Page 85 of Coming Up Roses

Whistling a tune, I pop into Dream Beans and grab her favorite brew, pausing only to jot a little note on the side of her cup before dashing across the street to the salon.

The instant I open the door, I can sense something’s wrong. It’s like the air itself is charged. “Good morning, Miss Seraphine,” I say, my smile tight.

“Oh, C–Cash. H–hey! Is Myles expecting you?” She asks as she stands and dashes around the reception desk, placing herself between the main salon and me. Because that’s not suspicious behavior . . . not at all.

Gesturing down to the coffee in my hand, “No, ma’am. Planned on surprising her.”

“Right. Well . . . um. Lemme run and go get her?” She turns to go fetch Myla Rose, but I stop her movement with a gentle hand to her shoulder.

“I got it.”

“I really don’t mind. In fact, I insist.” I’m getting fed up with this song and dance really fast.

“Nope, I’m good.” I step around her before she can attempt to block me again. In the main salon area, Azalea is frozen mid-cut, staring at me with a look that wavers between fear and sympathy. What the fuck?

Myla Rose isn’t at her station, so I head toward the dispensary, but I don’t make it further than the entrance to the shampoo area.

Because right there, not even five feet away, my worst fucking nightmare is playing out in front of my very eyes. It’s like a goddamn train wreck. Even though I know the only end result is the carnage of my heart, I can’t look away. Not when my girl has her hands on his shoulders. Not when my girl is leaning into him like he’s all she’ll ever need.

This is Kayla and Kevin all over again, only a thousand times worse. This is my world not only shattering . . . no, it’s outright crumbling, disintegrating, and all that’ll be left is ashes.

I watch, rooted, unable to move as he pulls her closer. Her eyes catch mine over his shoulder. “Ca–Cash. N–no—” Her words are cut off by the press of his lips, hot and hard on hers, and goddamn if she doesn’t seem to melt into him like he isn’t the devil fucking incarnate. Like he isn’t a self-absorbed, piece of shit, broke-her-heart loser.

She finally pulls away from him, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, before blinking up at me while still locked in his embrace. I hold her guilt-ridden eyes, totally frozen. Just like before, I didn’t see this shit coming, not from a mile away.

“Mmm, Myla, damn. I forgot how good you taste,” Taylor groans out, his voice chock-full of want and need.

I bolt, not wanting to stick around for her reply. I make a quicker than quick pit stop at her station, leaving her coffee and my heart. Because goddamn if it isn’t broken.

“Tell her I’m done and not to call,” I holler to whoever may be listening as I head straight back out the door and into my truck.

I slam the truck door before pounding my fist against the steering wheel a few times. How could I have been so stupid? Guess this explains her weird behavior—pregnancy mood swings, my ass. More like she was struggling to hide her ex from me.

I’m literally shaking with rage, far too unsteady to drive, but when I see her hauling ass toward my truck, shouting my name through her sobs along the way, I throw it in gear and floor it, leaving her and her bullshit excuses in my dust.

Not even two seconds after peeling out from Southern Roots, my phone starts ringing. I send the call to voicemail, not bothering to check who’s calling. I know who it is, and I have no desire to even hear her voice.

Because I know myself. I’m crushed by her, and she still owns my soul. The second I hear her voice, laden with tears, I’ll give in and believe whatever tale she spins.

My phone rings again and again, leading me to power it down. “Focus on the facts,” I chide myself as regret trickles in for not answering her call.

“She’s been keeping shit from you. Every damn time you give your heart to someone, they tear it to shreds.” My bitter ramblings last the entire drive back to my house, though I don’t stay there long because everywhere I look is a memory of her.

In the short time we’ve been together, there’s not a part of my life she hasn’t touched. She’s met my entire family, minus my mom. She’s scattered pictures of us all throughout my house and hers. Shit, she even brought one of her Grams’ quilts over here to keep a piece of the woman who raised her close when she sleeps here.

Fed the fuck up with my warring emotions, I stomp back to my truck, and I just drive. Everywhere and nowhere. I drive for hours upon hours until finally landing at my workshop. Here, maybe I’ll find the peace I need. Myla Rose has never stepped foot into this space, and thank God for it, because throwing myself into work may be the only way to scrub my brain of the events of the day.

I flip on the overheads, as well as my spotlights, only to come face-to-face with the crib I poured my blood, sweat, tears, heart, and soul into. “FUCK!” I roar before throwing a tarp over it. “Out of sight, out of mind.” I repeat the mantra a few times before beginning the actual build of the project I’ve been working on.

With each swing of the hammer, a new emotion fights for control.

Sadness—swing. Anger—swing. Guilt—swing. Rage—swing. Jealousy—swing. Again and again, until my mind’s a mess and the piece is complete.

Too tired to drive home, I pass out on the small couch in my even smaller office.

Done. I’m done.

---