of his touch even though we’ve never touched before.

This feeling is dangerous. A feeling I want to run away from yet stay rooted to. Right here where we’re standing, with my hand in his.

I look past his shoulder to the funeral behind him. The ceremony has continued without either of us. No one cares that I left. Not even Glenna.

I slide my hand out from his and pass the napkin back to him. He takes it, worry etched in his expression.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell him.

“Why? Because I was technically your brother-in-law?”

“Yes,” I choke out. “No.” I shake my head and blink. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I inhale another shaky breath. “And technically, you’re still my brother-in-law. My world is just kind of foggy and uncertain right now. I’m sorry. I really should go. I think I’ve been too honest for one day.”

“Wait,” he says quickly, digging into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out a pen, grabs my arm again and presses the tip to my skin, at the midpoint between my wrist and elbow.

“This is my phone number,” he says, flashing his hooded eyes up to mine as he stains my skin with the black ink before he looks back down to focus on my arm.

His warm thumb presses into my flesh, and I can’t stop staring at the point where we’re connected.

Like the ink of his pen isn’t the only thing marking me, branding me.

When he’s finished, he returns the pen to his pocket and keeps his gaze on my arm before looking back up. “Think about my offer. And when you make your decision, you’ll know how to find me.”

I briefly glance down at the numbers etched into my skin as he drags his thumb gently over them.

My mouth tugs into a small smile. “I could have just gone to The Veiled Door if I wanted. I know where to find you.”

“I’m not always there. This way, you can reach me any time.”

“Okay.” I look down at my arm, my skin still searing from his touch.

I expect to find only the numbers inked into my flesh, but my gaze zeroes in on the name written above it.

West.

This stranger’s name is West.

“Despite the reason we’re both here, and what I said about Heath to you”—I clear my throat—“it was nice meeting you, West.”

His smile wanes under the midday sun peeking through the clouds. “It was nice meeting you, too,” he offers back.

“London,” I say, pressing my hand to my chest, more to calm my beating heart than anything else. “My name is London. In case Heath didn’t tell you.”

“No, right.” He blinks. “London.”

The tweets of the birds nesting in the trees drown out our silence.

Pressure builds in my chest like a taut thread, ready to snap.

Unease settles in my gut, ready to snap the thread, and without another word, I spin on my heel and allow my feet to carry me out of the cemetery and away from the funeral.

Away from West and the family I no longer consider mine.

Not sure I ever truly did consider them mine at all.

Once I reach the outskirts of the cemetery, I tug my phone from my purse, desperate to call my sister.

But even as I dial her number, I can’t help thinking about West and how him leaving his name on the inside of my arm felt like more than just him giving me his phone number. It felt like he was marking me somehow.

For some reason, that thought brings a torrent of butterflies to my stomach, too.

One I welcome this time.