Page 76 of Coming Up Roses

Cash

I walkout of Southern Roots on cloud nine. A little stiff in my stance, but cloud-fucking-nine nonetheless.

Every time I see Myla Rose, I feel a little bit lighter. She just has this constant glow, this joy, and damn if she doesn’t pour that light into others. Spending a little time with her before heading out to Mrs. Mills’ consultation was just what the doctor ordered.

Plugging the address Kathy gave me into my GPS, I shift my truck into gear, smiling all the while. Legit, after the last few days, there’s not a thing on this earth or otherwise that could knock this goofy-ass love-drunk grin from my lips.

As long as I’ve got Myla Rose, I’ve got everything I need and then some. She’s everything I thought I had with Kayla and so much more. And even though we haven’t really discussed it, I’m pretty positive we’re on the same page.

* * *

“You have arrived at your destination,”my GPS alerts me with her crisp British accent, all proper and shit.

I take in my surroundings and double-check the address. What I thought was a narrow road is, in fact, the Mills’ driveway. It’s long and winding, and about halfway down it is a massive iron gate with a family crest on each side of the opening. The landscaping, which runs the length of the drive and surrounds the house, is impeccable, and they even have a fountain in the middle of the circle drive.

The house itself is towering and slightly formidable with its deep red brick rising three stories high.

Who needs this much? I think to myself as I check to make sure I have everything I need for this consult, which I do. My notebook is nestled in my back pocket, my tape measure is secured at my side, and my pencil’s tucked behind my ear.

It’s show time.

I lift the ornate brass knocker, tapping it against the glossy black door, and not even two seconds later, the door opens, bringing me face-to-face with a butler. A butler. In a little butler suit and everything.

“Please, sir, do come in. Mrs. Mills will see you in the formal living room.”

“Uh, sure. Lead the way,” I tell him, trying my hardest not to laugh. He’s only doing his job, but come the fuck on.

I follow him through the house, taking several turns along the way. The floors are a white marble and the walls are papered in shades of gold. This shit’s like something out of a movie.

“Here we are, sir,” The butler informs me as we come to a set of French doors.

“Mr. Carson, how nice of you to join us. I was starting to think you weren’t going to show.” Her words instantly have my hackles up because I know I’m nowhere near late, and for her to imply it—yeah, that pisses me off. But, like they say, The customer is always right, so clenching my jaw, I grin and bear it.

“Yes, ma’am, traffic was a real beast today.” We both know I’m talking out of my ass, because in a town like this, the only thing that causes traffic is a tractor, and even then . . . “So, let’s talk a little more about the look you’re going for.”

“Yes, well, as we discussed, I’m in need of a new buffet. It’s meant for my son, as a pre-engagement gift. He’ll be here shortly, but until then, this is what I am imagining for him.” Mrs. Mills gestures to the huge scrapbook on the coffee table, and together, we begin flipping through it, looking at different designs.

Five minutes later, there’s a crackle of static before a voice floats through the room. “Your son has arrived, ma’am. Shall I send him back?”

“Yes, please do,” Kathy says as she presses a button on the wall next to her chair.

A few moments later, a voice I prayed I’d never—ever—hear again trickles into the room. “Mother, I’m here . . .”

I hope and pray the body doesn’t match the voice. Please, God.

But no, they match. Taylor is Mrs. Mills’ son and Myla’s ex, and he’s just as douchey as ever. He’s decked out in the official Bro-Douche uniform of the South, a pastel seersucker and plaid patchwork button-down, way too short khaki shorts, and Sperry topsiders.

He stalks into the room, coming to rest at his mother’s side before his eyes land on me. “What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” he seethes. “Mother, why is he here?”

Kathy looks utterly perplexed. “Taylor, darling, whatever do you mean? Mr. Carson is here to build your buffet.”

“That miscreant isn’t building shit for us.”

“Taylor Augustus Mills, you watch your—”

“I will not. This loser is playing house with Myla Rose. Jesus, he’s probably her bastard’s dad.”

Silently, I sit on the antique couch, listening as he spouts off one line of bullshit after another. This kid is talking straight out of his ass, and my top is about to blow. He’s messing with the wrong man and talking about the wrong girl.

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