“Me, too,” he whispered back.
For now, that was enough. No explanations necessary.
“Do you want to tell me what you mean about proving you weren’t pitiful?” Luc asked then.
“The last time I saw you, you told me I was pitiful, and—”
He gasped. “I said that”?”
She nodded. “You did, and you were right. I wasn’t willing to take a chance on you. It was easier to fall back on old preconceived ideas. I couldn’t trust you on your word alone.”
“And now?”
“Now, nothing seems to matter except…” Her voice trailed off, and she averted her face.
“Oh, God, Sylv, don’t stop now,” he pleaded, cupping her chin and tilting her face back.
“I love you,” she said. Finally, finally, finally, she spoke the words, and it was as if a heavy load was lifted from her heart. She felt light as a feather and happier than she’d ever been in all her life.
Instead of telling her that he loved her, too, Luc slipped a fingertip under the shoulder of her dress and gave it a little ping. “Nice color, Sylv,” he commented. “Any particular significance to your picking flame-red?”
She lifted her chin and refused to answer. If he was going to tease her, she refused to be a willing participant.
“I especially like the elasticity of this dress,” he noted, putting his palm on her buttocks and rubbing up and down, causing the hem to be hiked dangerously high. She felt the shock of electricity from that seductive move of his fingers. “What are you wearing under it, anyhow?”
Aaah! Perfect setup! “Nothing.”
She saw him gulp.
“Wanna see?” She winked at him.
He laughed. “Man, oh, man! Put a shy thing in a tart dress and who knows what will happen!”
Sylvie had had enough of games and teasing. “I’m sorry, Luc. I really am.”
“Me, too.” He leaned his mouth close to hers and spoke against her parted lips. “I love you, chère.”
She whimpered at the ferocity of his kisses then. He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Sylvie wanted his kisses, but she wanted to hear the words, too. Cradling his face in her hands, she held him away from her. “I love you so much,” she said.
“I know,” he said.
She shoved him in the chest. He knew what she wanted to hear—the louse!—but continued to tease her. As always.
Finally, he gave in. “I have loved you for such a long time, Sylv. I loved you when we were kids. I love you now. I will love you forever.”
More beautiful words were never spoken.
They kissed and said the words a few hundred more times. Then Luc gazed at her through adoring eyes and asked something she hadn’t expected. “Do you wanna dance?”
“Here?” she asked in surprise.
“No, not here,” he responded. “Back at my apartment. I have a different kind of dancing in mind.”
He looked at her and grinned.
She looked at him and grinned.
And they both said at the same time, “Nude dancing.”
Epilogue
Two months later…
The Breaux plantation in Houma, Louisiana, rang with the sounds of rowdy Cajun music and soft Creole ballads. It was the wedding of Lucien Michael LeDeux and Sylvie Marie Fontaine.
Father Phillipe had performed the ceremony down at Our Lady of the Bayou Church, and the reception was being held outdoors at the home of Sylvie’s mother, for appearance’s sake—her mother’s, not Sylvie’s.
The catering tables groaned with myriad delicacies from both the Cajun and Creole cultures. At the bar, specialties of the day were oyster shooters, and “pink” zinfandel… and beer, of course… lots of beer.
Remy was his brother’s best man, and the ushers were René and Tee-John. Blanche was the maid of honor, with Claudia and Charmaine acting as bridesmaids, all in the Dunce-ettes’ spandex dresses, for sentimental reasons, much to Inez Breaux-Fontaine’s disapproval. Sylvie figured her mother was lucky she hadn’t chosen flame-red for her bridal gown, instead of virginal-white. And besides, the bridesmaids’ dresses had detachable net overgowns made up for the sake of respectability in the church.
Even Valcour LeDeux and his wife Jolie attended the festivities, though they were treated with marked coolness by his sons. The rift between them was still wide.