♫ You love when I fall apart
So you can put me together
And throw me against the wall ♪
(Rihanna—Love On The Brain)

Another week passed, and Coralie's yearning for Ryan didn't dissipate. If anything, it worsened—it amplified.

She barely slept, barely ate, cried in the shower, fumbled with drink orders at the bar, and drank herself into a stupor on her days off. She avoided calls from her mother, refused to confide in Delilah—who haunted near her bedroom door and scolded her for being such a downer—and sent half-assed replies to Michael, who continued to ask her out on dates.

She liked Michael, but she loved Ryan. It was far from simple lust, or a natural physical craving, or a need to see him naked and taste him. He'd become a part of her, ingrained in her memory, engraved in her heart. His image never left her mind, and though she laughed at herself for sounding like an obsessive, fan-girling teenager, even she worried about herself, her stalker-like behavior worse than it had ever been.

Her tendencies only exacerbated when she realized Ryan had all but disappeared from social media. His page was inactive—he didn't post any silly videos like usual, and he didn't view her stories.

Had Gemma discovered them, and he was now paying a high price for it? Or was he being overly cautious, hoping to protect the burgeoning sexual tension between him and Coralie?

Or is he over me, contrary to what he promised?

One foggy morning, Coralie woke with a groan, her phone's loud ringing piercing the otherwise silent room. Her scalp pounded from the bottle of wine she'd drank to herself the night before, and she'd slept in a position that had rendered her neck stiff, about to snap.

"Who the fuck—"

She pressed the button on her phone and gasped before she realized it was a Facebook call, and she'd enabled her video without checking her appearance first. She had no doubt her hair was an utter disaster, and she likely had mascara smears beneath her eyes, as she hadn't bothered to remove her makeup from the day before.

As the image adjusted, she gasped when she saw who was on the screen. There was only one person who would call her so early in the morning—because she'd told him he could.

Mouth falling open and eyes wide as saucers, she stared at his first blurry, then sharp as ever features when they fizzled to life before her.

"RyRy?"

He chuckled, leaning in closer to better examine her sleepy, far-from-seductive, pillow-lined face. "Hi, gorgeous. Did I wake you?"

She set the phone down, ruffled through her mane, dabbed under her eyes, licked her lips—then retrieved the device, happy to witness that she'd partially fixed herself up.

"Yes, but... it's fine, I was hoping to hear from you soon, anyway. It's been," she pretended to hesitate, though she knew damn well how many hours and minutes and seconds it had been, "three weeks, huh? How are you?"

His smile faltered, and he dropped his chin, fumbling with the collar of his sleek shirt. "I'm so sorry for the delay. Work has been insane, Gemma has been on my ass, and the girls have been having issues at school. But..." He peeked up, a twinkle of mischief in his ocean eyes. "I have a proposition for you. Hear me out, okay?"

She lounged against her cushions, seeking to find a position that didn't give her a double chin, or make her arms look enormous, or show the holes in her tank top.

"Okay, sure. What's up?"

"All right, well first off, answer this—" he squinted, pouting his lips, "—are you able to take a few days off on short notice? Say... in the next week?"

She focused on his flawless face, trying but failing to understand what he meant. Was he traveling out to visit her again? Did he plan to scoop her off her feet and wine and dine her in her city?

He said Gemma was on his ass... how would he pull that off?

"I... I mean, I can try? If it's for the right reasons, Rog might allow it—"

"—well, push for it. Please. Because I'm buying you a plane ticket to Paris, and I want to meet you there."

She tipped over, losing hold of the phone. It slid to the floor and bounced off one of her pillows, disappearing under a pile of dirty laundry.

Dazed with visions of the Eiffel Tower and the Champs Elysées, she didn't react to having lost her phone until she heard Ryan yelling, "Cora? Cora, are you still there?"

"Hey, yeah, sorry," she said, retrieving the device from under a pair of sweatpants and pulling it up to her again. Her hair had gotten miffed up, so she shrugged it out of her eyes and mouth and huffed. "Um, I think I hit my head—it sounded like you wanted to fly me to Paris?"

