The real question is, can you love the real me? Not the perfect person you want me to be, not that image you had of me, but who I really am.

Everyone knows ladies love Cajuns. It's in our blood and our language is the language of romance." "Your language is the language of bullshit. You're just a couple of good ole boys with pretty faces. Women just ought to know better.

Men always seemed to growl and sniff around each other, bristling over nothing, and just as suddenly become buddies at the least likely moments.

And maybe that was love. Being so vulnerable and allowing someone else in so far they could hurt you, but they also give you everything.

I have traveled all over the world and gone to the highest peaks, and the densest jungles. The Carpathain Mountians will always be my homeland, but my home is a woman. Solange Sangria. You are home to me. Your body is my home. Your mind. Your heart and soul. It matters little to me where we are.

There were a thousand secrets in her eyes, a thousand wounds. A lifetime of distrust and betrayal. Isolation. How did one overcome such things?

When Jackson used that particular tone of voice, men died, pure and simple.