BOOK TWO in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series -- please read BOOK ONE, Illicit, before proceeding with this novel!
Coralie Watson, now living in NYC to focus on her singer/songwriter career, has landed herself in quite the predicament. Stuck in a...
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♫ Don't go before I get to say I'm sorry I caused you sorrow Tonight I really want you to know ♪ (Lykke Li—Bad woman)
Coralie's half-day at the label rolled by fast, thankfully; because she didn't have the focus or energy to waste after her insane night at Chester's. She knew Chester wasn't working that day, so she didn't have to dodge him—but she did have to dodge calls from Ryan and several panicked messages from Michael. She eventually answered one of the latter—pretending not to be feeling well—but by the time she got home that night, she considered once more turning off her cell for the evening.
How many hearts would she soon break? Two? Three? Four, if she counted her own? The longer she went back and forth and ignored the choice she had to make, the riskier her situation. She didn't want to lose any of these men but couldn't accept that she didn't have any alternative. Someone, two of them, possibly all three, had to go.
She became a recluse for the evening. Even Delilah had no means to communicate with her, as she did all she could to avoid her, too. She took a longer than usual shower, ate dinner while Delilah was in the bathroom, and hid her head under her pillow, feigning sleep, whenever Delilah tried to chat with her.
"Fine, be that way," Delilah had said, snapping the curtain between their rooms shut with such force that the hinges rattled, and the whole set-up almost collapsed.
The next day, Coralie woke to a frantic voicemail from Ryan—"I know you're busy, but come on, Cora!"—to a quick get-well soon video from Michael, and a cryptic text from Chester, which seemed to imply that he missed her.
Too confused by his intense emotions, she deleted the message. And in a rage, she deleted the entire thread; it was all too much, too shocking, too difficult to handle. With so much to think about already, and a massive decision to make, she didn't have the space for Chester to squeeze in and try to steal her heart.
At the label, she found herself overcome with a wave of creativity. All her repressed sentiments, her conflicted thoughts about Michael and Ryan and Chester came to fruition. Her inability to figure out what and who she wanted translated into a surge of lyrics. And they were the type of lyrics Nikita had claimed the bosses wanted. The morose moodiness, the dramatic verses, the melodious sorrow they'd signed her on because of. Drawled out sentences with heavy meanings and ridiculous rhymes she doubted she'd be able to sing. In truth, some of it resembled more poetry than song, but it all flowed and rang in her ears with a lovely rhythm that she couldn't get out of her head.
By noon, she'd composed four sad songs that she printed out and threw onto Nikita's desk.
"Here," she said, as Nikita hung up the phone call she'd been on and gaped at her in awe. "This is the shit they wanted."
Without a word, Nikita plucked the papers and gazed at them, squinting and widening her eyes, wincing and smiling, nodding and hissing.
