Light-headedness? Nope. Nausea? Nope. Chest pain? Nope.

“Absolutely,” I told her, walking through the door she held open.

“I’ll see you in eight weeks, Beckett,” Dr. Callahan said, finally smiling. I smiled back, standing up as straight as possible.

I’m alive, damn it! Because I’m not ready to kick it just yet! I’ve got shit to do and places to see!

My running inner dialogue did the trick and I felt better as I walked to my car.

Chapter 2

Corin

“This is going to be great! This is going to be just what you need,” I murmured to myself, under my breath.

These pep talks had become as routine as everything else in my life.

I watched as people started going inside the church and continued to stand there with my hands shoved deep into my pockets, talking to myself like a lunatic.

“Smile, Corin.” I grinned at no one in particular, practicing being nonthreatening and likable.

I preferred to wait until everyone else was inside before making my entrance. The first group meeting was always difficult for me. I felt like an intruder. An imposter. Like I shouldn’t be there. I didn’t have a place.

It took me a bit to feel comfortable. Accepted.

But for now I would wait. Until just the right moment.

Eliminating the likelihood for small talk before the group actually started. I could slip in and take a seat without really having to talk to anyone.

“Are you here for the Mended Hearts group?”

I hadn’t heard him approach. I had been too busy talking to myself and doing internal fist bumps.

His voice was deep. Soothing. Like perfectly smooth honey.

And familiar.

I knew that voice.

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world…

“Uh…” my voice trailed off into nothing and I stood there—my hands in my pockets, my wool hat pulled down over my ears, frozen in place.

“Come on, I’ll walk in with you,” he urged, a hand on my arm. Pressure I could feel through layers of clothing. Fire on my skin.

“Are you all right?”

Wet knees, shallow breaths. Sweet, tempered words meant to calm me down.

“No. I need a minute,” I snapped. I sounded rude. Cold.

I couldn’t help it. Because I recognized that lovely, deep voice full of genuine sympathy and concern.

It was a voice I’d never forget.

My face flushed hot in the chilly air. Cheeks red with embarrassment.

He snatched his hand away and took a step back. I chanced a look up, finally. Seeing his face for the first time.

And then promptly wished I hadn’t.

He was cute. Boyish even. With light brown hair on the longish side that looked as though he never bothered to brush it and blue eyes that probably sparkled when he smiled.

He wasn’t smiling now. He was looking…perturbed.

“Okay then,” he snipped back and I couldn’t help but smile at his attitude.

He frowned, clearly thinking I had lost my mind. I probably had.

Please don’t recognize me…

“Do I know you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

My cheeks weren’t just hot now. They had become a class-four forest fire.

My one-time Good Samaritan opened his mouth but I ducked my head, breaking eye contact.

Go away…

“Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you in there,” he said after a beat and I sagged in relief. He didn’t remember me.

I didn’t want him to. That day on the sidewalk in the snow had been bad. But unfortunately since then the days had gotten so much worse. The panic attacks. The anxiety.

But he didn’t remember me.

That was good. Anonymity was important for me.

So why did I feel disappointment ring hollow in my gut?

—

After another ten minutes of silent and not-so-silent debating, I finally mustered up the courage to go inside.

Walking into the crowded room, I didn’t spend a lot of time looking at anyone in particular. Not letting myself look for him.

I took off my coat and hat and hung them on the hooks lining the wall. I rubbed my hands together, trying to warm them, and beelined to the snack table.

With slightly shaky hands I quickly poured myself a cup of tea into a Styrofoam cup and drank it in one gulp.

I hated coffee so I was glad for the weird herbal tea and honey instead. I promptly filled up my cup again. I then started to load up a plate with delicious-looking pastries. Whoever was in charge of the Mended Hearts group sure knew how to do refreshments.

Usually, at these sorts of shindigs, it was crappy Folgers blend and Walmart-brand chocolate chip cookies. I was in sucrose heaven. Even though I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, I liked to indulge on occasion.

Though I probably should be careful about the amount of sugar I ingest. Just the other day I had read an article about the hereditary predisposition to Type 2 diabetes. My hand froze in mid-reach.

I remembered my maternal grandmother being diagnosed in her later years and having to take insulin. She eventually suffered from a stroke as a result of complications from her illness.

I looked down at my junk-food-laden plate and lost my appetite. I quickly put the pastries back on the tray.

“I’m glad you finally made it inside.”

The uncomfortably close deep voice startled me. I looked up into pretty blue eyes I had been avoiding only fifteen minutes earlier.

I nodded, gripping my now-empty plate in my hands, my tongue suddenly thick and uncooperative in my mouth.

I could feel him staring at me. His eyes burrowing into my brain, looking for secrets.

“Not a Danish fan?” he asked after an increasingly awkward silence. Why was he still talking to me? My winning personality should have scared him off already.

“Uh, no. Diabetes,” I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. Ugh!

“Diabetes?” he asked, looking confused.

“Oh, you know, lots of sugar and genetic predispositions and all that,” I went on, figuring there was no way of saving this conversation, might as well just go with it.

The guy reached around me, grabbed a Danish, and dropped it on his own plate. He licked a glob of apple filling off his thumb as he looked at me in that same intense way he had outside.

Please oh please don’t remember me…

“Well, no genetic predispositions here. So I better enjoy it.” Was he teasing? Then he smiled, answering my unspoken question. He was most definitely teasing.

I gave him a weak one in return and turned away, angling my body so that I was shielded from his penetrating eyes.

The room was full and the murmur of voices became louder. I stirred my tea and wondered if I should go find a seat. If the cute guy thought I would engage in conversation, he was going to be disappointed. I was the murderer of chitchat. My mouth was where small talk went to die. I typically ended up sharing uncomfortably personal details about my chronic night sweats and irregular hair grown in unmentionable places.

And then the moment came that I had been dreading.

The moment of recognition. The moment when I perished from extreme and excruciating humiliation.

“I know you,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in his throat. It was husky and soft at the same time.

“No, you don’t,” I squeaked. Why couldn’t my voice be all suave and sexy-like instead of sounding like a mouse sucking down helium?