**WATTPAD HQ EDITOR'S PICK Nov/Dec 2021**
BOOK ONE in the STEAMY FORBIDDEN ROMANCE series
Coralie Watson, a British thirty-year-old living in San Francisco, has a tormented past with men. Physical and mental abuse, abandonment issues, incompatibili...
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♫ I get drunk, pretend that I'm over it Self-destruct, show up like an idiot Why, oh why does God keep bringing me back to you? ♪ (Ariana Grande—Everytime)
On some strange whim, Coralie picked out a dress eerily like the one she'd worn at Scarfes, when she was in London. Black and curve-hugging, stopping at the knee, it transported her to a time before she'd given in to Ryan's charm. Before she'd succumbed to his languorous lips and his magnetic presence.
Delilah semi-approved, worried such a bold choice might tempt him and put her in a position where she couldn't refuse him.
But still, she wanted Coralie to look her best.
"Remind him what he's missing out on, and what he ruined with his attitude," she'd said, helping Coralie curl her hair and affix a small diamond pendant around her neck. "Then come home, call Michael, and move on with your life."
Move on with your life.
Coralie repeated the mantra as the rarely used elevator led her down to the ground floor. And while the Lyft, on the road to the bar. And in front of the bar Ryan had chosen—an understated, hole-in-the-wall a few buildings down from her favorite coffee shop, near work.
Her lungs tightened, her legs wobbled, her feet were slippery in her ankle-high platform booties. She sucked in her tummy and clenched her fists and marched in, adamant on surviving the night.
The lights were dimmed, and a few patrons were packed around a table next to the door, clinking beers and cheering as they watched her walk in.
Most of the other tables were empty—it was nine o'clock on a Wednesday—but a few customers cramped at the crimson-colored bar sipping from martini glasses. A breezy pop song played in the background; it sounded like Ariana Grande, but Coralie wasn't sure, and she couldn't focus on it as one of the stool occupants spun to her and their gazes met.
Electricity shot up and down her arms. Her heart sank into her stomach. The strap of her purse rode down her shoulder and she didn't have the strength to stop it.
Just like in London, dammit.
"Cora," said Ryan as she approached him, her legs moving of their own accord.
Had their minds linked when getting ready that night? She'd chosen an outfit reminiscent of London, and so had he. He wore that baby-blue shade that brought out the ocean in his eyes, that covered his skin like a candy wrapper, with that form-fitting white shirt underneath that molded to his torso to remind her how irresistible he was. Was it the same suit, or had he bought a new one after tossing the old one out because it smelled like her?
"Hi," she said, her voice stuck in her throat, her shoulders tense, her core clenched so hard she could barely breathe. "Sorry if I kept you waiting."
She wasn't late, but she'd wanted to arrive first, to take a few shots to settle her nerves before facing him.
