Page 59 of Coming Up Roses

“You needs one too, Miss Myla Rose,” Preston declares.

“Hmm, I guess you’re right. I do.”

“Could it be Princess Myla?” he asks.

“I think I’d like that very much. So, P, how are we cutting your hair today?”

I like how she directs her questions to him and not to me, and I know he likes it too.

“Uncle Cash saids I look like a raggle-muffin. So, um. Just make me look like a normal boy.”

“One normal boy haircut, coming up.”

Lucas and I watch as she combs and cuts his hair, and while Lucas is much more interested in the hair on the ground, I’m interested in her.

The way she’s so damn confident. The way each and every cut is precise. The way she holds a conversation with Preston while maintaining her focus. Watching her work is something else.

Just as I’m about to attempt to insert myself into their conversation, Azalea comes over to let us know that she’s ready for Lucas. “Hey there, Lucas. You ready to get your haircut?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m ready. I want a normal boy haircut, just like my brother, please.”

“Bud, we can do that for sure.” She pauses to examine the way Myla is cutting Preston’s hair before taking a hold of his hand and leading him to her chair.

“We are just about finished, P. Let me trim up your neck and you can tell me whatcha think. But you have to sit real, real still—like a statue. Can you do that?” She expertly trims up his little neckline and runs her hands through his hair before rotating him to face the mirror.

“It’s perfect, Princess Myla. My mommy will love it.”

“Hey, what do you know? That’s exactly what I was hoping you’d say.” She removes his cape and lowers the chair before telling him, “Okay, dude. If you wanna go back up front, Miss Seraphine will give you a page to color and a small snack.” He thanks her and hurries along, anxious for that snack. I swear those boys have holes in their legs with the amount of food they consume.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now, darlin'." The words fall from my lips before I even have a chance to think about them.

“Guess so,” she says, her cheeks that pretty shade of pink I love so much. I’m not sure why, but it sure does make me feel good knowing that I have some kind of effect on her. “We cutting like we did the last time?”

“Yeah, I liked that. Just trim it back down.” She runs her hands through my hair, trailing her nails across my scalp. It takes every ounce of self-control I possess to hold in my groan.

When she makes it to my neck, though, all bets are off.

“Goddamn.” My voice is gruff and low. Gritty, like sandpaper. She jerks her hand away from me like she’s been burned, so I know she heard me. And that’s okay.

Instead of acknowledging my remark, she jumps right into her work. She’s buzzing down the sides when I finally speak up. “Listen, I know we haven’t really talked about anything, but I–I'd really like a chance to explain.”

“Let's just let sleeping dogs lie, okay?”

"Not gonna happen. I need to talk to you. Please hear me out?"

"Cash, please. It's okay. I just—I wish you'd have been upfront with me. Instead, you filled my head with all kinda thoughts. Really, though, let's just move on."

I hate the sadness I hear in her voice. It guts me. I have to find a way to get her to listen to me.

“Shit.” I run a hand through my hair, knocking her hands away. “Listen to me and listen closely. Those texts were from my brother. He's usually a good guy, but sometimes he's an immature asshole. He wasn't being serious—he was giving me a hard time. Doesn't make it right, but that's the long and short of it. I'm so goddamn sorry. Truly."

“Oh, okay. If you say so, Cash.” She still sounds unsure, and that’s not working for me.

“I swear it. I was lucky you even gave me the chance to take you out again, and I promise you with all that I am—that isn't the kind of guy I am. I don't sleep around, and I sure as hell don't treat women like they're disposable. I've only been in one serious relationship, and you know how that ended. Jake thought he was being funny. He knows, now, that he wasn't."

I rotate the chair around so that I'm facing her. She needs to see me. I plant my feet firmly on the floor and reach out and pull her closer, my hand to her hip. I'm operating on pure instinct. The need to feel her is almost overwhelming.

“Please, darlin’. I’m sorry, so fucking sorry.”

I hold her stare—I want to be sure she sees my apology in addition to hearing it. “And know this, Myla Rose. If you ever give me the privilege of taking you out again, I won’t mess it up. Not even a little.”

With my last words, I give her hip a light squeeze, just for emphasis. Startled, she tips toward me. Her hands fly to my shoulders to brace herself. For a few seconds, we stay just like that, and all feels right in the world.

---