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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♫ I lay in the fire, cry and I cry over nothing I make a monsoon, and it's about you What is it 'bout you that makes me come undone? ♪ (Tove Lo—Come undone)
Coralie shuffled through her bar shift, at times eager to be out of the public eye, and isolated somewhere she could cry in peace... but also anxious. Nervous. Unsettled. Chester, though conscious of her situation—and likely the best placed to help her see the light in it all—was somewhat of a competitor for her heart. He'd made that obvious, and she couldn't allow herself to forget that.
Would he be what she needed tonight? A confidante, nothing more? Or would he take advantage of her distress to rub it on thick, remind her how he was her best option as he didn't judge, didn't care about her other lovers, and wouldn't be upset if she kept them?
Minutes before she clocked out, she considered retracting her offer to swing by his place. Her palms were sweaty, she was wobbly, and several times she slurred her words as if drunk. She hadn't had a drop of alcohol tonight—sometimes patrons asked her to do shots with them—and a tiny piece of her wished she had. For some odd reason, liquor seemed to clarify her thoughts and dull her nerves and prompt her bravery.
And to hang out with Chester, she'd need all of that.
In the end, she let her body and brain decide for her—she was going to Chester's. Going home meant confronting Delilah, remembering her "break" with Ryan, and rehashing the news that Michael might be moving close, too close, too soon. Chester, albeit yearning for her, was, in some ways, neutral territory. And she hoped he wouldn't flip the script on her and attempt to push his agenda—whatever it was—onto her already too full plate.
He answered his door in baggy sweatpants and a tight but long t-shirt with a few holes in the sleeves. She recognized it—it was his favorite pajama top, from when they lounged about eating popcorn and watching sappy movies while complaining about their love lives.
"Cora," he said, waving her in, a shy smile slipping over his mouth. "I expected you'd be here later."
"Is it... okay, that I'm here?" She hesitated to enter, cringing at the reminiscence of what had happened last time she was in his oversized studio.
"Of course, hun." His eyebrows drew upwards as his waving became more frantic. "I wouldn't tell you to if I didn't mean it."
She tiptoed past him, keeping as large of a distance as she could, wary he'd grab her and pull her into an embrace that might lead to something else. Something she couldn't handle right now. "Okay, but remember, I'm not here for sex. I can't... I can't have that, not when—"
He touched her shoulder, though staying out of her space as he closed the door. "I got the message, loud and clear. You need a friend; someone who won't give you shit, like Delilah. And someone who's aware of your predicament and also aware of the contenders. Guidance, yeah? Help with your choice?"
