Page 36 of Coming Up Roses

Cash

Myla Roseand 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 six 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.

I stand and walk to her, not by choice, but by force. She’s reeling me toward her, and I’m helpless to stop it. I stop directly in front of her. “You look . . . absolutely radiant.” She tilts her head down to hide the pink creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

“Okay, you kids have a nice night now,” Azalea says, ushering us out the door.

* * *

“So, where are we going?”Myla Rose asks as I steer us down her long driveway. I’m not gonna lie. I was looking forward to helping her up into the truck, but she had herself seated and buckled before I even had a chance. As hot as Myla Rose is, her independence is hotter.

“Well, I thought we’d head on over to Cotton?”

“The farm-to-table place?”

“That’s the one.” I sneak a glance in her direction, only to find her eyes lit up like Christmas lights. Guess she likes that idea.

“Oh, my stars! I have just been dyin’ to try that place! I’ve heard they have the best steaks!” Her excitement is so damn cute that I don’t even try to conceal the grin spreading across my face.

We fall into a comfortable silence, the tires spinning on the asphalt and the low hum of the radio the only sounds in the cab of the truck.

As I navigate the truck into a parking spot, I clear my throat to get her attention. “Now, Myla Rose, you wait for me to come around and open your door, yeah?”

“I’m more than capable—” she starts to protest.

“Never said you weren’t, darlin’. Now, sit tight.” I jog around to her side of the truck and open her door, extending my hand to her.

She hesitates but then takes it, her skin warm against mine. She hops down, her body sliding against mine as she does. God, yes. More, please.

“Oh! Look how pretty,” she squeals as we approach Cotton.

She isn’t wrong either. It’s got some definite curb appeal. The restaurant is housed in an old white-washed brick building, the entrance framed by a pergola covered in jasmine.

Myla Rose stops just outside the pergola, an awestruck look on her face. “Cash, this is just . . . perfect.”

She’s right about that, too, except I’m not looking at the restaurant. I’m looking at her. Looking at the way she appreciates everything around her. I’m taken with the way the setting sun silhouettes her curves.

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