by LK Farlow
About half an hour into the actual build, my phone finally chirps with an incoming text. I all but throw my speed-square and pencil to the ground in hopes that it’s Myla Rose.
Myla Rose: Home! Sorry I kept you waiting. My phone was dead.
Me: Just glad you made it safe, darlin’.
Myla Rose: Thank you for this weekend, Cash.
Me: Nothing to thank me for. I enjoyed it just as much, if not more.
Me: You work Monday?
Myla Rose: Kind of. We’re interviewing a stylist.
Me: Gotcha. You have lunch plans Tuesday?
Myla Rose: Just work. A whole lotta work. Call me later? XOXO
I smirk at her little ‘XOXO’, because hell yeah, I’d sure love a bit of that from her. A bit of that, and then some. And I’m not just talking about sex either. I’m talking about everything that is Myla Rose.
It’s the little things. Like the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not looking. A shift of her eyes, a lilting smile. It heats my blood, causing it to run faster in my veins. I know this feeling. Need—it’s need. Indescribable and insatiable need.
I mean, yeah, it’s her touch, especially now that I truly know it, but it’s still more.
So much more.
It’s her laugh. Her thoughts. It’s the glint in her dark chocolate eyes. It’s the way her freckles dance across her skin. It’s the swell of her belly. Fuck, just knowing she’s growing life inside her. It’s the soft, quiet way she sighs my name. It’s all-consuming. She’s all-consuming, and I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. I just hope she’s feeling it too.
I’m so focused on the task at hand that everything else falls to the wayside. Time, food, hydration, comfort . . . all of it. This crib needs to be perfect, and I’ll settle for nothing less. Hours and hours of marking, cutting, and sanding, and I think I’m just about ready for assembly.
It’s not until a bead of sweat drips from the tip of my nose that I realize just how hot it is in here. With a quick check of the time, I see that I’ve been here far longer than I thought. Hours upon hours have passed. It’s damn near nine o’clock and well past dinner time.
Calling it quits, I clean my work station and cover the crib with a tarp for safekeeping. It’s time for food and sleep. Keeping Preston and Lucas all weekend drained me. But I loved every second of it, and I sure as shit hope that one day, it’ll be Myla’s little man wearing me out, and if I’m really lucky, calling me ‘Dad’.
Ain’t no sense in working when I’m tired and risking being sloppy. First thing tomorrow, though? This bad boy is getting nailed and varnished.
33
Myla Rose
I’m lying in bed wide awake, knowing—dreading—the fact that my alarm clock is about to buzz. I’m so far beyond exhausted, and this time, it’s not pregnancy related.
No, this is all due to Cash Carson. He called me last night around ten . . . said he wanted to hear my voice before his head hit his pillow. Talk about butterflies.
However, what was meant to be a quick good-night turned into hours. We talked about everything under the sun, and eventually, I fell asleep to the sound of his voice. Which is better than any damn sound machine.
My eyes drift shut as I replay events from the past week in my mind. While the direction I’m heading in surprises me, I wouldn’t change a thing. Cash is the very embodiment of everything I’ve ever wanted. Where Taylor belittled me and made me feel small, Cash is constantly building me up. I swear, the man is one part easygoing, one part good looks, and two parts Southern charm. More importantly, though, he’s mine. All mine.
With a long stretch and a groan, I force myself out of bed. Today is a big day at the salon. We’re meeting Seraphine’s cousin, Magnolia, and I want to make a good first impression.
A quick shower, a dollop of tinted moisturizer, and a swipe of lip gloss and I’m out the door. I also detour to Dream Beans for an extra-large vanilla latte, because caffeine. I savor that first piping hot sip, relishing the way it warms me from the inside out.
Azalea’s voice comes from behind me. “Myla Rose, how did I know I’d find you here?”
“Great minds think alike?”
“That they do, sister-girl, that they do.” She pops the lid off her coffee and adds three packets of raw sugar. “So, you ready to meet Ms. Magnolia?”
