Page 27 of From West, With Regret

Tears sting the corners of my eyes, and a cloud of black feathers the edges of my vision.

This suffocating feeling catches me off guard, consuming me without warning.

I stop, bend forward, and catch myself on the bar counter.

Another crash upstairs, and I’m gasping for air again. Thescent of wet dirt fills my nostrils, the acrid smell souring my stomach.

“Stop,” I whisper. “Stop.” My voice rises, as a rhythmic pounding sound grows louder. “Stop.Please.”

Panic slinks down my spine. My grip on the bar top tightens, and my legs nearly give out.

But then his hand is on my back, his voice in my ear.

“Hey, hey, hey. London,” West soothes. “You’re okay. Look at me.” He places his hands on my face, pulling me up to look at him. “You’re okay,” he reassures, staring into my eyes, and I catch the hint of fear in his.

A tear slips down my cheek and falls to his thumb.

“I don’t know,” I say, shakily. “I don’t know what happened.”

“Here.” His hands slips away from my face, and he reaches behind him to pull out a barstool. “Sit down.”

West keeps his hand on my back as he guides me onto the stool. I rest my hands in my lap, staring at the slivers of lacquer and wood beneath my fingernails.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe out.

“Don’t say sorry.” He hands me a napkin.

With a shaky hand, I lift it to my face and wipe my cheeks. “I just came in and I heard some noises upstairs, and… I don’t know…” I can’t even finish the sentence.

“I should be the one saying sorry. It was stupid of me to try and rearrange upstairs right when you were supposed to be meeting me here.”

“You must think I’m crazy.” I shake my head, unable to look him in the eye, my embarrassment replacing the panic.

“I don’t.”

“It’s my first day, and I haven’t even started,” I say. “I don’t want you to think this happens all the time.”

“You think a little panic attack will make me question wanting to keep you around?”

“I don’t know.” I whisper, stunned with his honesty. Does he realize what he’s saying?

“Does this happen often?” he asks, concern buried in his gaze. “You had one at the funeral, didn’t you?”

“It used to happen more when I was younger. Not long after the accident. But as I’ve gotten older, it doesn’t as much.” I swallow thickly. “I never know what triggers it. It could be a sound or a smell.”

I haven’t officially started working for West yet, and the last thing I want to do is dwell on this. I don’t want him to think I can’t handle these moments or that I’m bat shit crazy.

“Anyway.” I inhale an unsteady breath, lifting my eyes to his. “I’m okay now.”

“Are you sure?” He hasn’t removed his hand from my back, and all I can think about is his touch. My skin is on fire. I stare into his eyes, and I swear, every ounce of fear dissolves. I didn’t even notice until now how fucking good he looks today. Heat swells across my entire body, and I start imagining what it might feel like to have his hand dip between my legs.

“I am.” I slide off the stool.

Startled, he steps back.

Needing to move on from my little episode, I cross the room and grab my bag and portfolio.

“I brought my portfolio to show you some more of my work,” I say over my shoulder. “These are better than a little napkin drawing.” I spin on my heel as West watches me.

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