[Southern Roots 01.0] Coming Up Roses

by LK Farlow

  “Girl. Calm down. I’m too tired for your level of perky this morning. Let’s sit down, and I’ll take a look, okay?”

  “Fine. Just come on. I worked hard, and you know how I am. I thrive on positive praise.” I roll my eyes and inspect the flier. It really is beautiful. A background of watercolor flowers, with our salon name in a brushed script front and center. The flier also details our need for a third stylist. Azalea outdid herself with this. It’s perfect, and I tell her so.

  “Oh. I’m so thrilled you like it. I was worried you’d hate it.” Her smile stretches wide from one peridot eye to the other.

  “Nope, AzzyJo, it is just what we need. Do whatcha need to and get it posted.” I stand and hand the paper back to her. “Now, I have errands that need runnin’ and laundry that needs tendin’. So, I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

  “Yes, ma’am, bright and early. And you wear some yoga pants or something stretchy, because tomorrow is Tuesday, and we ARE going to eat our weight in tacos after work! No excuses, Myla Rose. Tired or not!”

  AzzyJo was good on her suggestion for yoga pants. My jeans are all too damn tight thanks to my ever-growing baby bump. I mean, I’m hardly showing, but my clothes sure don’t fit right. With a resigned huff, I pull on my most comfy black yogas and pair them with a loose-fitting, sleeveless white trapeze top. I slip my feet into my trusty, well-worn Keds and finish the look with a messy bun—let’s call it I’m-too-tired-for-this chic.

  I decide to walk the few blocks to the salon today, hoping that the fresh air, along with my travel mug of coffee, will energize me.

  By the time I make it to the salon, I am slightly sweaty—or as Azalea would say, glistening. It’s only April, but it’s already warm as hell this morning. That’s life in the South though. The warm weather comes quick and lingers long.

  “Whatcha smilin’ about?” Seraphine asks as I set my station up for the day. Guess that fresh air did the trick.

  “I didn’t realize I was smiling. Must just be a good morning.”

  She tucks her waist-length black hair behind her ear, waiting for me to elaborate. After a short pause, she moves on. “Well, I wanted to tell you that I added an appointment to your book this morning. Some guy called—said he was new in town and that his buddies told him this was the only place worth coming to. Hope that’s okay?”

  “Of course, that’s totally fine. New business is always good. What time did you book him?”

  “I stuck him in your ten o’clock slot.”

  “In my ten? I thought Mrs. Sutherland was—”

  “Yeah, she was, but she called right before he did and rescheduled to Thursday. Something about her kid swallowing a penny.”

  “Poor guy.” I grin, thinking that will be my life in a few years. “Thanks for letting me know.” I head back to the dispensary, where we keep our excess supplies and color, to chat with Azalea before my first client arrives.

  She’s sitting at our small break table folding towels, so I grab one and start folding to help out. She looks up and greets me with a beaming smile. “Myla Rose! Are you ready for tacos tonight?”

  I can’t help but laugh at her excitement. “Yes, I’m ready for tacos—yoga pants and all.” I wave my arms Vanna White style to showcase my stretchy, loose-fitting ensemble. “And the bean is on our side. All I can think about is some fresh guac!” I rub my bump to emphasize my point, and she reaches out to do the same.

  We simultaneously pause the belly rubbing when we hear the bell on the door chime. “You head on out, Myla Rose. That must be yours. My first isn’t until eleven.” I nod and head toward my station.

  I’m organizing my clipper guards at my station when I hear, "Grocery store girl! It's you!" I gasp and look up to see Mr. Good Eyes smiling down at me.

  "Oh, my! It's y–you." I know I’m blushing and internally scold myself. Get it together, Myla Rose. He is a client in your salon. It doesn’t matter one bit that he's too handsome for his own good.

  I tighten my messy bun with a tug before attempting to greet him in a more professional manner. "Hello, I'm Myla Rose, and it's a pleasure to meet you." Oh, come the fuck on. GET. IT. TOGETHER. A pleasure to meet you? Could my blush get any deeper?

  He holds out his hand. "Cash Carson, and the pleasure is mine." His deep voice moves right through me—straight to my core. Pleasure, indeed.

