by LK Farlow
I start to nod but come to my senses just in the nick of time. Halle-fucking-lujah. “Ab-absolutely not. I was just startled to find you back here damn near naked.” I snark, hoping it will drown out the lust he has swirling all around me.
“Half-naked, huh?” He drags a hand up his torso and back down. “I’d venture to say socks, shoes, boxer briefs, and shorts are a far cry from half-naked, Myla Rose.”
Great, now I’m picturing him in those briefs. Can’t a girl get a break? I toss the towel at him, landing it right over his head—apparently, I’ve regressed to acting like a toddler. “Come talk to me when you’re decent,” I huff before retreating to the safety of my kitchen.
11
Cash
With the towel she threw at me draped around my neck, I reload my pressure washer into the bed of my truck and set off to find her. I tap lightly on the front door, taking stock of the area I told her to work on. She did a pretty good job—got a little too close in some places and flaked the paint, but by the looks of it, the porch could use a new coat regardless.
Her house is beautiful. An old farm house, with what looks like original everything on the outside. The property is huge, with two giant oak trees and slightly overgrown grass. I can almost smell the history of this place. I wonder how long she’s lived here?
She doesn't answer, so I knock again, this time a little harder. When she still doesn’t come to the door, I try the handle. It's unlocked.
Nudging the door open, I’m blown away by the interior of the house. Wide, hand-scraped wood plank flooring, shiplap walls, and thick molding. This house, much like its owner, is breathtaking.
I follow the sound of Myla Rose singing along—albeit slightly off-key—and find her bent over her freezer in those tiny little cotton shorts. Not gonna lie, seeing her reaction to me without my shirt was good, but watching her wiggle and shake her ass to the music she’s listening to in those shorts . . . hands down, the highlight of my day. Maybe even my week.
I’m too enraptured by the show in front of me to tell her she has an audience. She straightens from her crouched position, and I see she was filling two glasses with ice. She pivots around to set them on the island but drops them with a loud squeal when she sees me standing there.
“SHIT!” she screams, frozen where she stands due to the little shards of glass around her feet.
I rush to her. “Are you okay?” The look she shoots me could melt the ice that was just in those glasses.
“Do I look okay?” She’s all attitude—eyes narrowed, hands on hips, head cocked slightly to the right.
“Fuck, no. I’m sorry. Where’s your broom and dust pan?”
“In the laundry room. Just down the hall, first door on the left.” I return to the kitchen, broom in hand, only to find her trying to step around the glass littering the floor.
“Stay still,” I command her. She freezes, once again, where she stands.
The glass crunches under my boots as I stalk toward her, each step purposeful. When I reach her, she attempts a step back—away from me. Not gonna happen. I reach out with both hands and hoist her up over my shoulder, navigating us away from the mess and enjoying my bird's eye view of her plump ass along the way.
Once I make it to the dining room, I set her down—slowly. The feel of her body sliding down mine, combined with the sensation of her nails as they slightly rake against my chest—goddamn, my mouth is just about watering. With her feet firmly on the ground, I grip her chin with my thumb and forefinger. "I told you not to move." Her cheeks are a sweet shade of pink, though I'm unsure whether it's out of anger, embarrassment, or arousal. I'm gonna bet on a combination of all three.
"Yeah? Well, you're not the boss of me." Her sass—outta this world hot.
"Don't wanna boss you, darlin’." Although, that thought has some merit. "I told you not to move to keep you from slicing up your feet. In case it's slipped your mind, you’re barefoot."
"Oh. Guess I am. Still, if you wouldn't have been standing around like a creeper, it never woulda been an issue."
"True, and as I said, I'm sorry. Now, listen this time and stay put while I go sweep that mess up."
"Sir, yes sir!" she says, mock salute and all.
12
Myla Rose
It takes everything—every single bit of my willpower— not to collapse into a spineless heap on the floor after he sets me down. I'm not sure how I missed it, but as my body slowly moved down his, I realized he was still shirtless. His bare skin, coupled with his citrus-spice-and-everything-nice scent . . . fuck me.
