Page 9 of From West, With Regret (NYC Billionaires #2)

SIX

WEST

I haven’t stopped thinking about London. I’ve carried her napkin drawing with me every day since she left, careful not to let it tear, folding it to where the clock tower is protected on the inside.

It’s ridiculous, but the drawing is all I have to remind me that seeing and talking to London that day was real and not just another haunted dream of mine.

Regret settles in my bones. It’s been three weeks since I’ve seen her. Touched her.

I down the last of my beer, overlooking the crowd in front of me, thinking about how I wrote my number on London’s arm.

Why didn’t I get her number?

Why didn’t I say more?

Maybe she’s worried about working with me because I’m Heath’s brother. I should have explained my situation to her. I’m such a fucking idiot.

A small part of me has considered seeking her out in Boston.

Despite not having talked to Heath these past few years, I still remember where he lived.

Though the last thing I want to do is freak London out and push her away.

From what my mother has told me, and the lack of communication I had with my brother, I’ve come to the conclusion that London and the rest of the Hall family aren’t exactly close.

I’ve been trying to tell myself that waiting her out is the best way to handle this, to trust that she’ll find me again on her terms, but it’s difficult to hold onto that positivity when I’ve done nothing but let London slip through my fingers for the past fifteen years.

And here I am, fucking doing it again. Three fucking weeks have passed, and every day that comes after it is another punch to the gut.

I’ve hung around The Veiled Door more than usual, all in the hopes of seeing her again. So much so, Lewis has started to think of me more as a friend than his boss’s boss’s boss— a situation I’m expecting will eventually come back around to bite me in the ass.

“So, what do you think?” The brewer I’ve been seeking out for the past three months stands in front of me with a mixed expression of fear and anticipation.

His lips are pressed tightly together, and his nostrils are flared.

He’s about as young as Lewis, and has the same expression of hope, as though he still believes the world is a good place.

I swallow the last bit of amber liquid in my glass and nod as I drop it back on the tray the server standing beside me is holding. “Slightly more bitter than I was expecting.”

“Oh.” His shoulders fall, and his face relaxes, but his mouth still twitches with a smile.

“That’s our strongest IPA. We add a slightly larger number of hops to the batch.

If you try our lighter IPA, you’ll notice a bit more sweetness from the orange peel.

It also smooths it out.” He reaches for the full tasting glass next to my empty one on the tray.

I bring the glass to my mouth and take a small sip. The man’s expression lands the same as it had a few seconds earlier. He’s anxious again. I don’t blame him .

This deal is huge for him… and me. I’m constantly searching the city for smaller breweries to add to my offerings at my beer garden and a few other bars.

When I’d called him a few weeks back to schedule a tasting and tour of his brewery, he’d invited me to come along to a nighttime tour he does once a month. I eye the groups of people surrounding the brewery, realizing why he invited me here. He wants to show me how popular his beers are.

The oversized crowd is enough to convince me to make a deal with Hopyard Breweries, and tonight is a simple formality. Despite my love for what I do, I hate that the pretentious nature of wealth plays into it. The more money you have, the more you’re likely to succeed. Especially in New York City.

I swallow the smoother beer and nod. “I’ll send you an email on Monday with an order and my team will draft up a contract for you.”

“Really?” His eyebrows up, and he blows out a heavy breath as he slaps a hand to his chest. Man, he really does remind me of Lewis.

“Yeah.” I nod, darting my eyes around the brewery. I’m excited about this deal with Hopyard, but I still can’t stop thinking about London. It isn’t until the owner of Hopyard is enthusiastically shaking my hand do I realize I’ve been searching the crowd for her all night. A foolish notion.

“Thank you, Mr. Knight.” He beams.

“No, thank you,” I tell him. “Your beer will make a great addition to some of my locations.”

“Awesome.” He runs a hand down his face. “I’ll speak to you on Monday.” With that, he walks away, sinking farther into the crowd, then stopping to talk to a group gathered on the other side of the room.

The brewery is in an industrial part of the city, with a view of the Hudson and the George Washington Bridge, making it beautifully picturesque, especially at night.

However, despite the crowd around me, a sense of loneliness and emptiness washes over me. I can’t stop thinking about London, and even though I don’t want to stop, I can’t help being annoyed by the ache inside me. It’s as if she’s always within reach, but not quite.

