♫ I wanna bite your lips, do some freaky shit
I could picture it, like I'm seeing 20/20
Even if it's temporary ♪
(FLETCHER—The One)
Though there were a few performers left, most of the audience focused on Coralie as she reentered the bar. A few bros high-fived her while attempting to ask for her digits. An elderly couple offered to buy her a drink. A girl who couldn't have been much older than twenty-one begged her for singing advice.
Roger told her he was impressed, Delilah covered her in smooches and hearty encouragements, and Michael glued to her side, one arm around her upper waist. He kept her close—and more so whenever guys sauntered up to congratulate her. It was cute how he tensed whenever she garnered attention from good-looking dudes.
And yet... Coralie wasn't as flattered by his attention as she'd hoped.
Was it because she'd just walked out on the opportunity of a lifetime by declining to accept Ryan's token of affection? By denying the chance to resume their near-kiss, to turn it into something more? By declining to see him naked, for real, and to finally feel all the things he'd described to her in their lengthy—and often X-rated—video-conversations?
She almost wanted to break free from Michael's subtle possessive—but adorable—grip and scurry outside to determine if Ryan was still there. Maybe he'd be waiting for her, calling her bluff. Or maybe he'd slipped into the bar again without her noticing, and was watching her with Michael, sipping on a mojito while trying not to be jealous.
Somehow, the notion of his potential jealousy woke a few flutters in her tummy, and she liked them. To imagine him glaring at her and Michael, realizing he'd missed his shot twelve years prior, almost erased the waves of regret she was experiencing.
At midnight, the judges convened in the back room to decide of the victor, but it didn't take them long to resurface with an agreement. One of them hopped up onto the stage, peered through the crowd, and when her gaze settled on Coralie, she waved her up.
"The winner of this inaugural open-mic night is Coralie Amber Watson!"
Coralie's face flushed and her arms became numb as she covered her mouth. "What?"
Michael gripped her waist tighter and pulled her even closer. "You won! I knew it!" He gently withdrew her hand from her mouth and leaned in to kiss her.
It was sweet, simple. His lips were pleasantly soft, and the kiss itself was quite lovely—but nothing woke in Coralie's abdomen.
All she felt was confusion with the onrush of noise as everyone surrounding them clapped and whistled.
They ushered her onto the podium where Roger met her and declared her prize—a live show every Friday, with her own songs.
It was a golden opportunity to showcase her work, to gain recognition, to draw in someone who'd have connections in the music industry.
She should have been jumping up and down, screaming her lungs out, celebrating; but her insides hurt and her mind was blurred with remorse and questions about Ryan.
Did he know she'd won? She gaped at each attendee below, still clapping at her, still cheering at her success; but not a single one had Ryan's rugged features. None wore that perfectly pressed suit or had those delicious lips she'd craved to kiss regardless of all the warning signs.
No, Michael had kissed her instead. She located him in the crowd, beaming up at her as if she'd won an Academy Award, such pride in his demeanor that she ached to watch him. A part of her wished he were Ryan. A part of her wished Ryan had been the one to kiss her when she found out the judges chose her, that Ryan had sent her flowers and stood by her side while men tried to hit on her, that Ryan would welcome her in his arms when she descended from the podium.
But Michael helped her down from the stage, and she smiled at him despite her heart drowning in disappointment.
He was so wonderful, so caring, so cautious with her feelings—why couldn't she like him as much as she loved Ryan?
She had to try to erase Ryan from her life, and Michael had to be the solution to that. She did have feelings for him, but they were burrowed beneath her sexual attraction to Ryan.
Fuck Ryan.
As Michael set a hand on her arm, she sucked in a breath for courage, and approached her lips to his. He got the hint and lessened the distance between them, drawing her in for another kiss.
This one was longer, deeper, thrilling; it did wake something in her. He wrapped his arms around her to hold her close, and she let him.
The cheers melted, and their tongues touched for a few seconds before she tore away, sensing strange jolts in her pelvis.
Oh okay, that's interesting.
Only Ryan had provoked such sensations before, and during the video-chats. She hadn't had flurries in her abdomen, caused by a kiss, in a long time. So why now, for their second kiss? Why not their first?
As she grazed Michael's cheek and smirked at him, licking her lips in delight, she realized that maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe Michael could create the same lust Ryan had—she just had to kiss him a few more times, right?
"Do you want to go home?" he said, placing his hand on her upper back and leading her towards the end of the bar. "Sounds like it's about to get rowdy in here, now that the open-mic is done. I heard your boss mentioning a DJ coming in."
Coralie gagged. "Fuck that." She cocked her head and pinched her lips as she studied Michael.
What did he mean by go home? Was he inviting himself over to have his way with her? Or was it a genuine offer to drive her to her apartment and drop her off like a proper gentleman?
He seemed to read her mind. "Don't worry, I'm not planning anything other than dropping you off." His fingertips massaged her exposed skin, sending tiny tingles down her spine. "I figured you'd want to get out of here, and I don't drink, so I'm sober and can take you."
Heat rushed up her neck as she chewed on her lip. She did want to leave, and Delilah hadn't specified how she was getting home. In truth, Delilah had disappeared right after the announcement, and Coralie didn't doubt she'd found herself something—someone—entertaining.
