Page 22 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

Also, I have to ask. What’s with the email address? I get the frogman part. But “52”? Did you just pick a random number? If you’re anything like my brothers, you probably tried multiple variations of “FrogmenHaveBigDicks.”

Until next time,

Cassie

Despite myself, I chuckle when I get to her line about “FrogmenHaveBigDicks.”

Remy glances up from his phone, a question in his gaze.

I close the file I keep her emails in and shrug. “The Onion,” I say to explain my chuckle.

He nods, then glances to the door, then breaks into a grin and stands.

My damn heart catches in my chest.

I haven’t even seen her yet, but I know his smile means she’s just walked in. My heart is fucking pounding like my tank is low on oxygen and I’m on my last breath of O2, just knowing she’s in the room.

It takes every ounce of control I have to focus on my phone a little longer—because I don’t want to seem as pathetically desperate as I feel—before slowly standing and sliding my phone into my back pocket.

Only then do I let my gaze travel to the woman who’s just walked in the door.

Like I said, I’ve seen pictures. I’ve seen the professionally taken portrait on her law firm’s website. I’ve seen posed, well-lit, filtered shots on her Instagram page. I’ve seen the temporary stories she puts up, hair in a ponytail, sweaty from running a 5K. I was in the room when she FaceTimed with Remy about Wade’s accident, when she’d been crying all night and her eyes were puffy, her skin red and splotchy.

I’ve seen a hundred versions of her and imagined a thousand more. And I’m still not prepared for that first, in person sight of her. She’s tall and lean, too inherently energetic to be graceful. Heart-shaped face, brown hair shot through with reddish highlights, mouth just a little too large. She’s stunning and perfect.

I know the second I see her, that even though I tried to prepare for the worst, I’m in trouble here.

If the worst happens, if she refuses to even give me a chance, then I am well and truly fucked.

chaptereleven

Cassie

I spent most of my childhood in Saddle Creek, Texas, a small and ostensibly charming town a few hours west of Austin and north of San Antonio.

Saddle Creek has rolling hills, sprawling live oaks, plenty of ranches, and the occasional free-roaming baby goat.

With its three-story, limestone county courthouse and classic town square, it looks like the set of a rom com written by Nancy Myers with set design by Martha Stewart.

It is, undoubtedly, the perfect location for tourists wanting to escape the big city life of San Antonio and Austin.

It’s great if you want to spend the occasional weekend listening to live music and sipping wine from one of the local vineyards.

It was not, however, the perfect place to grow up. And, yeah, I get it. Nowhere is the perfect place to be a nerdy, awkward thirteen-year-old who’s six inches taller than all of her classmates and has two very scary older brothers to boot. Still, you can’t blame me for getting out as soon as I could.

Incidentally, it is also not the best place to come home to nurse a broken heart after your boyfriend (who happens to be a junior partner at the law firm where you both work) breaks up with you because he got a paralegal pregnant.

I’m sure that all small towns have gossip. And some big towns too, for that matter. But Saddle Creek has it down to an art. There’s even a town message board devoted to gossip, the aptly named Saddle Peek.

Get it? Peek? Because every person you meet is snooping around in your business. Yeah, that kind of peek.

If it wouldn’t cost me my law license, I’d like to shiv who ever started that damn message board.

The gossip dished out in the Saddle Peek is just as tangy as the locally made artisanal goat cheese and—when you’re not the subject of it—as enticing as the Cabernet from the local vineyard. But it’s definitely not aged as long.

Given that the entire town knows my boyfriend broke up with me three months ago, is it any wonder that when I come back to town for a single day to see my brother Remy while he’s on leave, I don’t want to go to Gators, the restaurant my family owns?

First off, I don’t think I could stand the pitying looks from all the people who’ve known me since I was in pigtails. Second, I don’t want to risk running into Roe Crawford, the local bad boy I had a crush on when I was in high school. Rumor has it—thank you, Saddle Peek—he’s happily married now. Good for him. I just don’t want it to look like I’m fishing around, especially since all the Crawfords are looking for brides.

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