by LK Farlow
“Myla Rose! Did you find out? Do you know? Hang on, I’ll go grab her!” I hear her drop the phone to the desk without putting me on hold, and within a few seconds, they are both yelling into the receiver. “Myla, we put you on speaker. Now, did you find out? Do you know?”
“I do.” I let my words linger.
“Are you gonna tell us?” AzzyJo barks.
“Yup.” I keep on with the short answers just to ruffle her feathers.
“Myla Rose, you tell us right this instant, or I’ll—” her threat is cut off by the nurse calling me back to finish the rest of my appointment.
“Sorry, sister-girl, they just called me back. I’ll have to tell y’all later!” I end the call and chuck my phone back into my bag before she can start griping at me.
After the dreaded weigh-in at the nurses' station, I’m led to an exam room to wait on Dr. Mills. I’m sitting on the table giggling softly to myself at the flurry of text notifications from Azalea and Seraphine when there’s a soft knock. “Come in,” I call through the door.
“Good morning, Ms. McGraw. I presume you and baby are well? According to the ultrasound notes, the little tyke is right on track.” He always makes a point to ask about the baby, and not necessarily in a doctor way. Sometimes, it’s in a more concerned way. He never gets too personal, but I can tell from his tone of voice that he wants to know more about his grandson, so I always try to offer up little tidbits here and there.
“Yes sir, we are. I’m so excited for a little boy.”
“Good, good. I–I’m glad to hear that.” His voice is soft, almost wistful. I know he cares about this baby, even if his wife and son don’t. “Lie back now, please, and I’ll take some measurements and then we can listen for the heartbeat.” I follow his instructions, and he goes about his work in silence.
“All right, Ms. McGraw, you’re measuring right at 16 weeks. Let’s take a listen to baby’s heartbeat.”
More warm gel, and then the small exam room is filled with a swooshing sound, the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard—my little man’s heartbeat. My eyes once again fill with tears, and with a quick glance at the good doctor, I see his have, too. It’s moments like this when I truly want to hate Taylor for not being involved. How he cannot love this baby is beyond me. Dr. Mills may not be the most affectionate man, but his heart is good. It’s a damn shame Taylor didn’t take more after him.
“Sounds good, 135 beats per minute.” He rolls over to his desk and hands me a towel to wipe off the goo, discreetly wiping his eyes before extending a hand to help me sit back up. “Do you have any questions for me today?” he asks as he enters notes on the computer.
“Um, yes sir. I do.” He swivels around to face me with an arched brow. “Is it a pregnancy thing to have weird dreams?” I stare at the wall behind him, embarrassed by my silly question.
“Oh, yes. Yes, Ms. McGraw. It’s from your increased hormone levels. Nothing to worry about. Anything else?” I shake my head no. “All right then, please have them schedule four weeks from now, and be sure to call if you have any questions.”
He stands and leaves the room, and I follow quickly behind. I’m sure the girls are losing their minds waiting on me.
Deciding to take a page from AzzyJo’s book, I want to get creative with telling the girls I’m having a boy, so I make a quick trip to Sprinkles, our local cupcake shop.
On the drive over, I call the store and ask them if they can whip up what I’m wanting on short notice, and they assure me they can. Fifteen minutes later, I’m out the door and on my way to Southern Roots, cupcakes and all.
Walking into the salon, I head straight for the dispensary, gesturing for Seraphine to tag along. She holds up one long, slender finger to let me know she’ll be a minute. I place the cupcake box down onto the table in front of Azalea, next to the salad she's picking at.
She arches one perfectly sculpted brow as if to say, What the hell, Myla? Huh, guess she didn’t appreciate my hanging up on her earlier. Oops. My smile stretches from ear-to-ear, showing every bit of the amusement I’m feeling.
“Having a good day?” I ask her.
“If you don’t tell me what that baby is right this cotton pickin’ minute, I’ll—"
“Hush up and open the box,” I tell her, nodding toward where it sits on the table.
