Page 52 of From West, With Regret

It’s odd. When I’m with him, I’ve never felt safer, and his feelings for me are almost as bright as the sun on the first day of summer. But then there are moments, like right now, where my mind registers every line of his hand over mine, then it switches to the drawing I’ve made. Hands littered with dirt. The smell of freshly shed blood. The scent of cold, wet dirt. The safety morphs into fear.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know how long this will take but I’ll get it sorted,” West softly says.

“It’s okay.” I swallow the heat in my throat. “I’ll see you later downstairs. I need to finish up here anyway.”

He lifts his other hand and traces the tip of his finger along my cheek.

The corner of my mouth lifts gently as his finger finds my dimple.

He studies me as if he’s waiting for an answer or permission. I can tell he wants to kiss me, but I’m afraid of what it’ll mean if I do.

Worry seeps into his expression as though he doesn’t want to leave my standing here, alone. But when I still don’t say anything, he swallows and looks down before reluctantly dropping his hands.

All I’m left with when he bounds down the stairs is the mess of puzzle pieces and my body engulfed in flames, clearly angry for the orgasm it’s been denied.

When West disappears, I bury my face into my hands and groan.

Half of me wants to say fuck it, open my arms, and welcome the imminent fall.

The other half?

That wants to cling to the edge of the cliff for dear life.

Dammit.

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.

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