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“Because your fear of relapsing?”

“I guess so,” Anna says. “I worked hard to get here, I don’t want to lose it all.”

“Mm-hmm,” the therapist says. “So . . . what if we think about your sobriety, the work you’ve put in, the rebuilding . . . as a foundation. You’ve created a great foundation. However, now you need to add some rooms. Your foundation is still there, you’re just expanding.”

Anna nods. “But how do I do that?”

The therapist chuckles. “You take chances. Next time someone asks you to be their date to a wedding, maybe consider it before automatically turning it down?”

She’s told her therapist about me. I’m not sure why that fact makes me smile, but it does.

“Take chances, Anna.”

I swipe another coat of waterproof mascara over my lashes before I leave the house for my dance class, not sure why since I’m about to break a sweat, but I want to feel pretty. After my therapy session, my homework is to look for opportunities to grow in areas that I’ve been scared to expand into, like making friends. Step outside my comfort zone—take chances. I’m not sure if it’s the new tattoo, but I’m choosing to embrace the seed of confidence that has sprouted lately—hence the mascara. It’s definitely not because Casper might show up. He suggested he would be here again, but after the workout he got last time, I doubt he’ll show his face.

I’m quickly proven wrong when I enter the studio and find him already sitting on the floor and stretching. My feet are glued to the floor while I stare at the image. What the hell is this guy doing? Casper looks up, meeting my eyes, and a smile splits across his face. He raises his arm, waving me over. “Duchess!” he yells, catching the attention of everyone in the room. The pink in my cheeks glows hot as I quickly traverse over to him, fearful he’ll make a bigger scene if I try to avoid him.

“That’s not my name,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a nickname.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s a pet name. ‘Annie’ is a nickname.”

He scoffs. “‘Annie’ is longer than ‘Anna,’ that makes no sense.”

“And ‘Duchess’ is better?” I say, wiggling out of my leggings to the shorts underneath.

Casper shrugs and leans back on his palms. “Same number of syllables.”

Does this guy take anything seriously? I sit on the floor next to him and bend forward to touch my toes and practice healthy breaths as my muscles extend, feeling looser after a day of sitting in front of my laptop.

“Again, I ask, what are you doing here?”

“Well, about that wedding . . .”

I laugh and shake my head.

“Oh, come on,” he says, stretching his neck side to side and tilting his chin toward the ceiling.

“Nobody else will go with you, huh?”

“I haven’t asked anybody else.”

An unfamiliar tingling sensation begins in my fingers, climbing up my arms where it spreads. Like warm sunshine trapped in my chest. It’s almost like anxiety . . . but with more excitement. It kind of reminds me of the days when Rhys used to make me go on roller coasters with him and we’d stand in line—What the fuck?

Are these fucking butterflies? Sure, Casper is attractive, but I’m not attracted to him. Right?

“Come on, Duchess . . . It’ll be fun. There’s usually cake at these things and everybody likes cake.”

I shake off the feeling and continue stretching. “I prefer pie.”

“Fine, I’ll make a pie, then.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You bake?”

He dons an arrogant grin. “Like Betty fucking Crocker.”

It gets a small chuckle out of me. “I should introduce you to my sister-in-law.”