Page 23 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

It takes everything—everysingle bit of my willpower— not to collapse into a spineless heap on the floor after he sets me down. I'm not sure how I missed it, but as my body slowly moved down his, I realized he was still shirtless. His bare skin, coupled with his citrus-spice-and-everything-nice scent . . . fuck me.

Cash Carson is mighty fine to look at as is, but shirtless and sweaty? The man is a damn dream.

I watch intently as he sweeps up the mess I made, mesmerized by the way his arms flex and release with every swipe of the broom. I find myself fanning my flaming cheeks, wishing like hell I had that glass of ice cold tea right about now. Anything to cool down the inferno blazing inside me.

He bends to collect the glass into the dustpan and the island obscures him from view—and not a moment too soon, because I think I would die of embarrassment if he caught me staring at him. Again.

I take full advantage of his being out of sight for a few seconds to try and compose myself. Deep breath in, and out. He's just a man, Myla Rose. No need to make a fool of yourself.

He stands and dumps the dustpan into the trashcan, and I'm about to thank him when he picks up the entire can and walks to the back door. "Gonna take this to your outside can. Don't want the glass splitting the bag."

"Oh, yeah, thanks." Cash Carson doesn't miss a beat. Small, insignificant things seem to be what he's all about, and boy, does it make me giddy inside. Taylor would have left me to clean the mess, bitching about my clumsiness all the while.

Next thing I know, he's opening and closing cabinets, obviously searching for something.

"May I help you?" I ask him.

"Cups?"

"Oh, they're in the cabinet over the dishwasher." He turns and looks at me like I'm plum crazy. "What is it? Why’re you looking at me like that?"

"Myla Rose, everyone knows that cups go in the cabinet to the right or left of the sink."

"Who's everyone? I mean, that's just . . . silly. Why would they go there?"

"You know, I'm honestly not sure. That's just where my mom keeps hers, and I do, too." He says this like it's an admission. Like he's embarrassed. He even has a faint blush to his cheeks.

"I keep mine by the dishwasher. Makes for an easy unload."

"Damn. That's a pretty good idea." For some reason, his tiny compliment has me beaming. Apparently, Azalea isn’t the only one who thrives on positive praise.

Grabbing the dishtowel from where it's hung on the side of the island, I drop down and wipe up the moisture left behind from the melted ice. Last thing I need is either one of us slipping.

Just as I move to stand, Cash walks over to fill the cups with ice. He lowers himself to a crouched position, and suddenly, we’re eye-to-eye. I suck in a sharp breath. His eyes hold so much power and emotion in them that it steals the air right from my lungs.

He sets a glass down by his boot and reaches out with his free hand to brush a bit of hair out of my face. His fingers trail across my cheek and down my neck, coming to rest on my shoulder. His light-as-air touch scorches my skin like fire. I give a full-body shiver, and he smirks. He knows he affects me, and he likes it.

He gives my shoulder a light squeeze and stands, grabbing his glass along the way. I follow suit and grab the pitcher of tea from the fridge. "Let's try this again? I can't even imagine how thirsty you are."

"Fucking parched." And just like when he came in for his haircut, I'm not sure if we're talking about the tea or something else entirely.

I pour us each a generous serving, yet he downs his in one gulp—guess he was talking about the tea. "Damn, this is good. Perfectly sweetened."

"Thanks, I make it just like my Grams taught me."

"Y'all were close, huh?"

"She raised me."

"Mind if I ask why?"

"No, not at all. Mama felt tied down and didn't want to give up her fast and easy lifestyle to take care of me. When I was seven, she loaded me up, dropped me off, and never looked back."

"Damn darlin', I'm sor—"

I hold up a finger to silence him. "Nothin' to be sorry about, Cash. My Grams loved me enough that mama's exit from my life is barely a blip on my radar. I'm not sorry about it, and you shouldn’t be either."

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