Page 4 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

I let my voice trail off, because it’s not comfortable putting it into words.

Our mother is impossibly beautiful. She was Miss Texas, for goodness sake. Maintaining her looks and her body has been her full time job. She has two professional trainers. Two. I’m exhausted just thinking about the number of squats that must mean.

And even though I inherited her innate fashion sense, I also got our father’s “big bones.” Which means, I’ve basically been on a diet since I was eight.

“Say no more.” Rory scowls. “I know what she’s like.

“I started the Comfortably_Curvy_Fashionista because I wanted something just for me, you know? I just needed something of my own. Something she couldn’t touch. Something I could feel good about. I wanted other women to feel better about their curves than she made me feel. And it worked.”

“Yeah, it did!”

“Maybe it worked a little too well. A couple of weeks ago, I was contacted by a representative from Swerve.”

“The clothing store for curvy women? I love their stuff!”

I nod. “They want the Comfortably Curvy Fashionista to be their brand ambassador.”

Rory sits up and bounces on the bed a bit. “Oh my God! That’s amazing.”

“I know.” I can’t keep the excitement from my voice as I rattle off the details of the offer. “I would get a salary. A production budget. Free clothes. I mean I’d do it for the clothes alone.”

“You’re going to do it right? Can you get me a discount? Never mind, that was tacky of me.”

I smile at my sister’s question, then blow out a breath. “The problem is, I’ll need to show my face. They think the Comfortably_Curvy_Fashionista is too aloof right now.”

“So? You’re beautiful, Ava. Even with your Oompa-loompa hair.”

“I talked to mom about it. Because you know how she’s always talking about how I need a career or I’ll never attract an ambitious husband.”

I roll my eyes.

Rory makes a gagging gesture. “I swear sometimes it’s like she was born in 1943. Or 1843. Yes, because you want to look like you have a career, but not actually have one you can’t sacrifice for your husband.”

“Exactly. So, I foolishly thought she’d be excited. Instead she freaked out. Like, really freaked out. I’ve never seen her this mad. She called me all kinds of unpleasant names. Said I was promoting an unhealthy lifestyle. I got the full treatment. What would my future husband think? What about the negative impact on his career or on dad’s career.”

Rory rolls her eyes. “She’s ridiculous. Dad’s retired. Not that that even matters.”

“I know. She said that I wasn’t being a good role model, I was being the opposite. Telling little fat girls everywhere that it’s okay to be unhealthy and blubbery because they finally have stores that sell fashionable clothes for big girls. She told me about how when she was a kid, big girls could only buy polyester clothes at stores where her grandmother shopped. Everything was boxy and ugly, but it made younger girls want to work for a body that was fashionable. Now there’s no incentive.”

“She is the worst. Seriously. Forget everything she said. You’re here now. And we should go have fun somewhere. Celebrate your new fancy career.”

chapterthree

Remy

It doesn’t take me long to get my first lead on where to find the colonel’s daughter. One of the perks of Saddle Creek being a small town. A few precise questions posted on the town’s gossip message board, theSaddle Peek, and I got several responses that a girl meeting her description was seen dancing the night away at Ace’s.

This time of night Ace’s—though not technically a bar—is more bar-like with the darkened atmosphere, busy dance floor and flowing drinks.

I'm expecting to have to check every booth, table and stool in the room, but as soon as I walk in I'm distracted by curves moving out on the dance floor. Thick thighs encased in jeans. A juicy, plump ass that only accents her narrow waist. And big tits. She's like a walking wet dream. No, in her case she’s a dancing wet dream.

Not to mention she has green hair. Not the, oh, I think her hair might be kinda green from the tint of lights above the dance floor. No. Her hair is like St. Patrick's Day green. It's fucking green.

I have to remind myself, I'm not here to hook up with a super hot chick on the dance floor with bright green hair. I'm here to find the colonel’s daughter, and judging from the picture that Wade sent me, that's not her. The colonel’s daughter, while also thick and curvy, is plain and unassuming. Certainly not the kind of woman that would be in the middle of the dance floor. Wiggling her ass and fluffing her bright green hair.

So I grab a stool at the bar, one where I can see the rest of the place, and I order a beer. I watch the woman on the dance floor, because I can't not watch her. But I keep my eyes peeled for another other women resembling the girl I’m here to find. Maybe she's in the bathroom, or maybe she's already left for the night. In which case I'll have to find her tomorrow.

One of the younger guys in town that I know—he’s probably nearly a decade younger than my thirty years—walk up to the bombshell on the dance floor. He’s got a glass of what looks like iced water and he holds it out to her.

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