BOOK THREE in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series -- please read BOOK ONE, Illicit, and BOOK TWO, Explicit, before proceeding with this novel!
Coralie Watson wants--no, needs--a break. As her fame rises, so does her infatuation for Chester, her desi...
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🔥STEAMINESS ALERT—mild mentions ;)🔥
♫ Seems like most people I know hold everything in Just because they don't wanna be judged They'd rather be left untouched ♪ {Jojo—B.I.D.}
Fate.
Was it fate that Chester always came to her in moments where she didn't realize she'd needed him? Or was it a string of random coincidences that meant nothing at all?
He'd showed up for the first time right when she'd been debating between Ryan and Michael. When she'd been hesitant to choose, unsure who was the better option for her. As if she'd put out a signal stating she needed a break, a minute to think; Chester got that signal and swept in to save her. His arrival paused that debate and added a new element, a new spice that she couldn't seem to get enough of—him. He took her mind off things, despite adding more to her already overloaded plate. He comforted her in ways the other two couldn't—because the other two didn't quite know the extent of her problem.
"It makes you uncomfortable, huh?" Chester's voice broke through her myriad of thoughts, drawing her back to the present, the park, the light chatter surrounding them, the overhead chirps. "What we did, what I've said... me. All of this."
The group of kids playing soccer had left place to a band of young adults practicing yoga; Coralie had been so zoned out she hadn't even noticed.
"What makes you say that?" She wriggled about in her spot, wishing she'd brought a bigger blanket so she could lie down, catch her breath, gather her emotions.
Chester lay on the grass, with nothing beneath him, uncaring of stains or ants. Uncaring—that wasn't the right word to describe him, she thought. No, he was indifferent to the issues that plagued most people, but not uncaring. He sported a gloomy look and seemed stuck in his notes, moody and brooding; but he was far from it. When he smiled, he lit up a room, and when he recited his poetry, he tore hearts and souls out and watched them splay at his feet. And his ultimate talent was expressing his poems without speaking—which he was doing that very second, while looking at Coralie.
He quirked an eyebrow as she stared at him. "What?" He patted her arm; with no invasive meaning, no sexual intentions, and yet his touch raised the hairs on Coralie's arms. "Are you going to deny it? Because I can tell—you're all curled up and quiet, and I feel your tension by being next to you. Compared to last night—"
She perked up and pulled her gaze away from him, focusing on the yoga practice. "I don't want to talk about last night."
Chester sat up, too, and brought his knees to his chest. "Was it that bad? Should I have said something when I left? And hey," he scoffed, "it's not like I could have texted you to thank you for the fun—I'm blocked, remember?"
Coralie placed her journal back into her bag and left said bag in her lap—like a barrier against Chester's hands, in case he were to get any ideas. "It wasn't bad—that's the problem." She sucked her lips in and peered into the folds of her bag, wishing to hide in them. "It was phenomenal, and it helped me not think; but now, I'm overthinking, my mind won't shut off, okay? I was jotting it all down, getting it all out—then you show up. It broke my flow, and I've gone back to freaking out because I can't make up my goddamn mind—"
