Page 48 of Coming Up Roses

Myla Rose

I wake from my nap,not necessarily tired, but cranky as all get out. What should’ve been a peaceful and relaxing sleep ended up being filled with restless dreams of Cash.

Yes, dreams. Plural.

One about how our night could have ended if I hadn't seen those vile texts. Another about him being my little bean’s daddy instead of Taylor. And oddly enough, a dream about him taking me to . . . a drag race? Beats me. All I know is that he needs to vacate my damn mind before I lose it.

Tapping out Simon’s number, I hit Send, waiting impatiently for him to pick up.

“Myles! What’s up?” He sounds really . . . excited. Wonder what that’s about. One more thing on the list of shit he and I need to talk about, I guess.

“Hey, Sim, can I come by?”

“You know my door’s always open for you. Come on, girl. D’s here too.”

“Oh? Perfect, that’s perfect. I have somethin’ for y’all. Be over in a few.”

Disconnecting the call, I fly back up the stairs to fish out Drake’s and Simon’s gifts. I’ve been thinking of a good way to tell the boys that they’re getting a nephew, and I know I’ve struck gold with this plan.

“Eww-eww-eww!” A shiver of revulsion runs through my entire body as I hop my way through the field between our yards. I need to talk to Simon about cutting this clearing down a bit.

The cool evening breeze only intensifies the feeling of the dewy grass licking at my ankles, and there is nothing I hate more than wet grass. Except for maybe my ex. Yeah, he’s high on the list.

I’m just about to walk into Simon’s house when the door flies open . . .

Bringing me face-to-face with Cash. Neither of us speaks. He stares down at me, and I stare up at him, my thoughts going a thousand miles a minute. Why is he here? Why was he at my house? Why is he looking at me like that?

After a few moments, the Southern manners my Grams taught me kick in. “H–hello, Cash. Thank you very much for my flowers. They’re beautiful. Have a nice night.” I slip between him and the opening in the door.

“Sure thing, darlin'. You do the same,” he says over his shoulder before pulling the door shut behind him.

There's something about that man calling me darlin' in that deep, rough voice of his. Gracious, it almost makes me come undone. Which is bad, bad, bad. Cash Carson is a no-good dog, sexy voice or not.

I linger in the entryway, trying to get my bearings and calm my thoughts. Two deep breaths, in and out, and I’m feeling a bit more put together.

“Boys,” I shout, way louder than necessary.

“In the livin’ room, Myles,” Simon shouts back, equally loud.

I’m met with the sight of Simon and Drake bickering quietly over something—probably some SEC football nonsense. Ignoring both of them, I set my tote bag on the coffee table and retrieve their gifts from it.

“What are y’all talking about?” I ask, dropping the packages into their laps, causing them both to stop and look at me.

“Nothin’ of any importance. Now, what’re these?” Drake asks, gesturing to the tissue paper-wrapped bundles.

“Well, why would I tell you when you can just open it and see?”

That’s all the encouragement they need, because the next thing I know, tissue paper is flying.

“Myles, why did you buy us—”

“Drake, shut your trap and look closer,” Simon interrupts, his voice thick with emotion.

Drake does as he’s told, taking in the words embroidered across the onesie: UNCLE DRAKE’S WINGMAN.

“It’s a boy? You’re havin’ a boy?” I nod, my smile out of control.

“Well, hot damn!” Drake exclaims as he grabs hold of my wrist, pulling me down onto the couch between him and Simon, where they swallow me up in a bear hug.

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