Paris—a dazzling city she'd visited once in her youth and had fallen in love with. The food—Camembert, anyone?—the scenery, the monuments, the museums, the avenues, the intimidating yet exhilarating Metro. She'd always dreamed of going back and exploring as an adult.

Ryan's sensual smirk appeared. "You're not crazy, that's exactly what I said. I'll book us a room at Le Royal Monceau for a few nights, and... we'll do this the way I intended to." His cheeks flushed to a coral color that brought out his eyes, displaying the ever-growing desire in them. "I want to spoil you and realize all our fantasies in the utmost luxury. Like we pictured it, remember?"

"Le Royal Monceau?" She almost cringed at her botched pronunciation, compared to his smooth, sexy accent. "Oh," she let out a discreet moan, "I remember." Her knees buckled and the never-fading butterflies did backflips in her belly. "How the heck would I ever forget those conversations?"

"Right." Ryan placed the phone up against something and angled backwards in his chair, pressing his hands to the back of his head. The corners of his lips glided up a little further, and she could have sworn she saw his heart thumping in his rib-cage through his crisp shirt. "So talk to your boss, would you? I can get away with pretending I have a business trip in Paris—Gemma wouldn't question that. Chat with him and contact me with your answer as soon as possible?"

Coralie didn't miss a beat—the instant Ryan hung up, she dialed Roger's number, completely forgetting that it was seven-thirty am and he would murder her for daring to wake him.

But to her shock, when he replied, he didn't belt out insults; instead, he adopted his fatherly tone that he only used when he was worried about her.

"The girls said you've been distracted lately, is that true?" The sternness in his words almost prompted Coralie to get cold feet and offer to call him back later. "I'm sorry I haven't been in much, otherwise I would have addressed this in person."

"A little, yes. It's nothing... jitters from the upcoming show." While that wasn't technically a lie, she hated not telling the truth to Roger. He was so wonderful to her, paid her better than most bartenders in town, and always ensured she had a safe ride home—he covered her Lyfts and taxis, since she didn't like driving.

"I figured. Look, the band is still working out some issues with their drummer, so it might be another week or two until you can rehearse with them." He cleared his throat. "How about you take some time off, yeah? Work on your songs, your sheet music or whatever the fuck you call it. Get some rest—Marion offered to take most of your shifts, and Isabela won't mind covering a few nights either."

"Are you sure?" She gazed at Roger's profile picture, grinning at her on the screen—him and his wife and their oversized puppy, George.

This is too easy—how did he know?

"Yeah, I already planned to propose this, anyway. You've been working overtime, you're exhausted, and I want you prepared for these gigs. They're a big deal to you, but to the bar, too, because I hope they'll draw in more clients! So you have to be in tip-top shape!"

Though Roger always encouraged her musicality, he was rarely so enthusiastic about it. It brought her pause, wondering how long he'd been considering this break. Was he planning on firing her? Had he hired someone else in her place already and needed her gone while Marion and Isabela trained them?

Had she been that horrible of a bartender lately?

"Am I in trouble, Rog?" She put the phone on the mattress, turned on the speaker option, and stretched. "Are you trying to let me down easy?"

"You? My favorite girl? Hell no." She heard him sipping on something—coffee? Already? How long had he been awake? "But I think you're overworked, and that's why the girls worry about you. Which makes me worry about you. So accept the time off, okay? I'll give you a week, starting after your shift tonight, yeah?"

Still wary—it really was too good to be true—she wrinkled her nose and bit her lip, already envisioning herself in Ryan's arms, enveloped in one thousand dollar satin sheets or bathing in an opulent marble-lined tub.

"Okay, fine, I'll take it. Might even take a trip to get out of here."

"Yeah, you do that. Just don't abandon me, okay? One week is all I'll allow. Then you'd better be your usual self again."

Ten minutes later—after running around her room screaming and jumping for joy—she messaged Ryan.