Seraphine walks in right as she flips back the lid to reveal a half-dozen cupcakes iced in different shades of blue. Azalea’s eyes are as big as dinner plates between the cupcakes and me.
“Does this mean what I think it means?”
Seraphine peeks over my shoulder into the box before turning to look at me, anxious for my reply.
“Yes, it’s a boy!” I shout. The next thing I know, they both have their arms wrapped snuggly around me, murmuring their congratulations.
“We have to start plannin’ your shower now, Myla Rose!” Azalea insists. “Oh, and we need to get you registered too!” She lets out a loud squeak and gives my shoulders a tight squeeze. “I’m just so excited! I’m getting a nephew! Have you told Drake and Simon?”
Seraphine excuses herself back to the front desk when the salon phone rings. She's young, but a hard worker—and I'm damn sure glad she's a part of my tribe.
“No.” I scoff. “Like I’d be dumb enough to tell anyone before you! I value my life, thank you very much. Plus, I think I want to surprise them. I just need to figure out how.”
“Ooh! Let me think on that. I know we’ll come up with something good. Anyway, Drake said we could have your shower at his house. I won’t tell him it’s a boy or anything, but I’ll go ahead and get with him to start plannin’.”
“You sure y’all can handle that?” I ask her, fighting to conceal my grin. Those two are a hot mess.
“What is that supposed to mean? Are you implyin’ that I’m incapable of handling Drake-freaking-Collins?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’d love to handle him,” I tell her with an impish grin.
“Don’t you start, Myla. I swear to high heavens.” She rolls her eyes as she tosses her cupcake wrapper into the trash.
“Not startin’ a thing, Az. I’m just saying.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t.” She’s smiling though, so I know she isn’t really mad at me. “Call me tonight, and we can talk about everything for your shower, okay?”
“You know I will,” I tell her as we head out to the main area of the salon.
Seraphine is finishing up a call when we hit the reception area. “I’ll talk to the girls, ‘kay, Mags? I’ll let you know in a day or two, I promise,” she says before replacing the phone in its cradle.
I shoot Azalea a quizzical look, which she mirrors right back at me. “Well, ladies, I might have some good news,” Seraphine tells us, and we both wait for her to elaborate. “That was my cousin, and she’s moving to Dogwood soon. Like real soon. Anyway, she was a hairstylist back in South Carolina, and I think she’d be a perfect fit here.” She rips a piece of paper from the notepad in front of her and hands it to Azalea. “I wrote down her info for y’all to look over.”
“Myla, we have to call her!” she exclaims.
“Have to? Why?” I question, her excitement surprising me.
“Magnolia. Her name is Magnolia.” And that’s all she needs to say. I don’t even have to meet her to know she belongs here with us. Nodding my head, I tell Azalea to set up an interview with her before heading out. It’s just past lunch time, and the only thing I’ve eaten today is a cupcake. The bean and I need real food, and some chicken salad from Dream Beans sounds like perfection.
17
Cash
I pull up to the local coffee shop at eleven forty-five on the dot. My meeting with the owner isn’t until noon, but I’m a firm believer that fifteen minutes early is on time, and on time is late.
Not to mention, I want to make a good first impression. Word of mouth is the way of life in small towns. If they like me and my work, they’ll tell their friends.
Stepping inside, I take a look around. My
eyes are instantly drawn to the coffee bar. It’s made from what looks to be salvaged barn wood. It’s gorgeous. Continuing my inspection of the place, I’m getting more than a little excited for this job. The owner has a good eye and I’m looking forward to leaving my mark behind with the custom display cabinet they want me to build.
I saunter up the bar and introduce myself to the girl working it. I’m just about to ask her if it’s okay for me to head on back to speak with the owner when he claps me on the shoulder. “Mr. Carson. Right on time.”
“Please, call me Cash,” I tell him as we walk back to his office. We both take a seat and immediately start discussing his wish list for the cabinet he wants from me. “Well, Mr. Brooks, I really like the feel of this place, and I think a custom cabinet from me would fit the bill just right. Let me ask you a question real quick though . . .” He nods and I continue. “That wood on the bar, where’s it from?”
