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Anna

Stop it. I have an appointment with you tomorrow for the cover-up piece.

Oh THAT Anna. Hey bestie.

Anna

I apologize for the late night message, but you gave your number in case I had any questions.

Are you canceling over text? So impersonal. I thought we were friends.

Anna

I’m “committed to the appointment”

Oh, so this is a social text?

Anna

I didn’t get a chance to ask about the dress code. Do I have to take my shirt completely off?

No. Bring a zip-up hoodie with you. You can change here and wear it backward, that way your front and arms are still covered.

She doesn’t respond.

On a scale from one to ten, mildly nervous to faking your own death, where are you at?

Anna

Respectful seven.

Look, all you have to do is show up and I’ll handle the rest. I’ll even throw in some free snacks.

Anna

Snacks are persuasive.

Good. Now get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.

Anna

Night.

A good-night text? I’m so fucking in.

I do a few toe lifts in the lobby while waiting for Casper. It’s finally happening—I’m covering it. I’ll be able to wear a swimsuit again . . . attend dance class in one of those cute athletic tops like the other girls wear . . . feel the cool caress of air on my back while jogging. Three years of hiding my skin. I resist picking at my pink nail polish. I’m so anxious to see what Casper designed; I told him what I wanted it to represent.

He’s easy to spot when he stands, even at a distance. He towers above me at well over six feet. The man looks like trouble—at best. He’s lean, yet imposing with dark cropped hair that only sharpens his jawline and cheekbones. In the right light, his chestnut eyes appear amber, and they hold that mischievous, half-amused confidence of someone who’s aware of exactly what effect they have on others. He’s hot and he knows it.

His extensive tattoos add to his good looks while simultaneously making him appear more dangerous—I should schedule an extra therapy appointment this week. Casper is the kind of attractive that you find in unexpected places. Too rough to be called pretty, but he has a gorgeous smile. It’s the kind of bad-decision handsome that makes you do a double take. If it weren’t for his weird personality and golden retriever energy, I’d probably be intimidated by him. He’s a wild card.

I tuck my hands into the stretched cuffs of my sweatshirt as he strides toward me.

“Ready?”

I nod and follow him back to his station.

“Take a seat.”