♫ I been tryin' to move on
And it's obvious that I can't ♪
(Jojo—Think About You)

The instant she set foot into their minuscule two-bedroom apartment in the center of the East Village neighborhood of New York City, Coralie sucked in a whiff of oxygen and smiled.

Why had she waited so long to relocate? New York was so her; it matched her real rhythm, reminding her of the fast-paced lifestyle she'd missed when she left London. The noisy streets, the bustling traffic, the hurried pedestrians, the wild and exotic smells—this was where she belonged, and she wished she'd figured that out sooner.

It didn't take much time for her and Delilah to pack up their San Francisco apartment and throw all their furniture into a truck. They'd done a virtual visit of the flat and knew they'd have limited space, but it would work.

"Until you become a mega superstar, then we can upgrade!" Delilah had said.

Delilah's decision to move went over well with her family, despite what she'd anticipated. Proud of her for stepping up and getting her act together—she omitted to advise that she hadn't stopped partying and fooling around—her father, Mr. Peterson, offered her a position as a paralegal in the offices he'd just opened in the northern Financial district. To celebrate, he paid for the moving company that would drive across the country with their things and carry their boxes up the flights of stairs to their fourth-floor pad.

Gaping out the small window, Coralie smirked.

"I'll take the bedroom at the end," said Delilah, trotting to the tiny living room, where Coralie had dropped her bag in awe of the view. It wasn't much—a few stores and other buildings like theirs—but it reminded her of Friends or Sex and the City, and her jaw ached from dropping so often.

"Huh?" She whipped around to her friend and roommate, whose high heels clacked on the hardwood floors as she approached. Of course she traveled in style, adamant on making a lasting first impression on the people of New York.

They'd flown over in time to meet the truck as it arrived, but they checked in early to grab the keys, sign papers, and inspect the place.

"The bedrooms? They're connected, and I'm taking the one at the end," repeated Delilah, swishing up to Coralie and wrapping an arm around her. "You know, since you'll be getting home late and all after your shifts."

Coralie winced; she'd almost forgotten about the bartending job she'd snagged a few days after they'd located the flat. It was only a few streets down, in the southern and more active part of East Village, but the owner was nowhere as understanding as Roger. He wanted her to start immediately—meaning that night—and she wasn't confident she'd survive her shift after moving across the country.

But she wouldn't complain; she couldn't. Her night job would be rough, but her day job was her dream job. In time, she hoped it would all be worth it. The sweat, the tears—saying goodbye to Michael had been harder than expected—and the lack of sleep had to be for a reason.

She'd spotted a few landmarks and scenes that Michael would have loved to photograph. Their apartment was a few streets away from Tompkins Square Park, where she was certain he would have loved to skate or stroll with her, hand in hand. When he visited, in a few months, she'd take him there, first.

After she'd admitted she was moving, he'd become frosty, distant. But Michael soon came to terms with her decision and promised he'd do his best to make their long-distance relationship work. He was falling for her, after all; and a few thousand miles wouldn't change that.

"We'll talk every day," he'd said, his smile not quite genuine, his heart not quite in it. "And Skype and Facebook call and all that. And I'll visit... soon."

Coralie had a feeling she would visit him first. He was so attached to San Francisco—born and raised—and hated airplanes so much that she doubted he'd overcome his anxieties to meet with her. But he'd promised—and she took promises to heart, especially coming from him. He never broke them, unlike some people—

"It's gonna be okay," said Delilah, rubbing Coralie's back. "Michael, right? You're thinking about him?"

Coralie had given up seeking to figure out how Delilah always knew where she went when she zoned out, so she shrugged and leaned against the window. The cool surface eased the knots in her shoulders and sent soothing chills down to her sore hips.

"Yeah. Long-distance... I'm hoping we can make it work."

"You can." Delilah removed her heels without batting a lash, without a wince, as if the five-inch things hadn't bothered her one bit after all walking up and down airport corridors. "He's a big boy, unlike Benjamin."

"But wouldn't it have been better to break up? Push him to date a local chick who appreciates him and will fall in love with him?" Coralie pouted and crossed her arms. "My heart is still in you-know-who's hands, no matter how hard I try to yank it back."

Delilah raised one of her heels and pointed it at Coralie. "Ryan is a dick, and one day your heart will realize that. In the meantime, give yourself a chance, girl."

She twirled around at a knock on the door—the movers. With a groan, she slipped the heels back on and hurried over to answer; but not before spinning to send a warning glance at Coralie.

"Michael is your boyfriend, and he cares about you, and you should stop overthinking it. Now let's get our shit set up, yeah?"

