by LK Farlow
“Hola, sir. Welcome to Azteca’s. Just one tonight?”
I nod my head toward the back. “No, ma’am, I’m joining some friends.” The hostess offers me a menu before sending me on back toward their table.
I’m just about to call out my arrival to the guys when the blonde at the table says, “Your buddy, Cash, has had her tied up in knots since he came in this morning.”
The girls at the table are the stylists from Southern Roots. The good Lord must be smiling on me this evening. I haven’t been able to get Miss Myla Rose out of my head all damn day, and it wasn’t the haircut she gave me tying up real estate in my mind either—even if it is the best damn haircut I’ve ever had. No, it was her soft voice with that Southern drawl, her curvy little body, the freckles on her nose, the thought of running my fingers through her long hair—those were the thoughts I couldn’t shake. And now, here she is.
I decide not to announce my arrival. Instead, I walk up quietly, bend toward Myla Rose, and whisper in her ear, “Have I now?” My voice is hoarse from our proximity. I find myself taken by the soft scent of her, my lips a breath away from her neck. Coconuts mixed with vanilla—it’s intoxicating. Myla Rose doesn’t answer my question, and that’s all fine and well. I didn’t intend for her to.
I smile at the rest of the table and introduce myself to the blonde sitting between Drake and Simon. “Cash Carson. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Azalea, but most people call me AzzyJo,” she offers, slightly slack-jawed. I shake her hand, just like I did with Myla Rose at the salon, but it’s not the same. With Myla Rose, it was exhilarating, the feel of her skin on mine. With Azalea, it’s just a handshake, business as usual.
Drake clears his throat. “AzzyJo, you’d better close that mouth unless you wanna catch flies.”
He smirks. She scowls.
“Drake Ulysses Collins, you shut your damn mouth.”
“You gonna make me, Little Bit?”
“Oh, my God—”
“CHILDREN! Quit bickering. Goodness, some of us want to enjoy our meal,” Myla Rose snaps. Girl has fire, and damn if I don’t like it. Probably more than I should.
“Ain’t no damn child . . .” Drake mutters under his breath, sounding very much like a child.
In true Simon fashion, he’s just been observing everyone, smiling at their antics. I swear that dude sees, hears, and knows so much more than he lets on.
The waiter returns to ask me what I want to drink, as well as get my, Drake’s, and Simon’s food orders. An ice-cold Coke and some steak nachos will do me real nice. Everyone also orders a round of margaritas, as well. Everyone except for Myla Rose.
“Not drinking tonight?” I ask her, gesturing toward the oversized fishbowl glasses.
“Um, no.” She looks up at me with a hesitant smile and places a hand on her abdomen. “Not for a while, Cash.”
That small movement—that tiny unconscious gesture—takes me back to the other day at Drake’s when he was telling me to go to Southern Roots for a haircut. He started to tell me about one of the girls being pregnant . . .
Surely, he didn’t mean Myla Rose. She’s just so tiny. And don’t pregnant woman love to talk about their pregnancies? I know Paige did. Every other word out of her mouth for her entire nine months was about her babies, her stretch marks, her swelling—something. I swear, some days, Jake would hide out at my place just to get a break from baby talk.
“I see. Me neither. Never was much for alcohol. My dad was a mean drunk,” I tell her, hoping that tidbit will get her to open up to me a bit about why she isn’t drinking.
“Oh? I never knew my dad.”
“So, how many girls work at the salon?” I ask her, still fishing.
“Well, I believe you’ve met us all—I own it with AzzyJo, and we have Seraphine, our receptionist.”
Damn, that is not the answer I was going for. Maybe it’s Seraphine who’s pregnant? Even though she looks even younger than Myla Rose. Deciding to roll with that assumption, I ask, “So, when is Seraphine due?”
“Due for what?” she deadpans, brow arched.
“Her baby . . .?” My hope that Seraphine is the one with child is fading fast. Why do I even care?
“What? No.” She shakes her head. “Seraphine’s not pregnant. What on earth gave you that idea?”
