Page 26 of From West, With Regret

The brutal truth slams into my gut, jumpstarting my broken heart.

I want to see him again. I shouldn’t, but I do.

“I could use the job,” I confess. “If the offer still stands, of course.” I swallow my nerves, worrying I sound desperate. But it’s the truth. I need a job, and fast if I plan on staying in New York. I can’t live with Selene forever, and I don’t plan on adding to the statistic of a being starving artist in the city. “I mean, I understand if it doesn’t?—”

“No!” He cuts me off, his smile reaching his eyes. “It does. The job’s still available.”

I crack a smile of my own. “Good.”

“Tomorrow. Meet me at The Veiled Door tomorrow. Nine a.m.”

“Okay.” I chuckle. “I’ll see you then.”

“Good night, London.”

Warmth weaves its way to my heart. “Good night, Weston Knight.”

I turn away from him and grab the bottom of my dress, pulling it up so I don’t trip on my way out of the pool. Even as I push my way through the groups of people gathered at the auction, avoiding their confused stares, I can’t get West’s voice out of my head. Not the entire conversation, but the part where he said my name.

Like he’s already said it a million times before.

EIGHT

LONDON

I stand at the foot of Selene’s bed with my hands on my hips, not knowing what to take to The Veiled Door. Is this a job interview? Or have I already secured the job based on a crappy, two-inch napkin sketch?

I take inventory of my pencils and charcoal again before tucking them into the pocket of my leather portfolio. I hiss through my teeth when my finger slips along the edge. The leather is frayed and torn with a piece of sharp-edged plastic sticking out. I shake my hand and suck on the tip, catching the blood before it spills.

“Ow.” I pull my finger away and study the edge of my favorite portfolio. It wasn’t this damaged before.

Selene woke me up before daylight broke to tell me there was a pile of my belongings blocking the hallway.

Like a gremlin, I rolled out of bed, not believing her. Sure enough, though, she was right. Boxes of my belongings from my home with Heath in Boston were piled three feet high and two feet wide in the hallway. She’d helped me slide the first few boxes inside her apartment before needing to race to the subway in time to make it to open Charleigh’s flower shop, completewith a laptop case swinging from her shoulder and coffee perched in her hand.

Although we’ve been living with each other, it feels as if we haven’t really spent much time together, mostly talking to each other through our girls’ group chat. I’m thankful Charleigh and Julianna came up with the idea of a planned hang out once a week. I’ve always been an introvert to my core, but these women are different. I’ve never had friends that genuinely cared like they do. Most have ulterior motives, but not them. Like me, they just want to find happiness in whatever form that might be.

“Assholes,” I grumble, knowing it will have been Heath’s henchman who damaged my belongings when they shipped them out from Boston and literally dropped them at Selene’s doorstep without a care.

Once I finish taking inventory, gathering all the supplies I think I might need to bring to The Veiled Door, I finish getting dressed, opting for my favorite pair of skinny jeans, with my silk tank top and royal purple blazer. I figure if I end up working with charcoal, I can take off my blazer without worrying about ruining my clothes.

Normally, I work in torn jeans or shorts and an old T-shirt, but something tells me West wouldn’t appreciate me showing up so casually.

After applying a thin layer of lip gloss, I wrap a Band-Aid around the tip of my finger, over the small cut. I laugh under my breath at the Disney Princess bandage, wondering why the hell my sister opted to buy them when she doesn’t have kids. Then after leaving the bathroom, I stuff my tote bag with my supplies and tuck my portfolio under my arm, careful not to cut myself or my clothes on the exposed edge.

I decide to take the subway, telling myself I need to get used to it if I’m going to live in the city for the foreseeable future. Once I find an open seat, I stare at my reflection inthe window across from me, taking note of my appearance. I run the tips of my fingers down the length of my face before twirling the end of my braid around my pointer finger.

Nerves hum in the base of my stomach. Not only for the job but at the idea of seeing West again. I still can’t explain the sensation he gives me, like this nagging prick to the back of my head. Like knowing you left the oven on after you leave the house. Or realizing you’ve forgotten something when travelling.

When I arrive at The Veiled Door, I tug the door open, immediately looking for West, but the bar is empty. At first I think it’s odd, but then I remember the time. It’s just after eight thirty in the morning. The bar isn’t open, and I’m early.

I glance around, slowly walking farther into the room. Soft music plays overhead, similar to what I heard the first time I came here. The bar is dark, save for a few sconces hanging on the dark forest green painted walls. It looks like a cave in here. I drop my bag on one of the wooden tables in the dining area and peek down the corridor behind the bar.

“West?” I call out.

I hear a crash and what sounds like boxes sliding across the floor from upstairs. I didn’t even think about there being an upstairs. But this is New York. There’s no such thing as a one-story building.

A shiver slinks down the length of my spine, and I swallow my nerves, not understanding where this reaction is coming from. I shake the feeling, forcing my breathing to calm, but the air I’m managing to pull in burns.

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