“I really am. I hope she’s what we’ve been looking for,” I tell her as we make our way across the street.
“I have a good feeling about her, Myles, I really do.”
Azalea and I are sitting in the waiting area when there’s a light knock at the front door. “Come on in, it’s open,” AzzyJo calls out, and ever so slowly, the door opens.
I’m pretty sure we’re both struck dumb when Magnolia steps through the threshold. With her sun-kissed skin, dirty blonde hair, and dazzling baby blues, she’s out of this world beautiful. Like, I’m talking highest-paid, Fashion Week runway model pretty.
“H–hi, I’m M–Magnolia,” she says with her eyes glued to her feet.
Azalea and I exchange glances, not knowing quite what to make of her. I think we were both expecting Magnolia to be a mirror of Seraphine when it turns out they couldn’t possibly be more opposite.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Azalea,” she says as she extends her hand toward Magnolia, causing her to jump back. Her cheeks pinken and her eyes dart around the room, seemingly embarrassed by her reaction.
“And I’m Myla Rose. Have a seat. We’re so glad you’re here.” I gesture to the waiting area, trying my damndest to make her feel welcome and at ease. My gut, coupled with her mannerisms, tells me she’s as skittish as a foal and that we need to go slow with her.
Magnolia lingers on the welcome mat for just a moment before lowering herself into the nearest chair. “S–sorry, I’m not normally such a mess.” She lets out a humorless laugh. “At least not this much of a mess.”
“Hey, no problem. Nerves get the better of us all from time to time. Just ask Azalea over there about the time she almost peed her pants because Drake Collins laughed at one of her jokes.”
With an eye roll, Azalea scoffs. “Shut up, Myles! Jesus, I was like fifteen. Move on already.”
“No way, no how. Never gonna happen.” I turn my back on a sulking Azalea and focus my attention on the dark blonde beauty. “So, Magnolia, what brought you to Dogwood?”
She fidgets in her seat, ruminating on her answer. “Um . . . I needed a change. Badly. And with Seraphine and Uncle Dave being here, it just seemed right.”
“Well, it’s a great place, that’s for sure. We’re both lifers,” Azalea tells her with a saucy grin. “So, how long have you been doing hair?”
“Six years. But I took the last two off, so I guess four.”
“Two years off? Wow, how come?” Azalea asks.
I swear, that girl is clueless sometimes. “Ignore her, Mags. Can I call you Mags?”
“Oh, um, I mean . . . if you want?”
“No way, girl, if you want. Think on it.” The more we chat, the more relaxed Magnolia becomes. Eventually, her posture loosens, and while she’s not cracking any jokes, she’s certainly laughing at ours.
“So, let’s take a look at the salon, and we’ll show you your station,” I tell her as Azalea helps me to stand.
“Oh, I’m h–hired?”
We both look at her blankly and in unison say, “Well, duh.”
After a quick tour, she thanks us profusely and tells us she’ll get moved in this week. We wait until we see her drive away before squealing like lunatics, because even though she’s shy, she’s a perfect fit. The calm to our crazy.
34
Myla Rose
I swear, since Sunday, I’ve been walking around on a Cash Carson high. But now that I haven’t seen him since, I’m crashing and heading into withdrawals.
That man is so far under my skin that he’s my first thought every morning and my last every night. I literally fall asleep to his voice and wake up to a sweet text
.
A girl could get used to this, that’s for damn sure. With that said, insanely busy or not, I need to see him. Need to feel him. Touch him. Taste him.
It’s eleven o’clock in the morning, and I’ve already done three colors and two cuts. I’m dead standing and nowhere near finished, thanks to the fact that I’ve had to sprinkle my Friday clients throughout the rest of the week to accommodate my twenty-week appointment. I’m way overbooked.
Once the last of the hair on the floor is swept up, I take refuge in the dispensary. I have twenty minutes before my next client, and as hungry as I am, my exhaustion is winning. I plan to sit here until I absolutely have to move.
I swear, no one ever talks about the downsides of pregnancy . . . bloating, fatigue, swelling, and I’m only halfway!
