**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 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.