Cash Carson is mighty fine to look at as is, but shirtless and sweaty? The man is a damn dream.
I watch intently as he sweeps up the mess I made, mesmerized by the way his arms flex and release with every swipe of the broom. I find myself fanning my flaming cheeks, wishing like hell I had that glass of ice cold tea right about now. Anything to cool down the inferno blazing inside me.
He bends to collect the glass into the dustpan and the island obscures him from view—and not a moment too soon, because I think I would die of embarrassment if he caught me staring at him. Again.
I take full advantage of his being out of sight for a few seconds to try and compose myself. Deep breath in, and out. He's just a man, Myla Rose. No need to make a fool of yourself.
He stands and dumps the dustpan into the trashcan, and I'm about to thank him when he picks up the entire can and walks to the back door. "Gonna take this to your outside can. Don't want the glass splitting the bag."
"Oh, yeah, thanks." Cash Carson doesn't miss a beat. Small, insignificant things seem to be what he's all about, and boy, does it make me giddy inside. Taylor would have left me to clean the mess, bitching about my clumsiness all the while.
Next thing I know, he's opening and closing cabinets, obviously searching for something.
"May I help you?" I ask him.
"Cups?"
"Oh, they're in the cabinet over the dishwasher." He turns and looks at me like I'm plum crazy. "What is it? Why’re you looking at me like that?"
"Myla Rose, everyone knows that cups go in the cabinet to the right or left of the sink."
"Who's everyone? I mean, that's just . . . silly. Why would they go there?"
"You know, I'm honestly not sure. That's just where my mom keeps hers, and I do, too." He says this like it's an admission. Like he's embarrassed. He even has a faint blush to his cheeks.
"I keep mine by the dishwasher. Makes for an easy unload."
"Damn. That's a pretty good idea." For some reason, his tiny compliment has me beaming. Apparently, Azalea isn’t the only one who thrives on positive praise.
Grabbing the dishtowel from where it's hung on the side of the island, I drop down and wipe up the moisture left behind from the melted ice. Last thing I need is either one of us slipping.
Just as I move to stand, Cash walks over to fill the cups with ice. He lowers himself to a crouched position, and suddenly, we’re eye-to-eye. I suck in a sharp breath. His eyes hold so much power and emotion in them that it steals the air right from my lungs.
He sets a glass down by his boot and reaches out with his free hand to brush a bit of hair out of my face. His fingers trail across my cheek and down my neck, coming to rest on my shoulder. His light-as-air touch scorches my skin like fire. I give a full-body shiver, and he smirks. He knows he affects me, and he likes it.
He gives my shoulder a light squeeze and stands, grabbing his glass along the way. I follow suit and grab the pitcher of tea from the fridge. "Let's try this again? I can't even imagine how thirsty you are."
"Fucking parched." And just like when he came in for his haircut, I'm not sure if we're talking about the tea or something else entirely.
I pour us each a generous serving, yet he downs his in one gulp—guess he was talking about the tea. "Damn, this is good. Perfectly sweetened."
"Thanks, I make it just like my Grams taught me."
"Y'all were close, huh?"
"Mind if I ask why?"
"No, not at all. Mama felt tied down and didn't want to give up her fast and easy lifestyle to take care of me. When I was seven, she loaded me up, dropped me off, and never looked back."
"Damn darlin', I'm sor—"
I hold up a finger to silence him. "Nothin' to be sorry about, Cash. My Grams loved me enough that mama's exit from my life is barely a blip on my radar. I'm not sorry about it, and you shouldn’t be either."
"Ten-four." He refills his glass, and we both soak in the slightly awkward silence. I think we’re both waiting for the other to speak, and finally, he does. "So, whatcha got going on this weekend?"
"Oh! The Strawberry Festival. Have you ever been?"
"Nope. Tell me about it?"
"Well, it's mostly arts and crafts, but they have the most amazing strawberry shortcake. I go every year just for that little slice of heaven."
He thinks on my words for a few, and then he asks me where the festival is, and I tell him. "Great," he says, his smile a mile wide. "I'll meet you there around eleven?"