I quickly tap out a text to Cash, just to say Hi, before laying my head on the table. My body is slowly relaxing, and I’m on the verge of a really great nap when that oh-so-yummy citrus scent invades my senses.
Yeah, this is exactly the kind of dream I like. One where my man is the star. And I swear, I hear his voice calling my name.
It’s not until I feel a warm, rough hand shaking my shoulder that I realize I’m not dreaming. Cash is here.
Cash is here! I whip my head up, almost knocking it on his. “Easy there, darlin’. Don’t want you getting hurt.”
“What are you doing here?” My eyes widen as I hear how incredibly rude I sounded. “I mean, not that I don’t want you here. I’m just surprised. Very pleasantly, though.”
“You told me how busy you were today, and I wanted to make sure you ate, so I stopped and grabbed a few slices of pizza from Rocco’s. That suit you, darlin’?” My belly grumbles loudly in response. “Guess that’s a yes, then.”
Cash pulls up a chair right next to mine, so close that I can feel the heat of his body. That man seems to run hot, but you won’t ever hear me complain.
I dig into the pizza, taking one huge bite after another, and like he can read my mind, Cash is there, holding out a bottle of water right when I need it. “Seriously, Cash, thank you so much. I wouldn’t have eaten until dinner—”
He cuts me off. “No. That’s not okay, Myla Rose.” His stern tone takes me by surprise.
“No? Excuse me, but what?”
I know he can see the fire in my eyes. After Taylor, I’m done with men telling me what to do. “Take a breath, darlin’. All I’m saying is you need to look out for yourself. You need to eat three meals and then some. Keep you and that baby fed. I’ll bring you lunch every damn day if that’s what it takes.”
I look down to hide my smile. This man. “You’re too good to me,” I tell him honestly.
“I’m nowhere near good enough, but I’m sure as shit gonna try, darlin’. I know it’s fast, but you mean everything to me. I’m falling—know that.”
Instead of responding, I push my chair back from the table. Cash’s stormy eyes are clouded with confusion, but they quickly clear when I close and lock the door. “You can’t say things like that if you don’t mean them,” I tell him as I straddle his lap.
“I mean every word I say to you . . . ever.”
With my arms looped around his neck, I roll my hips and whisper in his ear, “I’m falling too.” He brings my lips to his, and his hands fall to my hips, gripping them to guide my movements, rocking me against him until I’m shaking—gasping—panting.
“You are so goddamn beautiful when you fall apart,” he tells me as he brushes my hair out of my face. “So beautiful.”
“What . . . what about you?” I ask, gesturing to the bulge in his jeans.
“Don’t worry about me, darlin’. That was all about you.”
“Well, hell. This was the best lunch break I’ve ever had.” Lunch break? Lunch break! Oh, Lord have mercy. I just got off at work. I’m going straight to hell. But damn, was it worth it.
“Glad to be of service.” He winks and gathers up our trash. “Call me when you get home, ‘kay?”
“You know I will, b–babe.”
His eyes widen at the endearment but quickly soften. “I like that, darlin’.” With a quick press of his lips to my forehead, he’s out the door and on his way.
Once I make sure my hair is not a bird’s nest, I cautiously open the dispensary door, only to come face-to-face with an incredibly curious Azalea. “Okay, sister-girl, wanna explain that glow you’re rocking?” She steps forward, urging us both back into the dispensary.
“Well, you know what they say—pregnant women glow.”
“Hmm. Wanna tell me why your man just walked outta here, looking like the king of the world while humming a little tune?”
I can’t help the smile that takes over my face at the picture she’s painting. I can just see him—a spring in his step and a smug grin. “Couldn’t tell you.”
“Oh, you most certainly can, and you will. Because if you leave me to piece this together on my own, I can only assume you just had some mid-morning delight . . . AT WORK!”
With wide eyes, I slap a hand over her mouth just as Seraphine steps into the room. “Azalea Josephine, you hush up.”
“Hush up about what?” Seraphine asks.
