Page 43 of Coming Up Roses

Cash

Talk about a colossal screw-up.I was lucky to earn her forgiveness the first time—I'm not sure there's any coming back from this.

I was ready to charge straight over to Jake's last night, but I quickly realized Paige and the boys didn't deserve my busting down their door in the middle of the night.

This morning is a different story though—before a shower, before coffee, before anything, I'm hitting Send on a call to him.

"Have a good night, brother? That why you were too busy to text me back?"

"You sorry-ass motherfucker!"

"Say that again?"

"You heard me. Wanna guess who was holding my phone when your childish, bullshit messages came through?"

"Oh, shit."

"Yeah."

"Is it bad?"

"She kicked me out. Can't say I blame her."

"I really am sorry, Cash. I was only messing with you."

"Yeah, you sure messed something."

The sound of Jake tapping his fingers against his phone trickles through, along with his words. "How can I make this up to you?"

"Doubt you can, Jake. This was already my second chance."

"Well, let's hope she plays by the three-strike rule?" I end our call, already over this conversation. I know he didn't mean anything by his messages. I just wish she did too.

What I need to do is man up, call her, and apologize. But I'm scared. A fucking coward. Yellow-bellied. And I have no clue how to make this right.

Now, she’s off thinking God knows what. Probably telling Azalea what a damn dog I am, surely glad things didn’t go too far. Yeah, she’s probably thanking her lucky stars and stripes that things didn't go further.

Who am I kidding? I saw the look of hurt and humiliation in her eyes. She may not be ready to listen to me, but I'm not willing to let her go without a fight.

Goddammit, I have to fix this.

I’m going to fix this. Now. Right fucking now. I fly through getting ready, jump into my truck, and head straight to Myla Rose’s house. Face-to-face is better than a phone call.

I’m halfway to her house when I see the farmer’s market has fresh flowers. Making a quick detour, I grab a bouquet, hoping it’ll sweeten the pot.

Myla Rose’s Land Cruiser is nowhere to be seen when I pull my truck to a stop under the shade of her oak tree. Getting out, I make my way to her front door anyway. I give the door two short taps. Nothing. I try again—four taps. Still nothing. With a dejected sigh, I turn to head back to my truck.

I’m just about to climb into the cab when I hear, “Cash? That you?” I stand, with one foot on the running board, allowing me to see over the roof. Simon is standing a few yards away, in a small clearing on the periphery of Myla Rose’s yard.

“Yeah. Um, yeah,” I tell him as I walk over to where he’s . . . pulling weeds? “What are you up to?” I ask as I approach.

“Just clearing out these weeds.” Such a smartass.

“Yeah. I see that. Why?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It is my property.”

“You live here? Like here?” Wonder why Myla Rose never mentioned it.

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