I stared at my best friend, who was not known to mince words. But she also was not one to dole out that kind of truth. Not all in one go, at least. Throughout the duration we’d been friends, she had tried to chip away at my warped self-image, trying to make me believe in myself more.

And I had done a bunch of work on myself too. Work I was very proud of. But I was still weird, fucked-up, anxious and a result of the traumas of my past. No matter how much work I did, I’d always be a little eccentric and a lot anxious. I was okay with that. Or at least, I’d accepted that.

I opened my mouth to argue about one of the many things she’d said, especially the part about Rowan wanting something from me. In my own narrative, that made absolutely no sense. He was a strong, insanely handsome man who should not be interested in me.

But I wasn’t completely blinded by my own neurosis. And I did remember the way he’d looked at me. The way he spoke to me. What he’d said before he walked out… Yes, he did want me. For whatever reason.

“It’s scary,” I admitted reluctantly.

Fiona nodded, her eyes soft. “It should be.”

“Can we maybe take a break from talking about all of this and just listen to Stevie, watch the sun set and get a little tipsy?” I asked hopefully.

Fiona grinned. “Fuck yes, we can.” She held her glass up to me. “Only if we toast to you letting yourself feel happy that you’ve got a hot hunk of alpha out there doing shit for you because you’re a hot piece of ass.”

I sighed dramatically but held my glass up. Of course, she had to add that in there.

“To you,” she said as crystal clinked together.

“To me.”

* * *

Luckily, our conversation got lighter and veered away from childhood trauma and Fiona trying to change what I saw in the mirror. There was only so much a girl could take. Especially a not so mildly neurotic anxious mess such as me.

The wine helped. And the warm, comforting presence of my best friend.

I was almost back to normal when there was a booming knock on my door.

Okay, it was most probably a regular knock, but considering I had a really good idea of who was knocking on the door, it boomed. Through my head, at least.

I jumped at the sound, some of the wine escaping from my glass as I put it down much harder than I needed to. I absently used the sleeve of my shirt to wipe the small amber puddle away.

“He’s here,” I whispered, standing quickly, staring down the hall in the direction of my front door.

Fiona stood too, but much more gracefully and without the look of terror I assumed was on my own face.