“Oh, Myles here just hooked up at work. Oh, Jesus! Did you Lysol?”
Seraphine, bless her, is trying her best to maintain her composure, but I can see it’s slipping.
“Oh, good gravy! There is nothing to sanitize. We made out, all hot and heavy, but no clothing was removed.”
“Oh.” Azalea sounds disappointed, and rightfully so. She’d love nothing more than to have something like this to tease me over. “Well, that sounds anticlimactic.”
“Not for me,” I mumble, causing the cord that is Seraphine’s composure to snap. She’s doubled over, clutching her stomach laughing.
“Y’all are some kinda mess. I seriously never know what to expect. Anyway, Myles, your client is here.”
“Thanks, hun,” I tell her with a smile as I head toward the reception area.
“Well, I’m still gonna Lysol!” Azalea hollers at my retreating back.
35
Cash
I walk out of Southern Roots on cloud nine. A little stiff in my stance, but cloud-fucking-nine nonetheless.
Every time I see Myla Rose, I feel a little bit lighter. She just has this constant glow, this joy, and damn if she doesn’t pour that light into others. Spending a little time with her before heading out to Mrs. Mills’ consultation was just what the doctor ordered.
Plugging the address Kathy gave me into my GPS, I shift my truck into gear, smiling all the while. Legit, after the last few days, there’s not a thing on this earth or otherwise that could knock this goofy-ass love-drunk grin from my lips.
As long as I’ve got Myla Rose, I’ve got everything I need and then some. She’s everything I thought I had with Kayla and so much more. And even though we haven’t really discussed it, I’m pretty positive we’re on the same page.
“You have arrived at your destination,” my GPS alerts me with her crisp British accent, all proper and shit.
I take in my surroundings and double-check the address. What I thought was a narrow road is, in fact, the Mills’ driveway. It’s long and winding, and about halfway down it is a massive iron gate with a family crest on each side of the opening. The landscaping, which runs the length of the drive and surrounds the house, is impeccable, and they even have a fountain in the middle of the circle drive.
The house itself is towering and slightly formidable with its deep red brick rising three stories high.
Who needs this much? I think to myself as I check to make sure I have everything I need for this consult, which I do. My notebook is nestled in my back pocket, my tape measure is secured at my side, and my pencil’s tucked behind my ear.
It’s show time.
I lift the ornate brass knocker, tapping it against the glossy black door, and not even two seconds later, the door opens, bringing me face-to-face with a butler. A butler. In a li
ttle butler suit and everything.
“Please, sir, do come in. Mrs. Mills will see you in the formal living room.”
“Uh, sure. Lead the way,” I tell him, trying my hardest not to laugh. He’s only doing his job, but come the fuck on.
I follow him through the house, taking several turns along the way. The floors are a white marble and the walls are papered in shades of gold. This shit’s like something out of a movie.
“Here we are, sir,” The butler informs me as we come to a set of French doors.
“Mr. Carson, how nice of you to join us. I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.” Her words instantly have my hackles up because I know I’m nowhere near late, and for her to imply it—yeah, that pisses me off. But, like they say, The customer is always right, so clenching my jaw, I grin and bear it.
“Yes, ma’am, traffic was a real beast today.” We both know I’m talking out of my ass, because in a town like this, the only thing that causes traffic is a tractor, and even then . . . “So, let’s talk a little more about the look you’re going for.”
“Yes, well, as we discussed, I’m in need of a new buffet. It’s meant for my son, as a pre-engagement gift. He’ll be here shortly, but until then, this is what I am imagining for him.” Mrs. Mills gestures to the huge scrapbook on the coffee table, and together, we begin flipping through it, looking at different designs.
Five minutes later, there’s a crackle of static before a voice floats through the room. “Your son has arrived, ma’am. Shall I send him back?”
“Yes, please do,” Kathy says as she presses a button on the wall next to her chair.
A few moments later, a voice I prayed I’d never—ever—hear again trickles into the room. “Mother, I’m here . . .”
