Group sessions, especially with a new arrival, tend to become emotional battlegrounds. Everyone feels as if they’re suffering more than the person beside them. So, instead of intervening, I let them hash it out.

“Tori,” Belinda says meekly. “My four-year-old son drowned in our pool last summer.”

Tori’s rigid frame breaks and her shoulders sulk. Heavy breaths burst from her as she fights desperately to keep her tears at bay.

Belinda continues with a resigned expression to get her story out. “I was angry, just like you. My gut reaction was to blame my husband since he was watching him. My anger ruined our marriage and we’re now separated. Depression has clawed at my brain for months now but finally, my doctor prescribed some medicine and therapy. Max isn’t coming back. I know this now. My sweet baby is with Jesus.”

An anguished sob rips from Tori and she jerks to her feet. On unstable legs she wobbles toward the exit, no longer the confident bitch who strode in here not long ago, and pushes through the now closed door. I stand and follow after her. With a wave of my hand toward Belinda, I urge her to keep talking while I make sure Tori’s okay.

I push through the door in time to see her slip into the women’s restroom. With a sigh, I open the door before it closes all the way and find her at the sink dabbing a paper towel at her eyes.

“Leave me alone,” she snaps, her tears quickly drying.

I ignore her wishes and stalk over to her. “Nope.”

Twirling around to face me, she shoots me a murderous glare. “This is ridiculous. I don’t belong here—”

Her words are cut short when I grab onto her surprisingly firm biceps and haul her to me. My arms snake around her back and I hug her tight. She’s frozen at first and I fear she might push me away. Slap me even. But when she breaks down in my arms, my heart opens up to her. I want to help this broken woman who hides behind her fire and ice.

“Shhh,” I coo and stroke the soft material that covers her back. “It’s okay to cry.”

She relaxes in my arms and rests her cheek against my chest. In her heels, she’s not much shorter than I am. I inhale her scent again and decide I very much like whatever perfume she wears. When her sobs become hiccups and sniffles, I pull away to look at her.

The woman I first met is gone. I’m now staring at this vulnerable shell of a woman with tearstained cheeks and desperate eyes. Desperate for connection. My chest squeezes with mutual respect and understanding. Cort always wonders why I can’t settle on a girlfriend. After enough vapid complaining of chipped nail polish or which Kardashian is getting a divorce next, I always grow tired of the lack of emotional connection. Those women haven’t suffered a great loss like I have. While they’re bitching about things that don’t even matter, my heart aches for things that do. And now, as I stare at this beautiful, mourning angel, I understand this very clearly.

I’m drawn to Tori Larkin, with her pit-bull exterior and fragile, fragmented interior that she so fiercely protects. As if on cue, I watch her walls click and lock into place while she chases her moment of weakness away.

She’s not getting off that easy.

“You know what you need?” I say with a quirked brow.

Her fingers push against my chest and she staggers away from me. Straitening her back, she wipes the last of her tears away and scrunches her brows at me. “What?”

“A depression dog.”

She frowns and shakes her head. “I don’t do animals. Or people for that matter. Now please, do me a favor and mark my attendance so I can make my boss happy, but I’d really prefer to leave if it’s okay with you.”

I chuckle. “I wasn’t talking about a puppy. I was talking about food. I’ll let you leave, but you have to have dinner with me. Have you never eaten a depression dog?”

When she frowns at me, I laugh. “Tori, you’re missing out. A Chicago-style hot dog. Mustard, tomatoes, relish…pickle? Come on, woman. Have you no local culture?”

“I don’t eat hot dogs,” she groans. “And, I’m quite cultured, I can assure you.”

“Well,” I say, tossing her a smug grin, “too bad. I’m hungry and you want to leave. Let’s kill two birds with one stone and make the both of us happy.”

She grimaces as if the word sours her stomach. “I don’t do happy.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I pin her with a firm stare and seize her wrist with my hand. “Well, Tori, its high passed time that you do. Let’s go eat. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Chase sticks his head back into the room and excuses us, his warm hand still enveloping mine, causing little tingles where our skin is pressed together. Then he practically drags me out of the building and down the sidewalk in front of the downtown community center. We cross under the L and stop at a small hot dog vendor at the edge of Grant Park. Irritation is giving way to full-blown anger again as the wind off the lake begins to whip my hair around. I try desperately to smooth it back into place, but I know it’s no use. I even used that extra layer of hairspray I’d forgotten a few days ago.

Chase orders two dogs with the works and I wrinkle my nose at the mess wrapped in foil the vendor hands over. He gives the guy money and I tamp down my instinct to not let anyone do anything for me. If he’s going to force me to eat that, he can damn well pay for it. Jackass.

His arm loops through mine, applying pressure to keep ahold of me when I try to pull away and walks us over to the big, exquisite fountain, with the wide rim used like a park bench by the pedestrians milling around. He sits and tugs me down next to him, passing me one of the dogs. I unwrap it gingerly, as though any minute it’s going to jump out and bite me.

“Come on, Tori. Just give it a chance. It’ll melt some of your worries away. I promise.” His chocolate brown eyes take on the look of a puppy dog, the stylish, black-rimmed glasses framing them. I fight back a small smile, determined not to let him get to me.

“Fine.” I sigh long and loud, then bring the treat to my lips and inhale the savory smell of the beef. Holy hell. I’d forgotten how that scent alone could make my mouth water. Taking a bite, I suppress another sigh of bliss, but I’m not able to keep myself from closing my eyes and reveling in the taste of my childhood.

When I was young, my father would pull me out of school a couple of times a year and bring me to the city. We’d ride the metro from the suburbs and spend the day exploring. Just us. Sometimes, we visited a museum or went to a musical, the zoo, Navy Pier, all of the places a tourist should hit and many of which natives never take the time to enjoy. They are some of my most treasured memories, and I know it would have been the same for Ben and Sarah. That thought brings my reverie to a screeching halt.

My eyes open and I glance over to see Chase staring at me, his mouth slightly ajar, and an odd look on his beautiful face. And, damn, this guy is fucking gorgeous. When I first spied him upon my entrance to group, I was struck speechless for a moment. My stomach clenching at the god sitting in a stupid, plastic chair. When I could think again, I stalked over to sit by him, figuring he was in the same boat as me, attending under duress. His dark brown hair flopped over his forehead a little messy in a way that said he was constantly running his fingers through it. His glasses, somewhere between preppy and nerd, were perched on his straight nose, accentuating his high cheek bones, full lips, and velvety brown eyes, with dark lashes that I completely coveted. As if that stunning face wasn’t enough, he wore a blue, long sleeve, Henley thermal, with the top two buttons undone, exposing the cords of his neck—since when is a neck sexy?—and the fabric tugging slightly over his defined chest and arms. His long, jean-clad legs extended out far in front of him, his height making a mockery of the small, tan chair.