  I place my hand in his to shake it. His hand completely engulfs mine. His grip is strong and his hand rough, callused from what has to be some form of manual labor. He lingers, holding my hand just past what's normal for a handshake. His fingers feather mine as he releases my hand, sending a wave of chills over my entire body.

  I blink myself out of the fog he has me in. "Okay, Cash, how are we cuttin' you today?" I offer a small smile and tilt my chin down, hoping it hides my nerves. I don't know what it is about this guy . . .

  Cash clears his throat, causing me to look up, and his stormy gaze captures mine in the reflection of the mirror. "Well, Miss Myla Rose, this hair gets hot when I'm working in my shop. I'm talking unbearable."

  I run my fingers through his curls and a soft sigh escapes my lips. They're every bit as soft as I imagined them to be. "How short you thinkin'?"

  "You're the pro here, Myla Rose. You tell me.” He emphasizes my name, and the way his lips form around it makes it sound sinful. I get chills from the sound of it.

  He has me rattled. I do my best to ignore the feeling and set to work shearing off the length on the sides and back, cropping it close. I leave the top a bit longer and cut it to comb back out of his face. Once I finish, I turn him toward the mirror so that he can inspect my work. "You want me to wash it? Keep you from itchin' all day?"

  He runs a hand through his hair in that way only a guy can and winks. He fucking winks. "Lead the way, Myla Rose." I guide him to the shampoo room and direct him to have a seat and lie back. I lean over him to pull the lever to put up his feet, and I catch his scent. Citrus, spice, and pure man. Good Lord, help me.

  "Th–That water feel okay?" He just nods, his eyes pinched tightly closed and his knuckles white from gripping the armrests.

  I work the shampoo into his scalp, creating a rich lather, massaging as I go. "Mmm . . . damn, girl, that feels good. I need this every day after work." He groans, and the sound is so sensual, my knees almost buckle.

  Holy hell. Thankfully, his eyes are closed so he can't see my embarrassment. I rinse the suds and grab a towel. "All done," I announce, ignoring his comment. He follows behind me to my chair, where I run some gel through his locks and give his hair a final inspection. "I think you're good to go, Cash. It looks mighty fine."

  His eyes hold mine. "Yes, ma'am, mighty fine, indeed. I pay up front?" he inquires with a tilt of his head.

  "Mmmhmm," I mumble, no longer sure if we're talking about his hair.

  Or if we ever were . . .

  8

  Myla Rose

  I’m still standing here, at my station, staring after Cash as he checks out at the front desk. I’ve never been so . . . affected by anyone. He just, damn. He riles me right up, winking and saying my name with that deep, sexy voice of his.

  Good Lord. He’s a deadly combination of big, tall, and charming. Shaking off the fog he left me in, I grab the broom and begin sweeping up his hair. The bell on the door dings, and I hear his deep voice tell Seraphine, “Have a nice day, ma’am,” and I swear she lets out a dreamy sigh. I mean, I can’t fault her. Who wouldn’t? I release a long breath and head to the back to try and get myself together before my next appointment.

  AzzyJo corners me in the dispensary. “Myla Rose! Who on God’s green earth was that?”

  “No one. I mean, a new customer. That’s all.” I refuse to meet her eyes. She’ll see right through me. “Nothin’ special.”

  “Then why are you acting so strange?” She eyes me, keeping her distance but never taking her gaze off me. She’s appraising me, like I’m a feral cat and she is waiting for my claws to come out.
<
br />   “I’m not. You’re imagining things.”

  “MYLA ROSE!” Seraphine barges through the door, panting like she’s just run a damn marathon.

  “Good Lord, Seraphine. Everything okay?” AzzyJo asks, startled. Seraphine is young and fit as a fiddle. If she's winded . . .

  “Yes, yes. Sorry. I just, um . . .” She’s fidgeting, which isn’t like her. Seraphine's usually cool as a cucumber.

  “Come on, Ser, what’s up?” I search her deep brown eyes why she’s acting crazier than a loon.

  “I just wanted to give you your tip from your last client.” Seraphine holds out her hand, and a fifty-dollar bill is sitting pretty in her palm.

  “No. I think you’re confused. All I did was a cut.” My eyes are so wide with surprise they feel like they’re going to bug out of my head.

