Page 20 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

Cash watches me,his stare unwavering, until I’m safely on the other side of the door. I turn the lock and rush up to my bedroom to peek through my curtains, making it just in time to see his taillights fading.

His words are still so fresh in my mind, and my God, do those words have my mind creating scenarios I know are too good to be true.

In my mind, I’m bombarded with images of us. There is no us. Good gravy, get a grip. He was being hypothetical. He never said he was the right man.

I’m torn between hugging AzzyJo or wringing her neck. What in the hell was she even thinking, trying to set me up? Obviously, she wasn’t. It’s truly laughable, but I know her heart was in the right place. “A” for effort, and all that.

Cash Carson may not be meant for me, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends. A girl can always use more friends, right?

Friends. Yup, I’ll be his friend, even if it kills me. Because so much about that man is deadly . . . at least to my heart—and my sanity.

I fall into bed, my mind still circling his words like a hamster in a ball. Eventually, my exhaustion overpowers my late-night musings, and sleep comes fast. Thank God, because morning will be here in no time flat.

* * *

My alarm goesoff at seven, on the dot, and I skip right over the snooze button. Beating the heat and humidity is my top priority. I’ve put off pressure washing the house for too long. Grams is probably rolling in her grave at the sight of the grime creeping its way up her house.

I throw on some yoga shorts—seriously, the best damn waistbands for pregnant women—and an oversized T-shirt before making a beeline straight for the kitchen. Coffee first—always.

I’m mid-sip when I hear a vehicle pull up at the front of the house. “Who on earth . . .” I mutter as I peer out the window.

There Cash Carson is, in all his glory, unloading a damn pressure washer from the bed of his truck. It looks like a nice one, too, not like the little rinky-dink secondhand one I planned on using. But still, why is he here? Why is he doing this?

I rush up the stairs, slide on my sneakers, rush back down, and out into the front yard. “Cash Carson!” my voice carries clear across the yard. I’m expecting him to answer me, but he doesn’t—he just points that smile of his my way and nods his hello.

I charge down the steps, not stopping until I’m toe-to-toe with him. “What do you think you’re doin’?”

“Take a guess, darlin’.” Calling me darlin’, in that deep, sexy voice sends a pulse straight to my core.

“I don’t feel much like playing games at 7:30 in the morning. Why’re you here?” My tone is snippy, though I’m not actually upset with him. I’m just thrown by his kindness and the effect he has on me.

“To help you, Myla Rose.” I don’t know what’s more unsettling—the way he says my name, or his calling me darlin’. I guess it doesn’t much matter—I feel both all the way down to my damn toes.

“I told you last night, but I’ll tell you again—I’m not incompetent just because I’m pregnant.”

“Never said you were. Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna help. Nothing wrong with a little bit of chivalry.” He turns back to finish setting up his pressure washer but promptly turns back to me. “You wanna go grab your extension cord, and we’ll get started?”

I shake my head yes and set off to grab the cord from the shed. No use arguing with him. His mind seems made up. Plus, the help will be nice.

“Here you go.” I toss the bundled cord to him, and I’m impressed when he catches it.

Taylor would have taken a big ol’ step back so that it would’ve landed at his feet, and then he would have told me I throw like a girl. Asshole. I guess that’s just one more tick in the Pro column for Cash. Not that I’m keeping tabs or anything. Because you don’t do that with friends.

“Thanks. So, this isn’t really a two-person job. You wanna use your sprayer and work on the porch?”

“Sure thing, Cash. Just holler if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

I get my little pressure washer set up and start blasting the porch clean. There’s something so damn satisfying about watching all that yuck rinse away. Once I finish, I stand back and admire my hard work. Sure, I missed some spots, but I’m pleased with it—Grams would be too, and that’s good enough for me.

“So much for beating the heat,” I whine as a bead of sweat trickles down my back. If I’m this hot and this tired from washing my small space, then I can only imagine how Cash must feel. I make my way to the linen closet to grab him a towel and then back out to find him.

“Hey,” I yell, looking around for him. Following the cord around to the side of the house, I freeze, my words drying up on the spot.

The sight of Cash, shirtless, has rendered me speechless. There’s no six-pack abs or bulging muscles, but Christ on a cracker, the man is rock solid and just oozes power and strength and masculinity.

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