Page 31 of From West, With Regret

I’m thankful I decided to wear leggings today so the splinters from the aging wood don’t cut into my skin. Popping my ear buds in, I unlock my phone, press play on my favorite playlist and open up the image I’ve been using as reference for my first piece: a photograph of an older New York City in the nineteen twenties, filled with T-model cars and women in fancy dresses and bowl hats. All the men are dressed in perfectly-tailored suits.

The charcoal tip meets the paper, and my mind doesn’t immediately go blank like it usually does when I work on pieces that aren’t close to the heart. I stop, my hand shaking just above the paper.

I’m thinking about West.

Again.

Maybe it’s the men in suits. They’re faceless strangers who could be anyone, but all I see is West’s face on every single one.

We’ve spent the past few weeks getting closer to one another. I don’t know if it’s part of West’s usual routine to spend as much time here as he does over his other bars, but almost every time I’m here, he is too.

Over that time, I’ve felt it building between us. Whatitis, I have no clue, but I do know it’s electric. Not the kind that’s jolting and startling. It’s a quiet, unsuspecting constant buzz, humming beneath my skin, like we both know it’s there but refuse to acknowledge its presence. And as the days have passed, with me up here in my studio and him below, I have nothing but him on my mind. At night, I think about West,anticipating seeing him again the next time he decides to show up at The Veiled Door.

Ridiculously, I find myself filled with more disappointment when he doesn’t show up than the last time he wasn’t there.

I add shading to the man’s back, using my fingertip to smudge the delicate black powder across the faded yellow paper. My hands are covered in charcoal as I kneel on the floor on all fours. My back aches and my legs tremble, the day’s work wearing on me already when my breath gets caught in my throat.

I glance over my shoulder to the propped-open door, expecting West to be standing there. He isn’t. At least not yet.

It’s stupid, and I shake my head, turning back to look at my drawing.

“You can’t, London,” I mutter under my breath.

I shouldn’t want West.

I shouldn’t be imagining him touching me. Kissing me in all the places an ex-brother-in-law has no business being.

And despite his reassurances that he was never close with Heath, I can’t help resisting. Even if it means I’m only kidding myself.

I sit back on my heels, trading glances between my drawing and my phone, searching for what’s missing. When I find it, I bend back down and add a little more detail to the man again, sharpening the edge of his hat.

One of my ear buds pops out and tumbles to the floor. It rolls on the hard wood, and I lean forward, stretching to catch it before it slips under the metal shelf. I crawl several feet before catching it, but I’m startled when I hear a loud grating sound coming from behind me.

Stunned and remaining on all fours, I glance over my shoulder.

This time West is standing in the doorway.

He fills the entire threshold. A tall, towering frame that sends chills along the length of my spine, his arms crossed over his chest. The peaks and valleys of his muscles are strained against his dark blue button-down shirt. A black tie is wrapped around his neck, concealing the necklace I know he’s wearing and have yet to see fully.

The familiar feeling fills my heart, and seeing him does something to my insides. Heat pricks the insides of my thighs, and the electric buzz I get when near him comes at full force.

West’s eyes shoot straight for my backside, and I swear I see his muscles twitch. A groan rumbles from his chest before his eyes dart back to mine.

“Oh.” I stumble, realizing how I must look. Ass is in the air, pointed directly at him. Also, I’m wearing thin black leggings that when stretched, don’t exactly leave much to the imagination. “I’m sorry. I, um, I dropped my ear bud.” I scramble backward to my set up with my drawing. Then I sit on my heels, turning so I’m facing the wall. I turn my head to my left and look up at West, holding up my ear bud as I’m removing the other one.

My cheeks are flamed red, and I’m waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Anything to break this awkwardness.

I. Am. Mortified.

“It’s a beautiful view,” he finally says, his voice is deep and low.

“What?”

He flicks his gaze to my drawing on the floor. “The picture.”

“Oh.” I laugh nervously. “Right.” I wipe my hands on my leggings and stand, picking up the piece on the way.

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