“Ah, yes. That’s wood from my great-granddaddy’s barn. When it came time to re-roof the barn, we decided it wasn’t worth the cost with none of us actually usin’ it since he passed, so we saved all the wood we could. Got most of it, thankfully. In fact, I should have just enough left for you to build my cabinet.”
My face splits into a wide grin. The thought of working with such old lumber has my heart speeding up just a bit. “Well, hot damn, that sounds amazing. You mind if I hang onto this wish list?”
“You go right ahead, son.” Mr. Brooks secures his notes into a file folder and slides them across the table to me.
“All right, thank you very much. I’m just gonna take a few measurements and I’ll be on my way.”
We both stand and shake hands before going on about our business. He heads to his desk, and I make my way out to my truck to grab my tape measure and notepad.
I’m on my knees, bent over my notepad, muttering measurements and calculations to myself when I hear Myla Rose’s angelic voice. I swear, I could pick that voice out of a damn crowd, no problem.
She’s at the bar, presumably placing her order. Her back is to me, and I take advantage, letting my eyes slowly trail her from head to toe, lingering in all the right places.
Girl is too damn fine. Too bad I probably ruined any shot I had with her—even as a friend. Still, now is the perfect time to tuck tail and apologize.
She pays the barista and spins on her heel, scanning the coffee shop for a free table. Lucky me, the only free table happens to be right next to where I’m set up. I rise from my crouched position as she approaches. “Hello there, Myla Rose. How are you today?”
Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised to see me. “I’m doin’ just fine, thanks for asking. How about you?”
“My good day just got even better,” I reply as I pull her chair out and gesture for her to have a seat.
“Oh, um . . .” She’s at a loss for words as I lower myself into the chair across from her.
“I wanna apologize for how I acted the other day. I was outta line, and I’m sorry. You think you can forgive me?” I hit her with my most charming smile.
Her cheeks turn that delicious rosy hue, making me wonder just how far I could make the blush spread, making me wonder if that’s how she looks when . . .
“Of course, Cash.” Her words, spoken in such an unsure tone, derail my dirty train of thought, which is probably for the best because this isn’t the time or place.
“You sure about that, Myla Rose?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Everyone is entitled to a mistake or two.” Her voice comes out crisp and clear, letting me know she means every word.
Thank God. The thought of this girl being mad at me—yeah, I'll pass.
“Well, good. I wanna make it up to you though.” She starts to shake her head to refuse, but I just keep right on. “Please, let me take you out, Myla Rose. What’s the worst that could happen?” I plead, hitting her with my best puppy dog eyes.
“Okay, I guess,” she relents. Hell yes!
“Next weekend, Friday night?” She tells me that’s fine with her, and we exchange numbers with the promise of finalizing plans later in the week.
18
Myla Rose
“Get up, get in the shower, and dry your hair, Myla Rose. I’m on my way, and if I don’t hear the whir of your hair dryer when I get there, I swear I’ll knock you into next week, pregnant or not.”
I grumble and groan as I disconnect the call and set about following Azalea’s instructions. She can be sweet as sugar, but she can also be downright terrifying. Twelve years of friendship have taught me that sometimes, it’s best to let her have her way, and this seems to be one of those times. Plus, if she sees that I listened, maybe she’ll cut me some slack and let me back out.
I mean, what on earth was I thinking telling him he could take me on a date? Not a date, Myla Rose. He said he just wants to make up for his rudeness the other day. And really, that’s A-Okay with me, because as much as I hate to admit it, his abrupt change in attitude really hurt. Which is just plum silly. Silly, silly, silly. I rinse those thoughts away, along with the suds from my coconut-scented body wash.
After toweling off, I wiggle my way into a pair of cropped jeans and a merlot colored lace top. “No-no-no,” I mutter as I stare at my reflection in horror when I hear the creak of the front door. “Myles!” Azalea’s voice echoes through the house. “Why don’t I hear your blow dryer?”
Maybe if I ignore her, she’ll just leave . . .
