Page 12 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

I feel his hand resting on my growing belly and I snuggle into his warmth. He brushes my hair out of my face and places a soft kiss on my neck, just beneath my ear, and murmurs, “Good mornin’, darlin’.” I roll over and reach out for him, only to find cold sheets.

No one is there. It’s that damn dream. Again. Mr. Good Eyes has been the star of my dreams almost every night since I assaulted him with my buggy at the Piggly Wiggly. That was weeks ago. So, for weeks, I've been dreaming of some guy I talked to for a total of sixty seconds, tops.

Maybe when I see Dr. Mills for my sixteen-week appointment, I’ll ask him if outrageous dreams are a pregnant thing. Because that is the only word to describe these dreams. We don’t even know each other, and I can guaran-damn-tee that man wouldn’t have a lick of interest in me.

Even though the salon is technically closed today, I’m meeting AzzyJo there to talk about hiring a third stylist. Dogwoodmay be a small town, but Southern ladies are religious about their hair—every four-to-six weeks, like clockwork.

I’m barely through the door when Azalea is shoving a piece of paper in my face. “Myla Rose, just look at this flier I made for the salon. Gorgeous, huh?” She is literally so close to my face that everything on the page blurs together.

I swat her hand away. “Well, AzzyJo, I would certainly love to offer my opinion, but you have the damn paper so close to me I can’t see shit!”

“Sorry, I am just so excited! I worked all night on this.” She takes a breath. “So, what do you think? I’m dyin’ here, Myla!” Her blonde curls spring and boing all around as she bounces on the balls of her feet. I swear, someone put crack in her coffee this morning.

“Girl. Calm down. I’m too tired for your level of perky this morning. Let’s sit down, and I’ll take a look, okay?”

“Fine. Just come on. I worked hard, and you know how I am. I thrive on positive praise.” I roll my eyes and inspect the flier. It really is beautiful. A background of watercolor flowers, with our salon name in a brushed script front and center. The flier also details our need for a third stylist. Azalea outdid herself with this. It’s perfect, and I tell her so.

“Oh. I’m so thrilled you like it. I was worried you’d hate it.” Her smile stretches wide from one peridot eye to the other.

“Nope, AzzyJo, it is just what we need. Do whatcha need to and get it posted.” I stand and hand the paper back to her. “Now, I have errands that need runnin’ and laundry that needs tendin’. So, I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

“Yes, ma’am, bright and early. And you wear some yoga pants or something stretchy, because tomorrow is Tuesday, and we ARE going to eat our weight in tacos after work! No excuses, Myla Rose. Tired or not!”

* * *

AzzyJo wasgood on her suggestion for yoga pants. My jeans are all too damn tight thanks to my ever-growing baby bump. I mean, I’m hardly showing, but my clothes sure don’t fit right. With a resigned huff, I pull on my most comfy black yogas and pair them with a loose-fitting, sleeveless white trapeze top. I slip my feet into my trusty, well-worn Keds and finish the look with a messy bun—let’s call it I’m-too-tired-for-this chic.

I decide to walk the few blocks to the salon today, hoping that the fresh air, along with my travel mug of coffee, will energize me.

By the time I make it to the salon, I am slightly sweaty—or as Azalea would say, glistening. It’s only April, but it’s already warm as hell this morning. That’s life in the South though. The warm weather comes quick and lingers long.

“Whatcha smilin’ about?” Seraphine asks as I set my station up for the day. Guess that fresh air did the trick.

“I didn’t realize I was smiling. Must just be a good morning.”

She tucks her waist-length black hair behind her ear, waiting for me to elaborate. After a short pause, she moves on. “Well, I wanted to tell you that I added an appointment to your book this morning. Some guy called—said he was new in town and that his buddies told him this was the only place worth coming to. Hope that’s okay?”

“Of course, that’s totally fine. New business is always good. What time did you book him?”

“I stuck him in your ten o’clock slot.”

“In my ten? I thought Mrs. Sutherland was—”

“Yeah, she was, but she called right before he did and rescheduled to Thursday. Something about her kid swallowing a penny.”

“Poor guy.” I grin, thinking that will be my life in a few years. “Thanks for letting me know.” I head back to the dispensary, where we keep our excess supplies and color, to chat with Azalea before my first client arrives.

She’s sitting at our small break table folding towels, so I grab one and start folding to help out. She looks up and greets me with a beaming smile. “Myla Rose! Are you ready for tacos tonight?”

I can’t help but laugh at her excitement. “Yes, I’m ready for tacos—yoga pants and all.” I wave my arms Vanna White style to showcase my stretchy, loose-fitting ensemble. “And the bean is on our side. All I can think about is some fresh guac!” I rub my bump to emphasize my point, and she reaches out to do the same.

We simultaneously pause the belly rubbing when we hear the bell on the door chime. “You head on out, Myla Rose. That must be yours. My first isn’t until eleven.” I nod and head toward my station.

I’m organizing my clipper guards at my station when I hear, "Grocery store girl! It's you!" I gasp and look up to see Mr. Good Eyes smiling down at me.

"Oh, my! It's y–you." I know I’m blushing and internally scold myself. Get it together, Myla Rose.He is a client in your salon. It doesn’t matter one bit that he's too handsome for his own good.

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