by LK Farlow
I raise my hands, as if I’m trying to keep her at bay. “I know, I know. Taco Tuesday, but I am dog tired. I just want a bubble bath and my bed.”
“Myla Rose, you will not ditch me next month, tired or not. In fact, you can treat me,” Azalea retorts with a false look of exasperation. We walk together to the door, where she engulfs me in the biggest, tightest hug—just what I needed after today.
I’m halfway home when I realize I need groceries. Sure, a drive-thru is an option, but my little bean is making me crave a BLT with Thousand Island dressing on sourdough bread. So, to Piggly Wiggly I go. I figure I’ll grab just enough for dinner tonight and some Cliff Bars for breakfast—the rest can wait.
I’m pushing my buggy through the store, humming to myself, mentally checking my shopping list when I walk right into a . . . wall?
No, not a wall.
A person.
A man.
He towers over my five-foot-three frame by at least a foot, all broad-shouldered and solid. “Oh, my stars—I am so sorr—”
I don’t even finish my sentence before he whips around to face me, and I’m met with the most stunning gray-blue eyes, the color of the summer sky right before a thunderstorm. And his hair. He has gorgeous brown ringlets that flop every which way—a bit of boyishness to temper his ruggedness.
His mere presence unsteadies me, causing me to wobble on my feet. I reach an arm out to balance myself, only he beats me to it, dropping his big, warm hands to my shoulders to hold me still.
His touch is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and if I never moved from this spot, that’d be fine by me. All this time, while I’m caught up in my own crazy, he just stares down at me with a slight smirk, waiting on me to finish my forgotten apology.
I clear my throat and rush my words out. “I am so sorry. I was caught up in my own head, checking my list and not paying attention at all. I didn’t hurtcha with my buggy, did I?”
I chance a look up at him. He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I’m just fine.” His voice is nothing more than a deep rumble, and it hits me straight in my belly, sending those butterflies swooping. “You have a nice evening, yeah?” Just like that, he turns and walks away.
“Uhhh. Um, yeah, you too,” I holler to his retreating back. Mindlessly, I walk to the checkout and then out to Bertha, my old Land Cruiser. Mint green paint still gleaming, she's a thing of beauty, passed down from my Grams.
I drive home without really being aware of the trip. Highway Hypnotism, they call it. Y’all know what I mean? One second, you’re starting the car, and in the blink of an eye, you’ve reached your destination with no memory of the trip? I know you do. I’m too busy thinking about Mr. Good Eyes with that deep voice and luscious curly hair.
Once I get home, I lug my groceries up the porch stairs and into the house, where I get to work making that BLT. The scent of the bacon as it pops and sizzles in my cast iron skillet has my mouth watering. I step away to grab a plate from the cabinet and get sidetracked wondering how the kitchen walls would look painted a deep shade of . . . dammit, I’m picturing my walls the color of his eyes. Absurd . . . and I overcooked the bacon. I will away those foolish thoughts and finish preparing my dinner, burnt bacon and all.
After rinsing my plate and collecting the bacon grease, I go through the motions to get ready for bed, removing my makeup, changing into my PJs, and making sure my alarm is set for tomorrow. I skip my bubble bath. I’m that tired.
As I drift off to sleep, my thoughts turn back to him. I imagine what it would be like to have him here, in my space. With me, with his strong arms wrapped around me. I imagine running my fingers through his loopy curls as he kisses my neck.
And just like that, I’m wide awake, because get real, Myla Rose. What man would be interested in a pregnant woman? I must be exhausted to be having those kinds of thoughts. Maybe I’ll take that bubble bath after all.
5
Cash
Goddamn, it’s been a long day. It’d be one thing if I had been doing actual work, but I spent the day in the workshop office, hunched over my desk, sending invoices and emailing potential clients. My legs and back ache, and all I want to do is head home, shower, and call it a night. That’s not in the cards though—it’s Family Dinner Night.
"Crap, that was the street," I gripe as I hit the brakes and pull a U-turn. These back roads can be downright tricky at night. I haven't lived in Dogwood since my dad's job brought us here when Jake was thirteen and I was three, so it's for sure been an adjustment.