“Do you want to wear your hair straight or in waves?” Azalea calls to me through the bathroom door.
“AzzyJo,” I whine, “I’m not going, so it doesn’t matter. Give me my phone so I can call him and cancel.”
“No, ma’am. Not gonna happen.” Her voice is firm, unrelenting. This girl is a total force to be reckoned with.
“Okay, then you call him. Tell him I’m sick. Something—anything,” I beg.
She drums her nails against the bathroom door. "Come out and talk to me. What’s got you all spun up?”
I shove the door open and stalk over to my bed, where Azalea is laid out like a cat sunning at high noon.
“Azalea Josephine Barnes, I cannot go anywhere lookin’ like this.” I stomp my foot for emphasis. “My jeans don’t button, and this top makes me look like ten pounds of shit shoved into a five-pound bag. No, no, no, no!”
Azalea, to her credit, keeps her cool. She slowly assesses my outfit, her lips twitching as she tries not to laugh.
“Oh, Myla. Goodness gracious, you’re not lyin’. Take that off and let me pick something out for you.”
By the time I shimmy and jiggle out of the offending outfit, AzzyJo has a new one laid out on the bed for me.
“A dress? You want me to wear a dress?”
“Yes, a dress. Put it on and stop acting like I’m torturing you.”
I slip the dress over my head and appraise my appearance in the full-length mirror hanging on my closet door. This time, I don't hate what I see. I look . . . nice.
The dress is a deep navy, almost the color of ink, and made from the softest cotton I’ve ever felt, and its A-line silhouette is super flattering. “Where did you find this?” I ask, my tone accusing, because I know it isn’t from my closet.
She ignores me while I continue staring at myself in the mirror, turning every which way to check all my angles. I find no fault—I look really good. The dark color of the dress pops against my red hair and pale skin. Damn her, why is she always right?
She laughs, knowing she has me beat. “Told you so, and I found it at this cute little boutique across the bay and just had to get it for you. Sit down, I’ll dry your damn hair for you, and as I asked earlier, straight or wavy?”
“I know I don’t say this enough, but thank you, Az. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
19
Cash
Myla Rose and I settled on six o’clock for our not-date. But damn if it doesn’t feel like one. I even washed and waxed my truck. Which is why I’m five minutes past si
x pulling up to her house. Late. I’m fucking late. I scrub a hand over my face, hoping she doesn't hold my tardiness against me. I sure as hell don't need another tic in the Con column.
I take in her house in an entirely new light now. It was beautiful before—but knowing her Grandpa built it by hand . . . yeah, that blows my mind. As I approach the house, I really take the time to notice the detail, the trim and the intricate wood work on the porch. Incredible.
I rap my knuckles on the front door three times and wait. And wait, and wait. Girl's got a thing for not answering the door.
Finally, as I’m about to knock again, the door flies open, and I’m face-to-face with Azalea.
“Good evenin’, Azalea,” I greet her.
“Myla isn’t quite ready yet. You’re welcome to come on in and wait.” She opens the door wide enough for me to pass through.
She guides me to the living room, and just like outside, I take in the interior of the house with fresh eyes. I can almost hear the echoes of Myla Rose running up and down the steps as a little girl.
“Let me just run and check on her,” she tells me as I situate myself on the over-stuffed white loveseat.
I’ve been sitting here, waiting, for what feels like an eternity when I hear hushed voices from just outside the room. “Myla Rose, you get out there right now! That man is waitin’ on you!” I smile to myself, amused at her reluctance.
After a few more minutes, I hear them both approaching. It’s a good thing I’m seated when they come into view, because the sight of Myla Rose would have knocked me clear on my ass.
Her fiery locks are styled in long, cascading waves—it looks so pretty that I can’t help but want to mess it up, to run my hands through it and tug on it.
She may be petite, but in that short, flowy dress, her legs look like they go on for days. But what strikes me the most is that even without a lick of makeup, she glows. She shines so bright that everything around her dulls. It’s like I have tunnel vision, and she’s all I can see.