***

Coralie's first night as a New York bartender was exhausting. The experience was beyond anything she'd ever worked through in San Francisco, and the clientele so vast and varied she wasn't positive she could keep up. The same bros and half-dressed girls were there, along with entrepreneurs enjoying drinks after work, a few junkies trying to pretend like they weren't high on who-knew-what, and a handful of kids Coralie swore weren't legal, but that her boss forced her to serve, anyway.

She considered searching for a job elsewhere, in a better reputed side of town, with an owner who wouldn't force her to break laws. But she needed the money, and to save it up she needed a place to work that was close to her apartment, to reduce her transportation costs.

After a few weeks, she adjusted to the mood, the rhythm; to the patrons who barely acknowledged her, demanding craft beers and cheap wine, and who left measly tips on the counter without thanking her. She adjusted to the regulars who didn't bother to learn her name, and avoided the underaged customers, leaving them to the other bartenders.

Several days a week, she traveled to the Financial district, a few blocks from Broadway. Poisoned Paradise Records had rented a few floors in a ginormous glass building with views on Battery Park City and the Hudson River. Most other offices within were music-related or linked to the theater community.

So when she meandered down the sleek, white entryway and passed through security, she often encountered artists or performers, some of which she recognized. It took much restraint to not jump up and down and ask for autographs, and she usually succeeded. But the second she got home, she gushed over who she'd seen while describing all the details to Delilah.

Soon, she developed a habit that would kill her bank account, but she couldn't help herself—she stopped for coffee at a shop a few doors down from work. It was a hole-in-the-wall, grandma and grandpa style place that smelled like French pastries and reminded her of Europe. As it turned out, the owners were from Paris, and every delicacy they made was one hundred percent authentic. Their brew was divine, so Coralie visited them every morning—even on days when she wasn't expected at the office for writing or recording sessions.

On one such day, she exited the shop, holding her usual coffee order and a bag of macarons. Too eager to devour one of them—the mint one intrigued her—she lowered her chin to shuffle through the bag and jammed into someone.

"Oh, shit!" She looked up, held her cup up to not spill, and clutched the pastries to her chest. "I'm so sorry, I..."

Her eyes widened and her heart stopped as she took in the person she'd bumped into.

Of all the coincidences in the world and of all the people to find in such a massive city, she couldn't believe it. She didn't want to believe it. If she had a free hand, she would have pinched herself, smacked herself, smacked him.

"Ryan?"

It took all her might not to drop her beverage or throw her pastries at his face. And it took all her strength to look at him without drooling over his beige slacks, his black button-down shirt, his rolled-up sleeves showing an intricate forearm tattoo on his beautiful brown skin.

"Cora?" His bushy brows arched as he cocked his head, taking her in. "No way—what are you doing here?"

Thankful she'd worn semi-nice clothes that day—tight jeans, a form-fitting and low-cut top, and her favorite Converse shoes—she perked up and cleared her throat.

"Oh, I, uh... I live here, now. What are you doing here?"

He tugged her out of the way—they'd halted in the middle of the sidewalk, and several disgruntled walkers had grunted at them already.

"On business." He chuckled, and the sexy sound reverberated up and down her spine, weakening her knees. "For real, this time."

Her instincts told her to elbow him, hard, in the stomach—but then she'd feel his abs and she'd melt and she'd have no self-control.

Her conscience then told her to kick his shins, to toss her coffee all over his fancy outfit, to hurl him into oncoming traffic—but she couldn't move.

Ryan fucking Bennett—Delilah calls him an asshole, I call him a god.

The rage she'd been harboring against him should have flared up, should have exploded in his face. And yet all it did was simmer somewhere in her gut as she admired him in all his beauty.

His luscious lips, those tropical eyes that sparkled in the late-morning sun, his chestnut hair, and the fine stubble dotting along his jawline, accenting his flawless complexion.

Maybe she'd gotten too used to Michael's less neck-spasming height, because staring at Ryan hurt.

So in lieu of an appropriate reaction—yelling, punching him, demanding an explanation for how he'd treated her—she giggled.

"Surrounded by Americans? Are you okay?" Afraid she might spit out more nonsense, she shoved her coffee cup to her mouth and took a few scorching sips, struggling not to cough as the liquid burned down her throat.

"I'm getting used to it. I had some practice, after all," he said, winking at her.

He's implying with me?

A wink; it was the simplest gesture, and yet it stirred a storm of emotions in her stomach. Joy, surprise, fury, sorrow—all mixed and churned and shot up to her mouth, turning her spit acidic.

