Page 70 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

“Just a minute,” she hollers. Then she opens the door and gasps when her pretty, brown eyes land on me. “Wade, what are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” I say.

She nods. “Sure. Come on in.” She moves out of the doorway and gives me an opening to step into her house.

Again, I try, and fail, to not stare at her curvy ass as she walks in front of me. Today she’s wearing a pair of shorts that mold to her body, kinda like biking shorts, only they’re not that shiny fabric. Her t-shirt is worn and boasts the name of UT Southwestern in Dallas, where I know she earned her Ph.D in Physical Therapy. Yeah, I looked her up after that first appointment. She has accolades as long as my arm, three degrees and owns her own PT clinic. I knew back in high school that Kelli Foster was going to go far in life. I knew she was better than the likes of me. But even I didn’t give her enough credit.

I take in her living room as she leads me inside. Her house is—well—I mean it's not dirty, but it is cluttered. The sight of the piled stacks of mail and cans and boxes of groceries that haven’t quite made it into the pantry yet makes me smile. But the knick-knacks on nearly every surface are what really do it. Framed pictures, small and goofy figurines, and colorful stacks of sticky notes are what really pull my grin wide. Because this is exactly what I remember her locker in high school looking like.

It was below mine and to the right and always covered in stickers and cut out pictures from magazines, and sticky notes were everywhere.

She frowns. “What? What are you laughing at? I know I’m not a great housekeeper. I keep meaning to hire someone, but I haven’t had the time.”

“You don’t owe me an apology and I wasn’t judging. I was merely recognizing that your house looks like your locker did in high school.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. Her frown deepens. “That's a weird thing to say. I don’t know if I should say thank you or be insulted.”

“Don’t be insulted. It's nice to know that some things don't change.”

“Okay,” she says, but her frown is still tight. “Have a seat.”

She says it in a tone that implies even the most basic hospitality costs her.

She clearly doesn’t want me in her house. Can’t say I blame her.

I broke her heart when we younger and humiliated her in front of the entire town. I’m not arrogant enough to think what she felt for me was truly love, but I know my actions hurt her. Then I come back all these years later and jizz all over her? Not exactly the coolest moves. I can’t blame her for being annoyed.

She motions to her oversized blue sofa sitting under the windows. After I lower myself down right in the middle of the couch, she sits awkwardly across the room on an ottoman in front of a chair.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asks, her tone implying she’d rather boil me in oil than pour me a drink.

“No, I'm good. Listen, about the other day. I know that's why you pushed me off on this other therapist.” My jaw ticks as I search her face for any gauge of her emotion. “I'm sorry. I'm so damn sorry, Kelli. I never meant to make you feel uncomfortable. And I sure as fuck didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“No, no, don’t,” she says with a shake of her head. Her brown hair is pulled up in a messy bun and all I want to do is bury my fingers in it and see if it’s as soft as it looks. “Don't apologize.” She takes a shaky breath. Her posture is stiff, her expression annoyed. So much so that I think she’s not going to say anything else. Then, she blurts, “The truth is, I knew it was affecting you and I pushed it.”

Now she’s got my complete attention and fuck me if my dick isn’t hard again. He’s like Pavlov’s dog around this woman. She speaks and he comes to attention.

“I shouldn't have done that,” she continues. “I had already worked out the muscle spasm and I should have taken my hands off of you and stepped away.” Her gaze meets mine defiantly. “But I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you take your hands off of me?”

Her nostrils flair slightly. “Mostly because I liked touching you. I liked the way your skin felt beneath my palms.”

My breath catches. Because, holy shit.

“What do you think we should do about it?” I ask.

“Honestly, I know what I want to do about it,” she says.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I say. “And why I came here. I wanted to talk. To apologize and maybe explain.” I rub at the scruff on my chin. “Though in all honestly, I don’t even know how to explain that since it’s never happened to me before.”

“The massage or the spontaneous ejaculation?” she asks.

I chuckle. “The latter. I’ve had massages. Hell, that was a huge part of my initial therapy. The pain is bad. The phantom pains, but other ones too and the massages help. I never even so much as pulled wood.”

“All your previous therapists were big, hairy men?”

“Some, but not all. No, that reaction was definitely all you. And I’ll work with this other therapist if that’s what you need me to do. Even though you’re the best and I’m pretty sure I deserve the best.”

---