Page 47 of Coming Up Roses

“Simon just texted me and said Cash was outside my house earlier. That’s weird, right?”

She’s on her phone again, so she doesn’t respond, her fingers flying across the screen faster than a hot knife through butter. I guess I’ll just have to wait for Simon to tell me.

“Huh? What’d you say?” she asks me several minutes later.

“Nothin’, AzzyJo. It’s not important.” I figure it’s better not to get into with her. She’ll have me thinking it means more than it does.

While she may not be much for romance in her personal life, she loves to set others up. Dogwood’s very own Cupid.

After dropping Azalea at her car, I head home. I need to get the stuff from our shopping trip sorted, and then I plan on having a little chat with Simon McAllister.

* * *

I pullup to my house, beyond exhausted. A nap sounds like heaven. Then, I’ll head over to Simon’s house. Maybe I can talk Drake into coming over—two birds and whatnot.

I'm just about to slide my key into the lock when I notice flowers propped up against the door. What on earth?

Reaching down, I grab them and feel paper brush against my knuckles. I snatch the folded sheet of paper up from the porch as well and head inside. After lugging my shopping bags up to what will be the nursery, I plop myself, and the bags, down onto the floor.

The paper I’m holding looks like some sort of scrap paper. It’s smudged and there’s an assortment of numbers scrawled in the margin.

As I slowly unfold the note, I’m hit with the delicious, familiar smell of Cash Carson. Did he leave these flowers? The handwriting is masculine and messy. It looks slightly rushed, like he was in a hurry to leave—though I'm surprised he was even here.

Myla Rose-

Sorry for . . . everything. Again.

Please know those messages

weren't what you think.

I’m just . . . sorry. I’m sorry.

-Cash

The gesture’s sweet, though I’m not sure I believe him. Those texts had surely meant something . . . right?

I snip the ends of the flowers before arranging them in an antique brass vase. I have always loved fresh flowers. They just brighten up a room—that’s what Grams always said, and it stuck.

Ever since she passed, I’ve made sure to have them in at least one room of the house. Though I haven’t bought any since being pregnant. Turns out that my little bean didn’t share my fondness for fresh flowers for the first bit of my pregnancy.

Thankfully, my sensitivity to fragrance hit the road, along with my morning sickness, a while ago. Lord, yes. And now, I can start back up with my flower habit.

Carrying the vase out to the dining room, I place the arrangement in the center of the table. As much as I hate to admit it, he picked some really pretty flowers. An assortment of wildflowers, and you guessed it—roses.

It’s like the man has insider information on the things I love or he’s an incredibly lucky guesser. Whatever. I’ll send him a thank you note and call it a day. I have no desire to play with the fire that is Cash Carson. None whatsoever, at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

---