  “Nope. Not confused. This is your tip.” She thrusts the money toward me. “Take it.” I tentatively reach out and grab the money, slipping it into the pocket of my apron. “See, wasn’t so hard.” She smiles triumphantly and heads back to the front desk.

  “Just a new customer, huh?” AzzyJo taunts, taking measure of my response. “Must have made quite the impression, Myla Rose.” I shrug my shoulders, ignoring her. The more I say, the more Azalea will pester me. Like a dog with a bone, she won’t give up.

  “I’m sure he was just being overly nice since he got in last-minute and all.”

  “I don’t care what it was. He's a gorgeous, gorgeous man. Next time he comes in, you should get his number.” Her eyes are shining, like this is the best idea she’s ever had. Hate to burst her bubble, but . . .

  “Get real. That man doesn’t wanna play house with me. He could have his pick of the ladies here, and I’m just . . . well, there’s more than just me.” She looks at me like I have lost my damn mind.

  Obviously, though, I’m the only one of us with any sense.

  “You know, some men don’t mind. My Pops loved me like I was his. Didn’t care one bit that my mother had me—took us as a package deal.”

  “I get that, I do. Your Pops is a good man, and there are a lot of good men out there, I’m sure. I’m just not interested, okay? Right now, I just need to focus on me and my little bean.”

  She rolls her eyes, her disbelief evident. She opens her mouth to go on some more. “Listen, Myla—”

  I hold up a hand to silence her. I know just how to end this conversation. “Did I tell you that I might be able to find out the gender at my appointment next week?”

  “NO! You did not tell me!” She throws her arms around me and squeezes. “I am so . . . AHH! This is amazing! I cannot wait to find out. Then I can start planning your shower, and buying things, and we can go look at paint for the nursery, and—”

  Somehow, this hug has turned into her bouncing. And she is shaking me right along with her. I gently remove her arms from around me and take a step back. “AzzyJo. Take a breath.” She does, followed by a few more. “That’s right, in through your nose. Calm down.” She just rolls those green eyes. I swear, she'd bring home gold if eye-rolling were an Olympic sport.

  “Sorry, I’m just excited. You know how I get.”

  Yes, I surely do. After a lifetime of friendship with Azalea Josephine Barnes as my personal cheerleader, I know exactly how much energy she puts into everything. The girl practically radiates sunshine.

  “I know, and you’ll get to do all of those things, promise. Let’s just take it slow. We have plenty of time.” I offer a smile to reassure her. “In fact, let’s talk about it a bit more over tacos tonight.”

  She squeals at the mention of our dinner plans. “Yes! Let’s do that.” I nod and start toward the doorway to head back to my station when she calls out, “Oh! I forgot to tell you, I invited Simon too. Is that okay?”

  “For sure. You know I love Simon. Is D coming too?"

  She scoffs. "Yes, Drake too, and he mentioned bringing a friend. I swear to God, Myles, if he brings some tramp, I'll gut him like a fish."

  "Sure, you will. Play nice, 'kay?"

  Simon McAllister has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. He lived with his daddy in the house next door to my Grams. He’s a few years older than me, but his daddy was real piece of work, so he was always over at our house.

  He was a quiet boy around most people, but he always talked to me. He said I was special, that I was like his sister, and that family stuck together. And to this day, we have stuck together like glue. He quickly adopted AzzyJo as an honorary sister as well, and the rest is history.

  Nothing could tear us apart. Not our age difference, not even significant others along the way. We formed our own little wolf pack. Azalea and I were thirteen when Drake moved to town. He grew up here and moved away with his mama for a bit. He came back as soon as a judge said he was old enough to choose.

  The running joke then became that one day, we would split off into couples and live happily ever after. No way, no how. I firmly believe you don’t mess with friendships like that. Not to mention, I just don’t see those guys that way.

  Sure, they’re both attractive enough—Simon with his dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes, and Drake with his deep tan from working on the farm, eyes the color of whiskey, and that small gap in his front teeth. They made the girls in Dogwood crazy growing up. Probably still do, but ignorance is bliss, y’all.

  Now, Drake and Azalea, that is a different story altogether. They are either thick as thieves or oil and water. You can never know what to expect from them. They are the very definition of sexual tension.

