Page 72 of Coming Up Roses

With the plans I drew up the other week laid out before me, I set to work marking, measuring, and cutting the lumber. I went with a stunning pine for the build and plan to varnish it. I know it’s gonna be amazing, and I know it will measure up to the one she saw in that boutique.

About half an hour into the actual build, my phone finally chirps with an incoming text. I all but throw my speed-square and pencil to the ground in hopes that it’s Myla Rose.

Myla Rose: Home! Sorry I kept you waiting. My phone was dead.

Me: Just glad you made it safe, darlin’.

Myla Rose: Thank you for this weekend, Cash.

Me: Nothing to thank me for. I enjoyed it just as much, if not more.

Me: You work Monday?

Myla Rose: Kind of. We’re interviewing a stylist.

Me: Gotcha. You have lunch plans Tuesday?

Myla Rose: Just work. A whole lotta work. Call me later? XOXO

I smirk at her little ‘XOXO’, because hell yeah, I’d sure love a bit of that from her. A bit of that, and then some. And I’m not just talking about sex either. I’m talking about everything that is Myla Rose.

It’s the little things. Like the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not looking. A shift of her eyes, a lilting smile. It heats my blood, causing it to run faster in my veins. I know this feeling. Need—it’s need. Indescribable and insatiable need.

I mean, yeah, it’s her touch, especially now that I truly know it, but it’s still more.

So much more.

It’s her laugh. Her thoughts. It’s the glint in her dark chocolate eyes. It’s the way her freckles dance across her skin. It’s the swell of her belly. Fuck, just knowing she’s growing life inside her. It’s the soft, quiet way she sighs my name. It’s all-consuming. She’s all-consuming, and I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. I just hope she’s feeling it too.

I’m so focused on the task at hand that everything else falls to the wayside. Time, food, hydration, comfort . . . all of it. This crib needs to be perfect, and I’ll settle for nothing less. Hours and hours of marking, cutting, and sanding, and I think I’m just about ready for assembly.

It’s not until a bead of sweat drips from the tip of my nose that I realize just how hot it is in here. With a quick check of the time, I see that I’ve been here far longer than I thought. Hours upon hours have passed. It’s damn near nine o’clock and well past dinner time.

Calling it quits, I clean my work station and cover the crib with a tarp for safekeeping. It’s time for food and sleep. Keeping Preston and Lucas all weekend drained me. But I loved every second of it, and I sure as shit hope that one day, it’ll be Myla’s little man wearing me out, and if I’m really lucky, calling me ‘Dad’.

Ain’t no sense in working when I’m tired and risking being sloppy. First thing tomorrow, though? This bad boy is getting nailed and varnished.

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