“The other day, Drake was telling me about your salon, and he mentioned that one of y’all was expecting. I guess I just assumed that Seraphine was . . .” I trail off, noticing the conversation at our table has ceased. Three sets of eyes are trained on us—watching, waiting.
Myla Rose clears her throat. “Pregnant? Well, she isn’t. I am.”
Damnit, damnit, damnit. Promptly, I shake that shit off. I’m not looking for love anyway. Love? What the hell? Where did that come from? Hell, I’m not even looking to date right now. Her sweet voice and big brown eyes have me thinking all sorts of crazy thoughts.
“Well, damn, girl, congrats.” My voice comes out low and scratchy.
“Thank you.” Her response is so quiet I have to strain to hear it.
“Yessir, our girl is gonna have a baby!” Drake sounds downright joyful about it. “Gonna have her shower at my house. You’re welcome to come too, if you want.”
Azalea shoots him a glare so hard, I’m surprised he’s still sitting upright. Myla Rose shifts uncomfortably in her seat, not meeting my eyes. Simon just chuckles.
“Drake, I am planning this shower. Not you. If Myla wants him to come, she will tell me, and I will send him an invitation.” I swear, Azalea has steam coming from her ears. Her temper is on a hair trigger.
“You two need to fuck,” Simon states flatly. That shuts Drake and Azalea right up.
Myla Rose turns those mesmerizing brown eyes my way and says, “I–I’m sure you have better things to do, but you’re welcome to come.”
“I’ll be there. Will your boyfriend be there as well?”
She drops her eyes. That non-answer causes my gut to tighten. After a long pause, she looks back up and says, “No. He won’t be there. He isn’t . . .” She pauses again, as if she’s unsure how to continue. “He decided he wasn’t ready to settle down and be a parent. So, it’s just me and the bean.” She won’t meet my eyes, which is probably a good thing. They’re filled with anger, and my jaw is clenched so damn tight I’m surprised I haven’t cracked my molars. What kind of asshole wouldn’t want to see his baby grow up? Never mind, I know just what kind of asshole—the same kind that raised me.
“Yeah, he’s a total piece of shit,” Simon spouts with a hard edge to his voice. “Thinks he can just go on about his life, ignoring the fact that he has a damn kid.” Simon seems protective of Myla. I wonder if that’s in a friendly way or if it’s something more. I know his dad was an abusive SOB, so maybe that’s it? All I know is that any man who leaves his woman high and dry while she’s carrying his baby isn’t a man in my book.
“I hate that boy. I’d string him up by his damn balls if Myla would let me,” Azalea says, her face red with anger on her friend’s behalf.
“I’d fuckin’ be first in line to help,” Drake growls. Huh, I guess if it matters enough, those two can play nice. Listening to them talk about her ex, I realize that they’re all protective of Myla Rose, which makes me feel a bit better. Not that I have the right to be worried. Myla Rose is a friend. That’s all, and hardly even that. If Simon were interested in her, it wouldn’t be any of my damn business. Nope, not one lick.
My thoughts are interrupted by our server bringing out our food. I notice every one is sharing, so I offer up some nachos to the table, and they readily accept. Conversation trails off as everyone digs in—it’s that damn good. As we’re all finishing up, I take the time to really observe everyone at our table. Simon is doodling on his napkin. Azalea and Drake keep stealing glances at one another, pretending they don’t notice when they get caught. Myla Rose is using the bits of pork left from her tacos to scoop up guacamole.
She lets out a sma
ll moan of delight after the last bite and pats her stomach. “Mmm, oh my God, that was so good.” It was innocent enough, but goddamn. That sound.
Friends, Cash. You want to be her friend. Down, boy.
Pregnant or not, Myla Rose is hands down the most gorgeous woman I have ever laid my eyes on, and combine her looks with sounds like the one she just made . . . I have a feeling that I’m going to be constantly reminding myself that she’s just a friend.