A wink? After what he'd done, after how he'd ditched her, left her hanging, given her no choice but to move on and forget they'd ever been friends? After he'd professed his admiration, showed up in San Francisco to have his way with her, then flew her out to Paris to spoil her in a swanky hotel? Then abandoned her when she unraveled her feelings?

"Wow." She stepped backwards to escape his overwhelming glow, his intoxicating musk, and the sheer discomfort he caused in her limbs. Goosebumps lined her arms, and she held on to the macaron bag so tight she feared she'd crush them. "Making a joke out of something serious now, are we?"

He frowned, reaching out a hand to touch her, but seemed to think twice about it and let his arm lower to his side.

"Cora—"

"—months, Ryan. It's been months. Sure, bumping into you here is an odd coincidence, but you're really going to laugh about it? About what happened, about how you destroyed me?"

She steered herself in the other direction, ready to walk away; but this time he didn't hesitate and seized her wrist.

"Hey, I wasn't trying to dismiss anything or make it funny," he said, his tone shifting to a softer, smoother pitch. She'd heard him use it a few times in their youth; one he used when he was aware he'd been stupid or gone too far.

Though she should have ripped from his grip and slapped him, she swiveled to him. The flush on his cheeks made her blush, and the way he scanned her, his shoulders dipping, his entire being melting in front of her, turned her to mush.

He always did that. Always made her barriers crumble and her heart throb like a woodpecker drilling into a tree. He made her feelings blow out of proportion. He snuck into her mind, controlling it, transforming it. He'd done it at the bar in London, and again when he appeared at the Swirled Lady. And once more when he'd cornered her at her apartment and in her kitchen and in her bedroom—

His scoff interrupted her angry thoughts. "Honestly, you don't look that destroyed. I imagine your boyfriend begs to differ—"

Forgetting they were in public, on a loaded sidewalk, Coralie pressed her hand to his torso and pushed him. For one heavy, heated moment, she felt his muscles beneath her palm and had to bite her tongue and root her feet to the ground to not grab his shirt and pull him back to her.

"How dare you?" Her breaths came out ragged and her pulse jittered under her chin. "You're married, remember? And now you're taking tones because I moved on and found a boyfriend?"

So he's been paying attention to my social media, has he?

If offended by her words or actions, Ryan said nothing, but raised his hands in defense. "I only meant that I'm happy for you, Cora. You don't seem so ruined by my mistakes, and I should have apologized, but I'm an asshole."

She opened her mouth to retort—to agree—but closed it when she registered his comments.

It was half-assed and not one hundred percent genuine, but it was an apology. A Ryan-style plea for forgiveness. Quick, barely noticeable, and accompanied by his signature puppy-dog eyes and hands clasped over his left pectoral muscle.

Taking advantage of her silence, he slithered closer. "To be honest, I knew you were here. I still follow all your social media posts, though I'm sure you've unfollowed me. I deserve it, it's okay." His fingers twitched near hers as he stood beside her and watched the crowds crawling past them, in slow motion. As if the city was put on hold while he explained himself, at last. "I wanted to call you... see if you'd meet up for a drink, for old time's sake. Since I'm going to be here for a while... I was hoping you'd accept." His body was only a few inches from hers, and his cologne wafted off him in unctuous, irresistible waves. "So... would you? Have a drink with me?"

She held in the urge to ask him why he'd assume she'd be okay with that. She might have considered accepting his apology; but to sit in a social setting with him and sip on an alcoholic beverage as if all was well? That wasn't something she'd planned or even envisioned happening anytime soon. The sassy, problem-causing side of her wanted to hiss "what about your wife?" and make him as uncomfortable as she was at that instant.

Thinking of Gemma, she studied him. Though she had unfollowed his Facebook page, she still browsed his Instagram from time to time, out of habit. He'd posted little about his family in those passing months. Only a few notices about the expansion of his brand, snapshots of him at opening events, pictures of random items he'd bought during shopping trips.

"I..."

She peered up at him and something in her snapped. It was that fine, nearly transparent line—that final wall she'd erected to keep him out should he ever resurface, as deep down she'd known he would. It was the fortress she'd built to never let her emotions for him take over and drown her again.

It crumbled, dissipating as if it had never existed.

As she gaped at this tall, handsome hunk who'd captured her heart twelve years prior, she wasn't sure what to do. Her mouth became dry, her hands clammy, and her lips ached to mold into his.

She side-stepped, blew out a deep breath, and gave him one last glance before shaking her head.

"No?" He crept up to her, but she zipped backwards before his fingers could graze her arm.

"No!" She whirled aroundand ran off, uncaring where her feet would lead her, provided they carried herfar, far away from Ryan Bennett.

♥♥♥