"You'll what?"
"You heard me, darlin'. See you Saturday." That quickly, his glass is in the sink and he's out the door.
What on earth just happened?
13
Cash
I make good on my word and show up at the municipal park at a quarter till. I figure it's a nice enough day that I can chill out in the shade while I wait for Myla Rose. Not even five minutes later, I see her Land Cruiser park a few feet away from my truck. If I'm being honest, I'm pretty damn thankful she doesn't make me wait long. A part of me was a little scared she wouldn't show.
"Hello there, darlin'," I drawl as I open her car door.
"Oh!" She exclaims, clutching her chest. "H–hey there, Cash. Wasn't sure if I'd see you today or not."
"Told you I'd be here." Our steps fall into sync, my fingertips occasionally brushing her arm as she steers us through the crowd toward the festival entrance. "So, what do we do first?"
"I usually walk the loop and look at the booths." She ducks her head.
"Sounds like a plan."
"For real? You don't mind looking at all of this?" she asks, gesturing over to the walking path lined with tent after tent.
"Why would I?" My head pulls back in confusion.
"Taylor never . . . you know what? Doesn't matter. Let's go.” She picks up her pace and sets off again for the entrance.
I swear, the more I hear about Taylor, the more I dislike the guy. Seems like he constantly made her feel like shit long before he decided to end things with her.
"Cash, you coming?" Myla Rose calls from a few feet ahead of me. Huh. Didn't even notice I'd stopped walking. Guess I got too caught up thinking about her asshole ex.
"Yes, ma'am," I call back, though I make no effort to move. I'm too busy admiring her toned, pale legs. Girl's got a thing for short shorts . . . but you won't hear me complaining. I drag my eyes upward, pausing at her midsection. She's barely showing, but it's there. A slight swell, and goddamn if I don't think she's even hotter for it. I finish my perusal with a quick stop at her breasts—small and perky, a perfect handful—before landing on her face. Her eyes are narrowed to slits, and her full lips are pursed. Busted.
I hustle over to her and grab her hand without thinking twice about it. "Come on, Myla Rose. Lots to see." She glances down at her hand in mine, gasping lightly, but I pay no mind to her. I just tug her along until we fall into step together.
We've made it about halfway around the tent-lined path, and between listening to Myla Rose tell me about the different vendors and the feeling of her hand in mine, her smooth to my rough, I'm having a damn good time.
"You said you used to come with your Grams every year?" I know I'm prying, but I can't help it. This girl has me wanting to know her in every way.
"Mmmhmm, every year, like clockwork. She started coming when she was a little girl, and through the years, she got to know a lot of the vendors. So I guess, eventually, it was kinda like she was coming to catch up with old friends."
"I like that. Tell me about her?"
Her eyes light up at my taking an interest. "Yeah, okay. Grams lived here her whole life. Her husband actually built my house with his bare hands. It was his gift to her when he proposed. Worked on it day and night until it was complete. My Papa passed away shortly after Mama was born, but Grams soldiered on. She raised Mama there, and me. And now, I'll raise my little bean there."
"That's incredible," I tell her honestly. "I can't imagine being grounded by roots like that. Sure would like to, though." She looks at me like she's not quite sure what I mean, so I elaborate. "My dad's job kept us on the move every few years. Actually, I lived here in Dogwood when I was a kid."
"Is that how you know Drake?"
"Oddly, no." Her brows crinkle in confusion, and she looks so damn cute. "When I lived in Arkansas—"
"You met him when he moved away with his mom?"
"It's a small world after all." She cracks up at my line. Her laughter is contagious, and before I know it, we're both doubled over laughing. Honestly, by the time we regain our composure, I don't think either of us remembers why we were laughing in the first place.
"You ready for what's sure to be the best part of your day, Cash Carson?"
"Lead the way, darlin'."
"The best part of my day is standin' in this long ass line?" I goad her.
"No. The best part is at the end of this line. C'mon."