My phone pings from my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from my closest friend, Holt Capuleti.

Holt: Tossing the invite out there, even though I know you hate these types of things. Fundraiser at my estate in Brooklyn.

I look up from my phone, keeping my text thread open, and glance around the room at the endless sea of strangers.

“Fuck it,” I whisper.

Grabbing a few drinks with a friend sounds infinitely better than standing here alone or going home to an empty apartment.

I type out a reply before the all too familiar feeling of regret stops me.

Me: Fuck it. Be there in thirty.

When Alden drops me outside Holt’s building, I head straight for the roof, where I know Holt’s fundraiser is being held.

The elevators door slide open, and when I step out, I’m walking straight into another crowd.

String lights stretch back and forth overhead, covering every inch of the massive, multi-tiered roof.

The city glows in the distance, a mix of blue, white, and golden lights.

Sometimes I still wonder how the hell I ended up living this life.

I begin making my way through the crowd in search of Holt.

I don’t have to look for him for long when I see him standing against the bar.

The bartender behind the counter raises his arms in the air before rattling a metal shaker with expertise.

He flings the mixer behind his arm. It spins in the air several times before he catches it.

After popping the top part of the shaker, he pours the cloudy-yellow mixture into a martini glass, then slides it across the counter to Holt.

Feels like I’m audience to a theatrical show rather than a guest at a party.

Across from Holt stands Asher Owens; another rich fucker I’ve become friends with.

Again, I’m not sure how this became my life, but here I am.

I meet Holt and Asher, and flag the bartender down for a beer.

He quickly pops the bottlecap off one before sliding it over to me.

I bring it to my mouth and down half of it in one gulp.

The sharp, crisp bubbles burn down my throat, but I don’t care.

I can’t help this feeling of helplessness.

Dealing with myself is sometimes easier when I’ve taken the edge off.

“So, it’s that kind of night.” Holt laughs.

I give him a closed-lip smile and chuckle. “Yep.”

“What’s up?” Asher asks, leaning against the bar with his elbow. His brown hair is ruffled, a little messier than every other time I’ve seen him, and he’s wearing a cashmere sweater, departing from his usual suit and tie.

“It’s nothing.” There’s no fucking way I’m going into the complexities and ugly history I share with a woman who doesn’t even recognize me.

What would I say? Well, actually, I fell in love with this girl I knew when we were kids who just so happens to have amnesia, oh, and there’s the minor detail of her being my dead brother’s widow. No big deal.

Instead, I settle on, “Just some personal shit going on.”

“From the look on your face, you’ll need another one of those ASAP.” Holt points toward my beer before flagging down the bartender, signaling for him to grab me another beer.

I pull out my wallet and drop a one-hundred-dollar bill in front of him. His eyes go wide before he offers me a thank you and stuffs it into the tip jar sitting on the back shelf.

“What’s this fundraiser for?” I ask Holt as I finish off the last of my first beer, then swap it out for the fresh one.

“My sister Julianna is raising money for underprivileged kids in the city. She runs a scholarship for those who’ve grown up in low-income households.”

“Oh, wow.” I raise my eyebrows, shocked to hear the type of fundraiser his sister is hosting, considering their upbringing. Children of the mayor of New York City have never experienced a life of uncertainty. At least not in the monetary sense.

“Surprising, right?” Asher says, laughing.

“Why is it surprising?” Holt asks him, his brows slanted.

“Nothing.” Asher shakes his head, stifling his laughter. “I just wasn’t expecting it, coming from your family.”

“My father was the mayor, Asher. He always ran charity events and fundraisers.” Holt chest puffs out defensively. “People always think we’re assholes because we have money, but not all of us are. We try.”

Asher’s laughter is cut short. “I know. I wouldn’t be friends with you if you were a complete asshole.”

Holt cocks his head to the side. “So, you’re saying I’m a little bit of an ass?”

“I think that’s exactly what he’s saying.

” I can’t help cracking a smile. “If it’s your sister’s fundraiser, why are you holding it here?

” I glance around at the party. The rooftop is large, and having been here a handful of times, I understand why it is great to host a party of this size, but it seems out of place for Holt.

Holt rolls his eyes. “I owe her. ”

“Owe her for what?”