Page 64 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

Why the fuck would I be nervous? I roll my eyes at my mother’s unnecessary drama. “No reason to be. It’s true that every therapist has their own unique style, but it only takes a session or two to get used to.”

My mother clears her throat. “Of course. Come by the restaurant if you’re hungry on your way home. Or I can keep dropping by your apartment with food.”

“I’d rather you just bring something by,” I say.

She exhales slowly. “You can’t hide forever, baby.”

“Not hiding, just don’t need everyone’s pity. And I sure as fuck don’t need a parade which is the other option.”

“Wade Jefferson Guidry, I know you’re hurting, but you will not swear like that at me again, do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry, Mama.”

“I’ll see you later when I bring you some food.” Then she hangs up.

I blow out a breath. Excellent. My mother is as close to a saint as you can find walking the Earth for all the patience she has dealing with me and my brother, Remy, not to mention, my mouthy sister, Cassie. I suppose she knew what she was getting into when she married my dad though. He’s the craziest one of us all and obviously the reason we are the way we are. But Lord, how he treats that woman like she walks on water.

My phone beeps with the alert for me to go inside for my PT appointment. I grab my water bottle and open the door. Begrudgingly, I take the cane at the last minute. I don’t use it often, but sometimes when my body is tired, I still need it. As much as I hate to admit that.

I’m not used to weakness. I’m a big motherfucker. I lack only an inch and a half to be six and a half feet tall and I’m thick and broad. My brother, Remy, who is also a SEAL, is tall and muscular, but his body is carefully honed from hours of training. Whereas I’m just big like a fucking beast.

Even right after I lost my leg, they had to sedate me to keep me from doing arm exercises in the bed. I didn’t want to lose an ounce of muscle in my upper body. The therapist assigned to me in the naval hospital kept wanting me to talk about my “obvious fear of losing control.” Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.

SEALs aren’t known for their laid-back personalities. So, a therapist telling me I have control issues is not exactly a revelation. Despite feeling like a cliché, I’m heading back in for as much physical therapy as I can get.

The bell rings over the door of Healing Hands Physical Therapy as I step inside.

“Be with you in just a minute,” a woman’s voice calls from the back. “Sorry. My receptionist had to leave early today.”

I lower myself onto one of the padded benches. I intentionally made my appointment for later in the afternoon, hoping it would be the last one of the day. I didn’t want any extra eyes on me while I was being assessed. Saddle Creek, like small towns everywhere, has a lot of eyes.

“Sorry about that, can I help you?”

I look up and my breath stills as I see the woman for the first time. Everything stills when I see her. It’s like the molecules around us freeze. Except I see her throat bob as she swallows.

I use all the strength of my right leg to pull myself to a standing position. “Kelli?” I ask. “Kelli Foster?”

I could swear a flash of anger burns through her eyes, but then it's gone and in its place is a placating smile. All perfectly nice, fake sweetness.

“Yes, that's me. How can I help you?”

I just stare at her because does she think she's going to pretend to not remember me? “I have an appointment.” I pause, waiting for her to acknowledge our history. When she still maintains a look of blank disinterest, I fill in the gap. “I'm Wade Guidry.”

“Oh yeah. Yes, of course. Come on back. Let's go ahead and get started on your assessment.”

So yes, she's going to pretend like we don't actually know each other. For four solid months, she tutored me twice a week. We spent countless hours together. Until I realized she’d caught feelings. Until I realized I might have too. That’s when I fucked everything up.

I try—and fail—to not stare at her ass while I follow behind her. It's plump and curvy, and accents the way her waist indents and her hips flare. She's wearing black work leggings or work yoga pants. I don't know what you'd call them. But they're simultaneously dressy-looking and stretchy. She’s paired them with a white golf shirt, the logo of the facility, embroidered on the pocket.

“So, what do you do here?” I ask.

“This is my clinic. I'm the lead therapist here. I have one other who works in the morning, Tamera, and one who works in the afternoon, Derek. We're a small clinic but we do what we can to fill the need for the Saddle Creek community.”

The fact that she’s my new physical therapist? Well, that’s just proof that God has a sense of humor.

She leads me to one of the taller tables and has me sit, and then she gets a clipboard with paperwork on it and has me fill that out while she buzzes around the room.

It's a large room with various tables and equipment and exercise bikes and treadmills and elastic bands hanging from stuff. Different kinds of yoga bricks and hula hoops even; just all kinds of things. Physical therapists have to be kind of creative when it comes to creating exercises to heal and rehabilitate certain muscles and tendons. So, they use all kinds of tricks and tools.

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