During our wait, we talk about everything and nothing all at once. I feel so damn comfortable in her presence that the long minutes we spend waiting seem to pass in the blink of an eye.
At the halfway point in the line, they have a small table where a woman’s selling . . . tickets? No words are exchanged. Myla Rose just holds up two fingers and passes her a twenty-dollar bill before I can think to grab my wallet. By the time the lady hands back her change, I'm scrambling to not look like an ass.
"Myla, let me—"
She gently pushes my wallet back to me. "This is my treat. You've never experienced this greatness, and I am excited to be the one to give it to you."
Now, I know she doesn't mean anything dirty, but my mind . . . yeah, he's not on the same page. My thoughts are racing a mile a minute over all the greatness she could give me.
"How many?" the lady barks from inside her booth.
"Two, please." Myla Rose hands her our tickets in exchange for two of the most over-the-top strawberry shortcakes I've ever seen. I'm talking huge, fluffy cuts of angel food cake covered with a mixture of fresh strawberries and compote, with a fluffy whipped cream mountain as its crowning glory.
Myla Rose hands one to me, and together, we head to the makeshift pavilion where they've set up folding tables and chairs. Once seated, Myla wastes no time digging into hers.
"Damn, girl. You gonna eat all that?"
"Eating for two, you know." She giggles and pats her belly.
"Something tells me you devour this cake every year, no matter what."
She snaps her forefinger and thumb together. "Aww, you caught me." I can't help but to smile at how carefree and cute she is. For the first time, she finally seems totally at ease in my presence—and that feels like a victory.
She takes the last bite of her shortcake, and we both stand to throw away our plates. It's then I notice she has a little whipped cream on her bottom lip. I reach out to wipe it with my thumb at the same time she goes to lick it away. Her tongue swipes across my skin, and I'm hit with white-hot need. I need this woman. To taste that whipped cream straight from her lips.
Our plates long forgotten, we lean toward one another until our lips meet—a soft brush at first, exploratory. Shifting my hand to cup her jaw, I angle her exactly how I want her. She gasps softly, allowing me to deepen our kiss. I lick my tongue against hers, drinking down her sweet strawberry flavor. She runs her hands up and around my neck, her nails digging lightly into my
shirt collar . . . gripping, grasping, wanting. I work my other arm around her waist, my hand resting just above the sweet curve of her ass. She presses her body in closer to mine, so close that I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs. It beats a fast rhythm, full of want and desire. I'm lost in her. Lost in her taste and the sound of her soft moans. Lost until someone loudly clears their throat, reminding us that we’re in a public place.
She looks down and runs her fingers through her hair before nervously dragging her eyes back up to mine. I can tell she wants to say something, but she doesn't. She just shakes her head and gives a little smile before scooping up our trash from the table and walking off to dispose of it.
In the three minutes she's gone, my thoughts kick into overdrive. What business do I have kissing her? I'm not ready for a relationship, or even these kinds of feelings. How do I know she's not like Kayla? How do I—my racing mind grinds to a halt when she reappears.
"Myla Rose, listen, I—"
"It's okay, Cash."
"No, listen. I shouldn't have kissed you. I–I'm sorry. I don't want to lead you on."
She throws her hands up as she backs away. "I said it's okay. I get it."
She doesn't stick around for me to reply, and I can't say I blame her. And to top it all off, I'm almost sure I saw tears in her eyes. Fuck.
14
Myla Rose
I haul ass to Bertha, determined not to let him see my tears. Stupid, traitorous tears. Serves me right, though, thinking a man like him would want me. Between his sweet words, even sweeter gestures, and what I thought was mutual chemistry, it's no wonder I misread the situation. As much as I want to chalk it up to pregnancy hormones, I can't help but think there's something wrong with me.
On my short drive home, I debate going to see Simon but ultimately decide against it. I don't want my ignorance and assumptions to upset Simon and Cash's friendship. Simon is so fierce when it comes to me, and sometimes, his overprotectiveness makes him a bit irrational. Once I'm home and cozy in lounge clothes, I fish my cell phone out of my bag and call Azalea.
