Page 44 of Eat Slay Love

The line of Fabien’s jaw twitched.

I gave a small, nervous smile, though it didn’t quite reach my eyes. “He used to. . .playfully threaten to chain me to the back of his car and drive around the block so I could run the pounds off.”

Fabien’s entire expression hardened. His easy, flirtatious demeanor disappeared in an instant, replaced with something that looked an awful lot like restrained fury. . .as if he were struggling to hold himself back from loudly cursing.

My stomach twisted. “I would laugh it off because, you know, if you don’t laugh, you cry. And. . .besides, it wasn’t like hemeantit, right? That’s what I would say to myself.”

My voice softened. “And the funny part? He had gained weight too. A whole lot more than I did. And I think. . .no. . .Iknowthat’s where all the focus on me came from. His own hate for himself. He needed something to project it onto, someone to feel worse than him, someone to take the hit.”

Fabien exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the stem of his glass.

“But because I didn’t love myself enough either, I stayed in the marriage. Even when his words got sharper. Even when his jokes turned intorealdisappointment, real disgust. Even when I started eating more and more just to cope with it all.”

The silence between us stretched thick and heavy.

Fabien’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet but firm. “You deservedbetterthan that.”

“I know that now.” I forced a small smile. “But it took me a long time after the divorce to figure it out. Years of therapy. A lot of exercise, but not because I wanted to be thin—just because I want to feelgoodin my own body and be healthy. Also meditation. EFT tapping—”

“What is that?”

I blinked, surprised. “You’ve never heard of EFT?”

He smirked. “French men don’t exactly sit around discussing healing methods over wine and cheese.”

That made me chuckle. “It’s called the Emotional Freedom Technique. It’s kind of like acupuncture but without the needles. You tap your finger on meridian points of your body—like your face, collarbone, hands—while saying affirmations or processing emotions. It helps rewire negative beliefs, ease anxiety. I do it all the time.”

Fabien’s gaze flickered with intrigue. “You’ll have to show me.”

I grinned, arching a brow. “You? Mr. Broody Parisian Playboy? You’re willing to tap on your face for emotional healing?”

His lips curved in amusement. “For you,chérie, I’ll try anything once.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down my spine.

I cleared my throat, needing to ground myself before I completely melted in my seat. “Anyway. . .I’ve been divorced for ten years now. And. . .”

“And?”

“Celibate too.”

His brows shot up, and something unmistakable flickered across his face.

Hunger.

Interest.

A deep, predatory sort of intrigue.

His voice was lower now, like he didn’t quite believe it. “No sex fortenyears?”

“None.”

His gaze scanned me like he was seeing me in anentirelynew light. “Do you miss it?”

“Of course.” I shrugged. “But I won’t let any man into my bed again unless he deserves to be there.”

Those green eyes went wild and I wondered what was on his mind. “Mmmm.”

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