We were only down here for two years, but Jake always remembered it and loved it. A couple of years ago, he was offered a job in the area, and that was the catalyst for our mom finally leaving our piece-of-shit dad. She’d stuck it out for so long because she didn’t feel like she had any options. But when Jake announced that he and his wife and their twin boys were moving, she was all about it. She hired a lawyer, packed her shit, and moved with them before the ink on the papers was even dry.
After everything went to shit with Kayla, I asked Jake and my lifelong friend, Drake, to put out some feelers on some work in the area, and the response was fan-fucking-tastic. I packed up and moved down here just shy of four months ago, but already, it’s quite possibly the best decision I’ve ever made. My business is taking off, and Carson’s Custom is quickly becoming the first choice for contractors in the area for woodworking.
I’m pulling into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot when my phone vibrates against the cup holder, rattling the loose change lying at the bottom. Grabbing it, I swipe my thumb across the screen to answer my brother’s call. “Hey man, what’s up?”
“Mom wanted me to make sure you remembered to bring a bag of ice,” he tells me in a bored tone. This is a common occurrence. We all have to bring something to Family Dinner Night, and I always bring a bag of ice.
With an eye roll, I reply, “Yeah, Jake, tell her I’m at the store now. You might as well ask her if she needs anything else while I’m here.” I hear him set the phone down and call out to our mom, but I can’t quite make out her muffled reply.
“Hey, Mom says to grab a bag of croutons, too.”
“Ten-four, see you soon.” I end the call and slide my phone into the pocket of my jeans.
Real talk? I missed Family Dinner Night, and I am so damn glad to be back where my family is. They’re amazing, and it saves me from cooking every once in a while—a double win for me.
I’m wandering through the store, looking for the crouton aisle, when someone rams into me with their shopping cart. What the hell?
My cart-rammer starts to apologize, and I turn sharply at the sound of her voice, all soft and southern. She’s a tiny thing, at least a foot shorter than me.
I inspect her from head to toe. Long hair, the color of mahogany with lighter streaks swirled through it. Big, brown doe eyes. The kind you can get lost in. Other than a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, her skin is flawless, smooth, and pale. Her petite figure is full of lush curves. I zero in on her slightly flared hips. I can’t form words. I just stare.
I can’t explain it, but I’m so drawn to her—like a moth to a flame. I’m itching to reach out and touch her, to feel her skin. I fist my hands at my side. Then, mercifully, she teeters, gracing me with the opportunity to give in to my urges. I bring my hands down on her shoulders to steady her, and goddamn. It’s like electricity is pumping from her and into me.
After what feels like an eternity, she speaks, finishing her forgotten apology, freeing me from the spell she’s cast. “No, ma’am.” My voice is thick. “I’m just fine. You have a nice evening, yeah?” I drag my eyes down her body once more before turning and walking away. My reaction to this girl is visceral—one look, one touch, and I’m damn near ready to offer her the world. Fucking insanity.
I smile to myself as I hear her call out to me once more before I’m out of earshot.
She consumes my thoughts the entire drive to my mom’s house, which is abou
t as dumb as the day is long. I don’t even know the girl. I probably won’t ever know her. A random encounter with a lasting impression . . . nothing more.
I park behind my brother in the driveway and try to shake Grocery Store Girl from my brain. The last thing I need is for the hounds behind that front door to get a whiff of my slight interest in a woman.
They have been relentless about my moving forward, incessant in their Not all girls are like Kayla tirade. Logically, I get that. I know not all girls are lying, cheating, heartless bitches. But nothing about love is logical.
I missed the signs with Kayla. I mean, I knew our relationship wasn’t perfect, but damn. I thought she wanted a deeper commitment, a ring. I never thought she’d cheat. We all know how that turned out.
Who cares if Grocery Store Girl is hot? I have eyes, but that doesn’t mean I want cards and flowers and all the other romance bullshit. Fuck that. Even if her smile made my heart feel like it was going to beat right out of my chest, I don’t make the same mistakes twice.
Do I sound bitter? A bit jaded? Yeah, well, I am. I’m just gonna do me and worry about growing my business and bettering myself.
“MOM!” I call out as I walk through the front door. “Dinner smells amazing!” It really does. And if I’m right, she made my favorite.
“It’s chicken-n-dumplings, baby.” She greets me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Hot damn, I was right. My favorite.