Coralie shrugged. "Well... okay, I guess there's no harm in that. Let me grab my purse."
***
On the way to Coralie's apartment, she and Michael discussed the other singers that had performed that night. They agreed many had talent, and though Coralie argued she wasn't the best, Michael disagreed.
"You were by far the best," he insisted, taking a turn onto her street. "And the most presentable, too. And the most genuine. The others were fake, if that makes sense. They were over the top, and you were a natural."
She'd blushed so much in the short ride, she wondered if her skin was permanently tinted tomato red.
"Stop. I'm sure Roger paid the judges to ensure I won. He set it all up because I complain too much about not having the guts to sing in front of an audience, so he had to put me on the spot."
Michael slowed the car's speed. "Hell no. I listened to the judges after your turn—they loved you. Everyone was so hypnotized by your voice, it was like you put a spell on them." He parked on the side of the road, turned off the engine, and twisted to her. "You put a spell on me."
It was so cheesy, and yet Coralie couldn't help but grin so wide her cheek-bones hurt. "Michael, you're adorable."
"Adorable enough to get a goodnight kiss?" He wrinkled his nose and lifted his shoulders, looking like a boy begging for extra dessert.
As he shifted in his seat, the lower part of his shirt hiked up to reveal a quick peek of his stomach—which Coralie was pleased to view at last. Toned, muscular, just as she'd imagined it.
She sank her teeth into her lower lip and rubbed the back of her neck. "Well... you have been a true gentleman all evening. I have to admit your glares at the boys who accosted me were precious."
"Hey now," he winked and slanted a little closer, "can't have them drooling all over my favorite girl, can I?"
Favorite girl? Me?
Something swelled in her belly—not full-on butterflies, but minuscule motions that prompted her to want to finish the kiss they'd started inside the bar; the one that might awaken her arousal enough to consider opening up to him.
"Fine." She batted her lashes and tilted forward, her nose stopping one inch from his. "You get a goodnight kiss."
He didn't wait for her to say it again—he flattened his lips against hers, their softness tickling her. He opened his mouth, and his tongue crept inside and twirled around hers, sending her into a dizzy frenzy of pleasure. She plucked at the cuff of his shirt and dug her nails into his upper back, tugging him closer to her. His hands danced up and down her waist, never going too low or too high, only brushing near enough to tease her.
Absorbed in thoughts of taking his clothes off, she barely heard his half breathless murmurs of delight, and her extremities tingled.
But when they pulled apart at last, hearts pumping and cheeks red and tongues numb with lust, she stilled at the sight of him. She had to stop herself from cringing at the realization that despite the deliciousness of their kiss, despite the near-perfection of every movement of his tongue and every caress of his fingertips, he was not Ryan.
Had she been picturing him during that entire blissful moment? Too lost in the bubbling sensations, had she inadvertently hoped for Ryan, envisioning him in Scarfes, reenacting the moment they hadn't had a chance to experience?
"Wow," said Michael, swiping a stray strand of hair from her forehead. "If only I could get goodnight kisses like that all the time."
She smiled, but fanned herself as an uncomfortable heat whooshed from her temples to her chest. "Yeah, it was... it was something all right."
"A good something?" Michael's fingers lazed over her jawline, and the urge in his eyes grew as he gawked at her lips.
"Yes, yes, good." She sighed. "Absolutely." She tipped backwards and blinked. "But I, uh... I think I need to lie down. I'm not doing too great."
It wasn't a lie; nausea clogged her throat and her vision wavered and sweat dripped down her cheek-bones.
But the ill feeling didn't sprout from Michael, or anything he'd done.
"Should I..." Michael sat up straight and removed the keys from the ignition. "Should I help you upstairs? Do you need me to get you anything?"
She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. "No, you've done so much for me, I couldn't ask for more." She pressed a peck onto his cheek. "You've been sublime tonight. Thank you. And thank you for the ride." As she slid towards her passenger door, she flashed him one last glance. "Please text me when you get home, okay?"
With the most earnest and sweet-natured smile Coralie had ever seen, Michael nodded at her, unlocked the door, and watched as she stumbled onto the sidewalk and fished her keys from her purse. He waved as he drove off, and the instant his car disappeared around a corner, she slouched against the building.
"Fuck."
Would she ever be able to kiss someone else without envisioning Ryan in their place?
Had he already caught a flight back to London? Or did he have a hotel room somewhere in town, and was waiting to see if she'd change her mind? Or was he slumped in some shitty bar in the worst area of San Francisco, imbibing some disgusting concoction as he regretted nearly ruining his marriage for her, the girl who wouldn't give in to him?
After struggling to reach the top of the stairs, Coralie removed her heels, wincing as her feet plunged into the carpeted hallway floors. Her keys jingled in her hands as she flipped the light switch on, and as soon as the overhead lamps ignited, they shone on a lone figure at the conclusion of the corridor, in front of her door.
"What the hell?" She brandished one of her shoes out as a weapon, wishing she'd worn pointed stilettos. "Get the fuck away from my door!"
The figure, clad in a navy suit, turned around. As they removed their hat, their ocean eyes flashed at her—and Coralie's knees locked as she dropped her heels and her keys to the ground.
"Ryan?"
♥♥♥