Page 29 of From West, With Regret

I wasn’t expecting that.

I want to press him on it, but he still hasn’t looked at me, his eyes on the task at hand.

“Still.” I shake my head. “You don’t even know me and clearly, I’m not reliable.”

“Reliable in what sense?”

“My panic attacks.”

“You’re human, London,” he says, matter-of-factly, as if he knows I’ll argue against his point. He finally lifts his head, looking directly at me. “You aren’t the first person I’ve known to have a panic attack.”

“No, but I’m almost certain I’m the first person you’ve known withamnesia.”

“Amnesia doesn’t scare me.”

“Does anything scare you?” I tease.

“Only a few things.” His mouth twitches.

Heat pools in my belly, and my legs tingle from the weight of his stare as he uses the tips of his fingers to spin my portfolio back around.

I run my bandaged finger over the tape. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

His voice slips over my body like velvet. It warms me in places that have been left cold for I don’t know how long. The heaviness and weight in the aftermath of my panic attack is left far behind us. Now, we’re simply just us.

“You’re talented, London. You may not need me, but I need you.”

His words are like stones landing at the pit of my stomach.

Heart racing, I tamp down my adrenaline. “What are you looking for me to create?”

He pauses before looking over my shoulder. “My bartender Lewis said the art on these walls doesn’t fit the theme of this bar. He mentioned needing artwork that spoke to the history of the city. Ones that tell a story.”

I twist on my stool and look over my shoulder to take in each existing piece before turning back around. “I can do that.”

“I didn’t have any doubt.”

I lick my lips. “What about pay?”

He lifts his hand and rests his finger on his chin. I can’t help it, my mind wanders. He runs his finger across his chin, then his bottom lip, and all I can think about is wondering what it would feel like to have his finger run up the inside of my thigh, quickly finding my clit and pinching it.

London, stop.

He inhales a deep breath and swipes his tongue across his lip.

Ooh, what would it feel like to have his tongue lick my clit?

Dammit, London. Cut. It. Out.

I shiver and rest my elbow on the edge of the bar to massage the back of my neck.

I chalk up my illicit imagination to the fact that I haven’t been touched in months. Not since shortly after Heath and I got married. When your husband constantly threatens you and causes you to live in fear, you lose all desire for him. Over the months, my sense of safety around him deteriorated, my appetite to touch Heath becoming nonexistent.

West has reignited a feeling inside me, and that is terrifying to admit.

He drops his hand and bends, resting his forearms on the bar. His face is closer to me now, and his scent surrounds me: fresh leather and mint.

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