After our dishes are cleared, we all pay our tabs and head out to the parking lot. As the guys leave, Azalea pulls Myla Rose aside. I can’t make out all of what they’re saying, only a few words here and there coupled with a lot of hand gestures. “Myla . . . Come on. I . . . candle burning.”
I take a few steps closer to hear them better. “We don’t even have a damn candle, Azalea,” Myla Rose complains.
“Fine, I left my curling iron on. I need to go back, and—” the car next to me roars to life, drowning out the rest of her words.
I stand off to the side, awkwardly, unsure as to whether I should wait. Just as I’m about to turn and go, I see Myla give a sharp nod, and Azalea smiles in what appears to be victory.
They both start walking my way, and Azalea calls out to me. “Cash, would you mind giving Myla Rose a ride home? I was going to, but I need to run back to the salon, and I just hate to drag her back with me. She’s got a full day tomorrow and needs to rest.” Her voice is saccharine sweet—too sweet—and I think I know what’s happening here. We’re being set up.
“Sure thing. I wouldn’t mind one bit.” Azalea beams at my easy cooperation and sends Myla Rose to me with a little nudge.
“Are you sure, Cash?”
“One hundred percent. C’mon.” I take her hand, and there’s that jolt again. I swear, every time we touch, it’s like lightning is running through my veins. I hold her door open for her and help her into the truck despite her insistence that she can do it on her own.
Once she’s buckled, I plug her address into my phone and crank the engine. “Thank you so much for doing this. I don’t know why AzzyJo is actin’ so damn crazy.”
“I’m pretty sure your friend is trying to set us up.” I use our time at the stop sign to gauge her reaction to my words.
She snorts out a laugh and shakes her head. “You may just be right. In which case, she is crazy.”
“Why would that make her crazy?”
“Oh, come on.” She laughs again, but this time it’s brittle-sounding. “Why would anyone want to get set up with me?”
I grip the steering wheel a bit tighter. “Why wouldn’t they?”
She gestures toward her slightly rounded belly.
Suddenly, it clicks. Her self-doubt and hesitation. I guess in all fairness, she has a pretty good point. Whoever she did date would have to be okay with a package deal.
“You think because you’re pregnant, no one will want to date you?”
“I mean, isn’t that obvious?”
“I think the right man will love you and your child. Don’t assume you’ll be alone, Myla Rose, and don’t settle for anything less than you deserve.”
“Sure, Cash, okay.” I can tell she thinks I’m feeding her a line, but I mean every word I just said.
Changing the subject, I ask her about the full day Azalea mentioned. “Oh, nothing special. I’m just taking the day off to pressure wash the house.”
“By yourself?”
She huffs. “Yes, by myself.”
“You sure that’s safe?” I ask her as I idle behind the old Land Cruiser parked in her driveway.
“Yes, Cash, I’m sure it’s safe. I’m not magically rendered incompetent by a baby growing in my belly.”
“Never said you were. What time you plan on getting started?”
“Around eight, if I want to beat the heat. Which I really, really do.”
“Okay, well be safe, yeah?” I tell her as she unbuckles. I smile because she’s in for a surprise tomorrow. I just hope it doesn’t offend her.
“Will do, Cash. Thanks for driving me home.”
“Anytime.”
10
Myla Rose
Cash watches me, his stare unwavering, until I’m safely on the other side of the door. I turn the lock and rush up to my bedroom to peek through my curtains, making it just in time to see his taillights fading.
His words are still so fresh in my mind, and my God, do those words have my mind creating scenarios I know are too good to be true.
In my mind, I’m bombarded with images of us. There is no us. Good gravy, get a grip. He was being hypothetical. He never said he was the right man.
I’m torn between hugging AzzyJo or wringing her neck. What in the hell was she even thinking, trying to set me up? Obviously, she wasn’t. It’s truly laughable, but I know her heart was in the right place. “A” for effort, and all that.
Cash Carson may not be meant for me, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. A girl can always use more friends, right?
Friends. Yup, I’ll be his friend, even if it kills me. Because so much about that man is deadly . . . at least to my heart—and my sanity.