Coralie Amber Watson: I have one week off after my shift ends tonight! Is that too soon?

She threw the phone onto her mattress as she dug through her underwear drawer, searching for a lacy ensemble she'd once worn with Jayden. It was red and black, slinky, sexy—and Ryan would rip it off her in seconds, or so she hoped.

Her device pinged, and she clapped as she found the lingerie set, and a satin thong she thought she'd tossed. She spied her suitcase near her TV stand and hastened over to Ryan's reply.

Ryan Bennett: I can have you arriving here tomorrow night, babe. Leave it to me—I'll send you the details ASAP.

With a delighted squeal, she deposited the phone on her dresser as she continued to rummage through her panties and bras, wishing she'd bought more matching pairs. Did she have anything appropriate for a few luxurious nights at Le Royal Monceau?

The bedroom door creaked open, but Coralie didn't budge, too busy imagining the perfect Parisian attire to blend in with the French.

"The fuck has you so giddy?" Delilah tumbled in, a towel wrapped over her wet curls, a short bathrobe covering the bare minimum of her body, and a steaming mug nestled between her palms. "I thought you were all depressed and shit?"

Coralie spun around, clasping her hands, fighting to contain her enormous smile. "Ryan called."

Delilah settled on the bed and unwound the towel from her head, rubbing her scalp, eyes creased as she sniffed at her mug—her favorite hazelnut coffee.

"I guessed as much from the sound of your chirping. What'd he say?"

After locating a frilly bra she'd stuffed at the bottom of her drawer because it reminded her of her party days—but it was hot—Coralie fluttered into her walk-in closet.

"He's flying me out to Paris and booking us a room in the most prestigious hotel in town."

Delilah spat out her java, sprinkling the carpet in light brown stains. "He's what?"

Coralie grabbed a tight red dress, a short purple one, and her high-waisted jeans that had definitely been a success at the open-mic night. "Flying me to Paris, yes. He asked me to request a few days off and he'd buy the ticket. Should be leaving tomorrow."

"How the—" Delilah leaned forward, as if prepared to stand, but then tipped back, tilting her head, scratching her cheek. "Wait, and Rog approved? You already ran this by him?"

"I mean..." Coralie sauntered out and threw a few more dresses onto the bed, along with several sleek tops she'd been waiting for an excuse to wear. "I didn't say I was traveling out of the country, but yes. Actually, he suggested I take a few days off because Marion and Isabela think I'm out of it."

"Well, you are." After setting down her cup, Delilah bustled over and nudged Coralie out of the way, perusing through her collection of pants. "And those two only said that because they want extra tips while you're gone, since they're jealous of you. But," she pivoted and took Coralie by the shoulders, "you're going? You accept this? Ryan calling you after three weeks of radio silence, during which you sobbed yourself to sleep and interrupted my sex life with your moping about? You're cool with this?"

"Delilah!" Coralie pushed her playfully. "I wasn't that loud."

"Uh huh. So you say." She squeezed Coralie's cheeks, gaping at her as if working to see into her brain, to study her mental health levels. "But this is what you want? To drop everything and flurry over to him and continue to hurt yourself? Because that's what you're doing. You're giving in to him, you're falling in love with him, and he's going to break your heart."

Coralie grimaced. "I'm well aware." She suppressed a shiver of comprehension, dismissed the shocks in her stomach, the echoes in her brain that agreed with Delilah. And she refrained from reminding her that she was already in love with Ryan. "But I... I want to be with him for as much as I can before this fairy-tale ends. Is that okay? If I'm ready for the consequences, am I allowed to do that?"

Hands on her hips, her robeslipping open to reveal a leopard bra, Delilah inhaled and exhaled. "Fuck. Ifyou're going in to this knowing he's going to destroy you, and the sex is thatgood, and you seriously can't resist..." She growled and shoved past Coralie toexit the closet. "Make sure you bring a giant box of condoms, because I have afeeling you two will never leave the hotel room."

♥♥♥