Page 43 of From West, With Regret

But now? Now my feelings have transformed to an instinctual, hungry need. I imagine my teeth sinking into her flesh. My dick sinking between her thighs. How her voice would sound screaming my name.

It’s a clusterfuck of emotions I hadn’t been expecting. Incredible… but also terrifying.

My feelings for London aren’t simple, and they never have been.

And every day I see her I leave with a little more hope that she’ll remember me. Maybe I’m foolish for believing she might one day. But I hold out hope, despite knowing what comes with the memory of me.

I finish the last bit of my coffee when my housekeeper answers the ring of the doorbell.

I’m slipping into the sleeves of my suit jacket when my mother walks in. Her black and gold sunglasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, despite the fact the sun isn’t shining today. Her heels click on the tiles as she pushes past my housekeeper, not bothering to wait for an invitation before barreling in here. I can tell she’s already angry with me as she lifts her glasses and slides them to the top of her head.

Her eyes are narrowed into two slits, her daggers aiming straight for me.

“Well, good morning, Mother.” I sigh, not in the mood for playing her games.

A piece of my heart has always softened for her. She cared for me when no one else did. She took me in and gave me a lifefull of possibility. If it weren’t for her and my adoptive father’s financial stability, I wouldn’t have had the starting point I had to get to where I am today. Their bit of wealth blossomed into the level of wealth I have today.

Over the years, I’ve repaid them for what they’ve done, and ever since my father’s death I’ve ensured my mother hasn’t gone without. He’d left her a sizeable sum, but I’ve never shied away from offering her any additional support to maintain her comfortable lifestyle.

But it seems the little bit of the hatred Heath held for me has spilled over to my mother in the wake of his death.

We haven’t spoken since the day of the funeral. I haven’t had the energy to speak to her, knowing it will only end the way it did the last time.

She grabs the fur stole she has wrapped around her arms and tosses it onto the large marble table in my entryway, meeting me at the end of the hall. Bypassing my morning greeting, she places her hand on her hip, a pointed stare aimed my way. “Is it true?”

“Is what true, Mother?” I don’t care that I’m using the name she dislikes. I’m frustrated. Emotionally and sexually. The last thing I need is my mother barging into my apartment and scolding me like I’m fifteen again.

“Stop playing games, Weston. Tell me the truth.”

“I have no idea what you’re insinuating.” I move past her. “Can we talk about this later? I have to travel to several of my locations today, and I’d rather not spend half my day stuck in traffic.”

“You hired her?”

I come to a screeching halt, my body turning cold and rigid. She hasn’t even said her name, but I know exactly who she means.

It isn’t my mother is talking about London that has the hairstanding on the back of my neck. It’s the way she allowed the three words to fall from her mouth as if she’s just caught her husband cheating on her. With disgust. With suspicion. With anger and fury.

I spin around, finding her body just as rigid as her words. With pursed lips, she keeps her hands planted on her hips.

“I’m assuming by that shocked look on your face that it is true,” she chides.

“I have businesses to run,” I say casually. “I do hire people from time to time. I needed an artist to create works for my bars, and London is insanely talented.”

“But she’s different, West.”

I won’t argue with her there. London is different.

Mom takes a few steps forward, her pencil skirt restraining her steps. “If he were still alive, how do you think Heath would feel if he knew you hired his wife to work for you?”

“London is a strong woman, Mother. She’s capable of making her own decisions.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“Then, what is your point?” I ask, not hiding the edge in my voice.

She marches toward me, keeping one hand on her hip. With her other, she lifts it and sweeps my hair from my forehead, studying my face. Her eyes roam over me as if she’s holding back a secret she has yet to share. The corner of her mouth lifts into a reminiscent smile. “You know, your father wasn’t sure we were doing the right thing when I told him I wanted to adopt a teenager. He said teenagers were unpredictable, especially one who had never been in a stable home.”

My mother has never shared her feelings about why she and my father adopted me. They never offered it up, and I was neverbrave enough to ask.

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