Page 68 of Cajuns. Love. Curves.

“Will you speak French to me, like you used to do when you tutored me? I think that would help relax me?”

His request startles me. “What do you want me to say?”

“Anything. I don’t care.”

Of course he doesn’t care. Why would he? It’s not like those experiences are etched into his soul. Not the way they are in mine.

So I blow out a breath of frustration and try to think of something to say.

It smells nice in here. But it’s not the incense or oil diffuser that I’m scenting. It’s him. Wade smells good. I try to inhale without being too noticeable. BecauseI've got my hands on Wade Guidry, which frankly is making my inner teenager squeal with delight. Okay the adult me is enjoying it as well. Because he feels good to touch. His muscles are hard and thick.

All things I am, as his physical therapist, not supposed to notice.

Finally, I say the first French phrase that pops into my mind, “Où sont les toilettes?”

Where is the bathroom?

Behold my wit! Cower before my flirty repartee!

At least Wade doesn’t respond, not even with laughter. Which I figure means he doesn’t know what I said. After all, he sucked at French in high school and I have no reason to think he’s any better at it now.

Still, I stifle a groan of embarrassment and try to remember my semester abroad in Marseille.

“J'arrive pas à trouver mes chaussettes.”

Okay.I can’t find my socks.That is … marginally better. Maybe?

I remember the cheesy pickup lines one of the guys in my class used to try out on us. “J'adore la couleur de tes yeux.”

I love the color of your eyes.

It might be just a cheesy pickup line, but Wade does have beautiful eyes. All the Guidrys have green eyes, but his are so clear. The one part of him that has ever seemed vulnerable. I could have spent hours staring into his eyes.

“Tu te souviens quand on était en Français ensemble et je t'aidais?”

Remember when we were in French class together and I had to help you?

The question surprises me, even though I’m the one asking it. Because suddenly this isn’t random phrases. It’s a confession.

Because these things are things I need to say out loud. And since he doesn’t know what I’m saying, I keep talking.

“J'étais folle de toi,”I admit. I had the biggest crush on you.

I hold my breath. Because if he does somehow magically know French now, surely he’d say something. He doesn’t.

I blow out a breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Tu m'as brisé le Coeur”You broke my heart.

Why does that feel like the hardest thing I’ve ever said out loud?

Why does that admission feel bigger even than when I told Mitch I wanted a divorce?

It shouldn’t. They’re just words. Admitting out loud what the entire town probably already knows shouldn’t be a big deal.

It isn’t a big deal.

Except that I was a different person, long ago, on that fateful day I put my heart on the line, and he handed it back to me in shards. I’m tougher. I’ve lived. I’ve had my heart broken again. I’ve developed emotional calluses that would make even my bitter, bitchy mother proud.

But here, in this dimly lit room, with the muscles of a hardened warrior relaxing beneath my hands, I feel exposed and vulnerable in a way I haven’t in years.

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