Page 17 of Coming Up Roses

Cash

I walkinto the restaurant where I’m meeting the guys, and my senses are instantly assaulted from all sides. The smell of grilled meat and a hint of fresh lime juice, the sound of laughter from the other patrons, the music of the three-piece band—it’s a lot to take in, but it feels right. A quick glance around the dining room, and I find Drake and Simon seated at a large round table toward the back. They aren’t alone—two girls are at the table as well.

“Hola, sir. Welcome to Azteca’s. Just one tonight?”

I nod my head toward the back. “No, ma’am, I’m joining some friends.” The hostess offers me a menu before sending me on back toward their table.

I’m just about to call out my arrival to the guys when the blonde at the table says, “Your buddy, Cash, has had her tied up in knots since he came in this morning.”

The girls at the table are the stylists from Southern Roots. The good Lord must be smiling on me this evening. I haven’t been able to get Miss Myla Rose out of my head all damn day, and it wasn’t the haircut she gave me tying up real estate in my mind either—even if it is the best damn haircut I’ve ever had. No, it was her soft voice with that Southern drawl, her curvy little body, the freckles on her nose, the thought of running my fingers through her long hair—those were the thoughts I couldn’t shake. And now, here she is.

I decide not to announce my arrival. Instead, I walk up quietly, bend toward Myla Rose, and whisper in her ear, “Have I now?” My voice is hoarse from our proximity. I find myself taken by the soft scent of her, my lips a breath away from her neck. Coconuts mixed with vanilla—it’s intoxicating. Myla Rose doesn’t answer my question, and that’s all fine and well. I didn’t intend for her to.

I smile at the rest of the table and introduce myself to the blonde sitting between Drake and Simon. “Cash Carson. Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Azalea, but most people call me AzzyJo,” she offers, slightly slack-jawed. I shake her hand, just like I did with Myla Rose at the salon, but it’s not the same. With Myla Rose, it was exhilarating, the feel of her skin on mine. With Azalea, it’s just a handshake, business as usual.

Drake clears his throat. “AzzyJo, you’d better close that mouth unless you wanna catch flies.”

He smirks. She scowls.

“Drake Ulysses Collins, you shut your damn mouth.”

“You gonna make me, Little Bit?”

“Oh, my God—”

“CHILDREN! Quit bickering. Goodness, some of us want to enjoy our meal,” Myla Rose snaps. Girl has fire, and damn if I don’t like it. Probably more than I should.

“Ain’t no damn child . . .” Drake mutters under his breath, sounding very much like a child.

In true Simon fashion, he’s just been observing everyone, smiling at their antics. I swear that dude sees, hears, and knows so much more than he lets on.

The waiter returns to ask me what I want to drink, as well as get my, Drake’s, and Simon’s food orders. An ice-cold Coke and some steak nachos will do me real nice. Everyone also orders a round of margaritas, as well. Everyone except for Myla Rose.

“Not drinking tonight?” I ask her, gesturing toward the oversized fishbowl glasses.

“Um, no.” She looks up at me with a hesitant smile and places a hand on her abdomen. “Not for a while, Cash.”

That small movement—that tiny unconscious gesture—takes me back to the other day at Drake’s when he was telling me to go to Southern Roots for a haircut. He started to tell me about one of the girls being pregnant . . .

Surely, he didn’t mean Myla Rose. She’s just so tiny. And don’t pregnant woman love to talk about their pregnancies? I know Paige did. Every other word out of her mouth for her entire nine months was about her babies, her stretch marks, her swelling—something. I swear, some days, Jake would hide out at my place just to get a break from baby talk.

“I see. Me neither. Never was much for alcohol. My dad was a mean drunk,” I tell her, hoping that tidbit will get her to open up to me a bit about why she isn’t drinking.

“Oh? I never knew my dad.”

“So, how many girls work at the salon?” I ask her, still fishing.

“Well, I believe you’ve met us all—I own it with AzzyJo, and we have Seraphine, our receptionist.”

Damn, that is not the answer I was going for. Maybe it’s Seraphine who’s pregnant? Even though she looks even younger than Myla Rose. Deciding to roll with that assumption, I ask, “So, when is Seraphine due?”

“Due for what?” she deadpans, brow arched.

“Her baby . . .?” My hope that Seraphine is the one with child is fading fast. Why do I even care?

“What? No.” She shakes her head. “Seraphine’s not pregnant. What on earth gave you that idea?”

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