Page 32 of From West, With Regret

Why am I disappointed he wasn’t talking about my practically bare ass staring directly up at his face?

Crossing the room, I meet West and hold the piece of parchmentout to him. He studies it intently, his eyes roaming over the page.

“Truly.” His eyes dart to mine. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, stepping back. I’m too close. We’re always too close.

Watching West in front of me has me thinking thoughts one shouldn’t have for their ex-brother-in-law. Boss. Whatever he is to me.

I keep my focus on the drawing, but all I feel is his heat on me. Warning signs blare inside my head. Is he feeling what I am, or is it just my imagination?

I need a distraction.

Work, London. Focus on work.

“I have a few questions.”

West’s blue eyes widen. “Questions?”

“We never talked about how many drawings you want me to create.” I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth.

His gaze drops to my mouth. “That isn’t exactly a question.” I expect his statement to be followed up with a laugh or a chuckle, but it isn’t. We’re both keeping up conversation, but it seems our minds are clearly somewhere else.

Again, am I imagining this?

“Okay,” I draw out. “How many drawings are you wanting me to create?”

Scratching at his chin, his mouth turns down into a frown as he studies my almost completed piece. “I’m not sure. You’ve been downstairs. What do you think is a good amount?”

“Julianna is the interior designer, not me. I could always ask her.”

“It’s okay. Why don’t you just create whatever your mind comes up with?”

A slow smile creeps onto my face. “Sounds good.”

His heated gaze falls to my mouth again. “Did you have another question?”

“I did.” I pick my portfolio off the floor and glance over my shoulder as I’m bent at the hip.

West’s eyes move to the shelf containing a dozen rolls of paper towels and toilet paper.

“We never figured out the payment,” I state.

His jaw ticks as he absentmindedly runs his finger across each roll. “How much do you usually charge for your drawings?”

I shrug my shoulder, organizing my various pencils and pieces of charcoal. “It depends. Usually around fifty to sixty dollars for an eight by ten canvas.”

“Your art is worth more than that,” he blurts out.

I snap my head in his direction, caught off guard by his brazen opinion.

I turn back around, planting my feet firmly to the floor. “I want my art to be accessible to everyone. Why should custom pieces only be available to the rich and well off?”

He smiles slowly and chuckles under his breath.

His stare burns a hole straight through me.

“What?” I ask.

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