  Azalea and I close the salon down and head over to Azteca’s, home of the best damn Tex-Mex this side of the Mississippi. It’s a funky little place with large round wooden tables, terra cotta tile floors, and walls painted like the sunset.

  Seriously, people come from all over the county for this deliciousness. We walk inside and I’m instantly hit with the aroma of sizzling onions and peppers. My mouth waters, and I swear my little bean does a happy flop in my belly.

  I squeal and grab AzzyJo’s hand, placing it on my belly. “AZ! The bean moved!” We both know I'm not far enough along to feel any real movement, but all the same, her excitement immediately mirrors mine. I can only imagine the picture we paint, bouncing and squealing and talking to my belly. People probably think we’re nuts.

  The hostess is kind enough to allow us our moment before guiding us back to our usual table. We don’t bother with the menus. This is a long-standing tradition for us, and we get the same thing every time—Tacos de Carnitas with a heaping side of guac for me, and steak tacos for Azalea. Miguel, our usual waiter, knows us and arrives at our table, drinks in hand. “Hola, ladies! Cómo estás? You have your usual?”

  AzzyJo grins. “You know us too well, Miguel. Tonight, we’ll have some friends joining us though.”

  “Muy bien. I’ll be back to take their orders when they arrive.”

  Azalea wastes no time getting down to business and pulls a notepad and pen out of her oversized tote bag. “Okay. So, do you have an idea of how many people you’ll want to invite to your shower?”

  “I’m really not sure.”

  “Do you know where you want to have it?”

  “I don’t—” I’m saved from her line of questioning when Simon drops down into the chair on the far side of Azalea.

  “Good evenin’, ladies. What are we gossiping about?”

  “We are not gossiping, Simon McAllister. We are plannin’ Myla’s baby shower.” Azalea cuts her eyes at him.

  Unfazed, Simon just smiles. “Oh, yeah? You gonna invite me, Myla Rose?”

  “Ooh. Good question—do you want to invite the guys?” she asks.

  “Do guys enjoy that sort of thing?” I can’t imagine it’d be much fun for them, with all the silly games and whatnot.

  “We just want to be there for you, Myles. I know Drake will agree.”

  “Agree to what?” Drake’s deep voice booms from beside me as he lowers himself into the chair betw
een Azalea and me.

  “Coming to Myla’s baby shower,” Simon tells him.

  “Hells yeah, girl. Y’all can even have it at my house, if you want. I’ve got plenty of room.” He smiles, clearly pleased with himself. “Speaking of extra room, I invited a buddy of mine to fill that empty chair tonight.”

  Azalea's features immediately relax at the mention of his 'buddy'. Still, she scoffs. “Like you have any other friends.”

  “Oh, hey there, Little Bit. Didn’t notice you.” Drake fires back with a cat-ate-the-canary grin. These two need to figure their shit out.

  “A friend? Who?” I ask, trying to distract them from their bickering.

  “Actually, you met him today. Name’s Cash. I sent him your way for a haircut.”

  “Oh, okay . . . yeah. That’s great.” I choke on my words, sounding like a babbling thirteen-year-old who got caught passing a note in class. Lord, help me through this dinner.

  “You okay, Myles?” Simon quirks a brow.

  “Your buddy, Cash, has had her tied up in knots since he came in this morning,” Azalea tells the boys with a snicker.

  “Have I now?” Cash’s voice asks softly in my ear as he claims the chair on my other side. His warm breath fanning my neck, combined with that slow Matthew McConaughey drawl of his, and I’m damn near a puddle in my chair. My brain is shouting for me to say something—anything—but my mouth won’t cooperate.

  I’m so beyond mortified, I’m seriously considering abandoning dinner and crawling under the nearest rock.

  Paying no attention to my lack of reply, he introduces himself to Azalea. Conversation carries on at the table. Everyone’s either oblivious to my embarrassment—or more likely, enjoying it.

  9

  Cash

  I walk into the restaurant where I’m meeting the guys, and my senses are instantly assaulted from all sides. The smell of grilled meat and a hint of fresh lime juice, the sound of laughter from the other patrons, the music of the three-piece band—it’s a lot to take in, but it feels right. A quick glance around the dining room, and I find Drake and Simon seated at a large round table toward the back. They aren’t alone—two girls are at the table as well.