Page 22 of Coming Up Roses

Cash

With the towelshe 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.

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