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“What is it?” I ask cautiously.

I know this look. I’ve seen this look many times.

And nothing good ever comes from this look. Well. Nothing safe.

This is the look Hilde gets right before she suggests something that will either be outrageously fun or end with me questioning every decision that’s led me to this exact moment.

Usually both.

“You’ll see.” She checks her watch, then jumps to her feet. “But we’d better hurry, or we’ll be late.”

Without allowing me another chance to ask for more details, she tugs me out of the coffee shop and toward whatever brilliant plan she just cooked up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

WYNTER

“A pole dance class?” I stare at Hilde in disbelief when she pulls her rental SUV to a stop in front of a large warehouse building a few blocks from downtown.

“Exactly,” she responds, unbothered. As if she didn’t just suggest we spend the morning voluntarily grinding against a metal pole in front of strangers.

Well, strangers to her.

Some of these people might recognize me.

After all, I used to spend nearly every day in this very building until I left for college. This is where I learned how to plié, pirouette, and arabesque. Where I spent hours practicing the same combination over and over until it became instinct.

Some of my happiest memories happened inside these walls.

But what will people think if they see me grinding against a pole?

“I noticed it when I drove past yesterday,” Hilde explains. “I thought it would be fun.”

“I’m not sure we can just walk in without signing up first.”

“Look.” She points at the chalkboard sign sitting beside the entrance. “Walk-ins welcome!” she reads. “That’s us. We’re walk-ins. So we’ll be welcome.”

“I’m not dressed for any sort of dance class, let alone a pole dance class.” I gesture at my sweater, jeans, and sneakers. “Neither are you.”

“Give me more credit than that. What do you think is in the bag?” She grabs a large duffel from the back seat.

“With you, I’ve learned it’s better not to ask too many questions.”

“Exactly. So let’s go pole dance.” She opens the car door and steps outside.

“You planned this, didn’t you?” I ask as I walk around the car to meet her.

“Of course! In my defense, I thought rubbing against a pole might make you want to rub up against a different pole later. But seeing as you’ve already done that, and eight or nine times at that, today can help you build up your stamina. Gotta keep up with that younger man.” She tugs me inside the building before I can protest further.

The moment I cross the threshold, I’m overcome with a sense of nostalgia.

The lobby doesn’t look like it did the last time I was here. The walls have a fresh coat of paint, and the benches lining the hallway for parents to watch their kids’ dance classes are newer.

But the same smell clings to the air.

Rosin. Leather. Sweat.

I inhale deeply, and for a split second, I feel like I’m thirteen again.