wrong thing to say. “Of course you’re a professional.” He nudged his way inside and shut the door behind him, then kicked aside a pile of dirty clothes. “Honey, I tasted your coffee cake. It was so good, I had to take a cold shower when I was done.”
That earned a weak smile. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the foot of the bed. She plopped down, and when he lowered himself beside her, she leaned her soggy head on his shoulder. Marc didn’t mind. He wanted to make her feel better, and besides, she smelled like warm vanilla sugar.
“Who told you?” Allie asked.
“Ella-Claire. She’s worried you hexed the chef.”
She sat up and faced him, her red-rimmed eyes softening in hurt. “Really?”
The look on her face sent an unexpected shock of pain through Marc, especially when he realized he’d contributed to the problem. Until now, he’d never put himself in Allie’s shoes, never imagined how she might feel each time he crossed to the other side of the street when she walked by. He’d been an idiot to assume Allie was some unshakable force of nature. She bled like everyone else. How had he never seen it before?
“I’m sorry, hon,” he said, pulling her close again. “Ella didn’t mean anything by it.”
Allie got quiet for a while, punctuating the silence with an occasional sniffle. When she finally spoke again, her voice sounded so small it tugged a knot in Marc’s chest. “Do you believe that?” she asked. “That I curse people?”
“No, not really,” he said. “But I’m not going to lie. I used to.”
“Is that why you dumped me after junior prom?”
Junior prom
. The memory brought an instant smile to Marc’s lips, mostly out of embarrassment for his seventeen-year-old self. Talk about a blow to his ego.
He’d been so nervous that night he’d sweated through two dress shirts before he left to pick up Allie for the dance. Pawpaw had him half believing the devil would spring from the punch bowl and drag Marc straight to hell. His hands had trembled so hard Allie’d had to pin on her own corsage; his knees had knocked together so violently he could barely dance with her. It was a miracle he’d worked up the nerve to kiss her at the end of the night. Not his best performance, either—barely more than a shaky peck. She probably thought he was a lousy kisser, which he wasn’t, thank you very much.
“Yes and no,” he said with a chuckle.
She slid him a glare. “It’s not funny.” But one corner of her pink lips twitched in a grin. “I skipped a trip to the beach with my sister that weekend so I could stay home and wait by the phone.”
Marc sucked a breath through his teeth. “And I never called.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, then added, “
ever
again.”
“I’m sorry, hon.” He dropped a quick kiss atop her head. “It wasn’t anything you did. I was telling the truth that night when I said I wanted to take you out again.”
“So what changed?”
He’d changed. More specifically, the skin all over his happy place. “The next day something happened that made me think the curse was real. I woke up with, uh . . .” Was there a delicate way to say
blisters all over my johnson
? “Well, an outbreak.”
She glanced up at him with a question in her eyes.
“On my manhood,” he clarified.
Allie gasped and gave him a playful shove. “And you thought that was my fault?”
Marc shrugged. “Daddy and Pawpaw kept telling me sex with a Mauvais woman would make my junk fall off, so . . .” He trailed off because the rest seemed obvious to him.
“But a rash could mean a dozen different things,” Allie said, ticking items off on her fingers. “A reaction to your laundry detergent, a new soap, a food allergy, or—if that rumor about you and the cheer squad is true—a social disease.”
“No way.” Marc held up one hand in oath. “I’ve never gone bareback in my life, and I get tested on the regular. I’m cleaner than a
That earned a weak smile. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her to the foot of the bed. She plopped down, and when he lowered himself beside her, she leaned her soggy head on his shoulder. Marc didn’t mind. He wanted to make her feel better, and besides, she smelled like warm vanilla sugar.
“Who told you?” Allie asked.
“Ella-Claire. She’s worried you hexed the chef.”
She sat up and faced him, her red-rimmed eyes softening in hurt. “Really?”
The look on her face sent an unexpected shock of pain through Marc, especially when he realized he’d contributed to the problem. Until now, he’d never put himself in Allie’s shoes, never imagined how she might feel each time he crossed to the other side of the street when she walked by. He’d been an idiot to assume Allie was some unshakable force of nature. She bled like everyone else. How had he never seen it before?
“I’m sorry, hon,” he said, pulling her close again. “Ella didn’t mean anything by it.”
Allie got quiet for a while, punctuating the silence with an occasional sniffle. When she finally spoke again, her voice sounded so small it tugged a knot in Marc’s chest. “Do you believe that?” she asked. “That I curse people?”
“No, not really,” he said. “But I’m not going to lie. I used to.”
“Is that why you dumped me after junior prom?”
Junior prom
. The memory brought an instant smile to Marc’s lips, mostly out of embarrassment for his seventeen-year-old self. Talk about a blow to his ego.
He’d been so nervous that night he’d sweated through two dress shirts before he left to pick up Allie for the dance. Pawpaw had him half believing the devil would spring from the punch bowl and drag Marc straight to hell. His hands had trembled so hard Allie’d had to pin on her own corsage; his knees had knocked together so violently he could barely dance with her. It was a miracle he’d worked up the nerve to kiss her at the end of the night. Not his best performance, either—barely more than a shaky peck. She probably thought he was a lousy kisser, which he wasn’t, thank you very much.
“Yes and no,” he said with a chuckle.
She slid him a glare. “It’s not funny.” But one corner of her pink lips twitched in a grin. “I skipped a trip to the beach with my sister that weekend so I could stay home and wait by the phone.”
Marc sucked a breath through his teeth. “And I never called.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, then added, “
ever
again.”
“I’m sorry, hon.” He dropped a quick kiss atop her head. “It wasn’t anything you did. I was telling the truth that night when I said I wanted to take you out again.”
“So what changed?”
He’d changed. More specifically, the skin all over his happy place. “The next day something happened that made me think the curse was real. I woke up with, uh . . .” Was there a delicate way to say
blisters all over my johnson
? “Well, an outbreak.”
She glanced up at him with a question in her eyes.
“On my manhood,” he clarified.
Allie gasped and gave him a playful shove. “And you thought that was my fault?”
Marc shrugged. “Daddy and Pawpaw kept telling me sex with a Mauvais woman would make my junk fall off, so . . .” He trailed off because the rest seemed obvious to him.
“But a rash could mean a dozen different things,” Allie said, ticking items off on her fingers. “A reaction to your laundry detergent, a new soap, a food allergy, or—if that rumor about you and the cheer squad is true—a social disease.”
“No way.” Marc held up one hand in oath. “I’ve never gone bareback in my life, and I get tested on the regular. I’m cleaner than a
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