I fall into bed, my mind still circling his words like a hamster in a ball. Eventually, my exhaustion overpowers my late-night musings, and sleep comes fast. Thank God, because morning will be here in no time flat.
My alarm goes off at seven, on the dot, and I skip right over the snooze button. Beating the heat and humidity is my top priority. I’ve put off pressure washing the house for too long. Grams is probably rolling in her grave at the sight of the grime creeping its way up her house.
I throw on some yoga shorts—seriously, the best damn waistbands for pregnant women—and an oversized T-shirt before making a beeline straight for the kitchen. Coffee first—always.
I’m mid-sip when I hear a vehicle pull up at the front of the house. “Who on earth . . .” I mutter as I peer out the window.
There Cash Carson is, in all his glory, unloading a damn pressure washer from the bed of his truck. It looks like a nice one, too, not like the little rinky-dink secondhand one I planned on using. But still, why is he here? Why is he doing this?
I rush up the stairs, slide on my sneakers, rush back down, and out into the front yard. “Cash Carson!” my voice carries clear across the yard. I’m expecting him to answer me, but he doesn’t—he just points that smile of his my way and nods his hello.
I charge down the steps, not stopping until I’m toe-to-toe with him. “What do you think you’re doin’?”
“Take a guess, darlin’.” Calling me darlin’, in that deep, sexy voice sends a pulse straight to my core.
“I don’t feel much like playing games at 7:30 in the morning. Why’re you here?” My tone is snippy, though I’m not actually upset with him. I’m just thrown by his kindness and the effect he has on me.
“To help you, Myla Rose.” I don’t know what’s more unsettling—the way he says my name, or his calling me darlin’. I guess it doesn’t much matter—I feel both all the way down to my damn toes.
“I told you last night, but I’ll tell you again—I’m not incompetent just because I’m pregnant.”
“Never said you were. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna help. Nothing wrong with a little bit of chivalry.” He turns back to finish setting up his pressure washer but promptly turns back to me. “You wanna go grab your extension cord, and we’ll get started?”
I shake my head yes and set off to grab the cord from the shed. No use arguing with him. His mind seems made up. Plus, the help will be nice.
“Here you go.” I toss the bundled cord to him, and I’m impressed when he catches it.
Taylor would have taken a big ol’ step back so that it would’ve landed at his feet, and then he would have told me I throw like a girl. Asshole. I guess that’s just one more tick in the Pro column for Cash. Not that I’m keeping tabs or anything. Because you don’t do that with friends.
“Thanks. So, this isn’t really a two-pers
on job. You wanna use your sprayer and work on the porch?”
“Sure thing, Cash. Just holler if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
I get my little pressure washer set up and start blasting the porch clean. There’s something so damn satisfying about watching all that yuck rinse away. Once I finish, I stand back and admire my hard work. Sure, I missed some spots, but I’m pleased with it—Grams would be too, and that’s good enough for me.
“So much for beating the heat,” I whine as a bead of sweat trickles down my back. If I’m this hot and this tired from washing my small space, then I can only imagine how Cash must feel. I make my way to the linen closet to grab him a towel and then back out to find him.
“Hey,” I yell, looking around for him. Following the cord around to the side of the house, I freeze, my words drying up on the spot.
The sight of Cash, shirtless, has rendered me speechless. There’s no six-pack abs or bulging muscles, but Christ on a cracker, the man is rock solid and just oozes power and strength and masculinity.
He catches me, slack-jawed and bug-eyed. Of course he does. “Aren’t you a vision, after all this hard work?” he says as he shuts off his machine.
“Huh?” His words don’t compute.
“That for me?”
“Is what for you?”
“That towel you’re carrying.”
I fight to keep my eyes on his. “Yup.” However, it’s a losing fight. I take stock of him, from head to toe and back up again—he’s even better up close. I can see little rivulets of sweat trailing down his chest, and I swear, I ache to follow them with my tongue. I’m pretty sure I let out a little whimper, because next thing I know, he’s smirking.
“See something you like, darlin’?”