“Thanks, Mom, sounds good after a long day,” I call out over my shoulder as I walk into the kitchen with the bag of ice and the croutons.
I’m standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, bracing for my nephews to plow into me, when Jake tells me, “You might as well have a seat. Preston and Lucas are at home with Paige. Both boys have ear infections.” I nod my head and take a seat at the table, disappointed.
Dinner is delicious, and I thoroughly enjoy catching up with my family. I miss my nephews, but I get a kick out of hearing about them. Mom asks about my business and tells everyone about this new recipe she wants to try for our next dinner. And throughout all of it, I can’t stop smiling.
All in all, it was a great night—good food, good conversation—but I’m beat and ready for bed. “Mom, you need any help with the dishes?” I ask as I stand to carry my plate to the kitchen.
“No, baby, I got it. You call me later this week, okay?” I kiss her cheek and promise I will.
I head to my truck with my brother hot on my heels. “You seem happy,” he throws out.
“And that’s weird because . . .?” I challenge as I fish my keys out of my pocket, hitting the Unlock button.
“No, not weird. You just seem more . . . jovial than usual.” Jovial? Who even says that?
“Nah, man. Nothin’ new here,” I counter, holding his gaze. “Nothin’ at all.” He regards me suspiciously, not quite believing me.
“Nothing, huh? All right, bro, if you say so. Have a good night.” I start to get in my truck. “And whenever you want to tell me about her, I’m here to listen.”
I freeze. Shit, he knows me too well.
“Man, I don’t even know her name.” It slips out before I can stop it. I think he’s almost as surprised as I am by my accidental admission.
“Ha! I knew it! Tell me about her,” he demands, pumping his fist in the air. I roll my eyes, crank the engine, and ease out of the driveway, not bothering to answer him.
6
Cash
Beep-beepbeep-beep. My alarm clock blares, even though it feels like my head just hit the pillow. Another night of shitty sleep. I’m not sure why I’ve been so restless. Maybe I’ve been working too hard? Yeah. That’s it.
Add in that I probably haven't eaten a good meal since those chicken-n-dumplings the other week. Today calls for some real food and some relaxation. I blink the sleep out of my eyes, snatch my phone off the nightstand, and notice a text from Drake.
Drake: Whatcha got going on today?
Me: Not much. Got a few emails to send and a call or 2 to make.
Drake: Perfect. Get that shit done and head over. Ribs on the grill.
Drake: Simon’s coming too.
Me: Sounds good. See you soon.
After a scalding shower, I throw on some cargo shorts and a Carson’s Custom tee and head into my office to hammer out those emails. I take a seat at my desk, a one-off made from gorgeous quarter-sawn white oak and stained a deep golden brown. It makes a statement against the beige walls and light wood floors. Pulling up my calendar on the computer, I make a short list of who I need to email and who I need to call. After sending a handful of emails, I've had it with office work. Shifting the calls to Monday on my schedule, I power down the computer and head to Drake’s.
The winding country roads make the drive feel longer than it is. Surrounded by open fields, it’s like Drake lives in the middle of nowhere, which I guess he does. Gotta have a lot of land to peanut farm.
Drake is standing in the yard, talking on his phone, when I pull up. Running a hand over his freshly buzzed head, he laughs silently, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. I can’t tell if the person he is talking to is amusing him or aggravating him. He signals for me to head around to the backyard. Ignoring him, I head inside. It’s crazy hot.
A few minutes later, the front door slams—aggravated it is!
“What’s up, D? What’s got you all pissed off?”
He glares at me. “Not a damn thing. Why aren’t you out back?”
“It's only April, and it’s already hotter than blue blazes. Fuck that.”
He just grins and gestures for me to follow him out to the back deck.
“Damn, dude. This is legit.” He has the back porch rigged up with a misting system. Two hoses run along either side of the deck, and two large industrial-looking fans blow the mist toward the center of the deck. Genius. “This is badass, Drake. You set this up?”
“Sho ‘nuff. Gotta stay cool. These summers get brutal.” He looks smug as shit, but I guess he earned it.
“I need something like this for my workshop.” I run my hands through my thick mass of curls, tugging on the ends.
Drake laughs. “How do you work in that hot-as-balls workshop with that mop on your head?”
“I know, I know. Shit’s too long. I’ve been meaning to get over to the barber shop in town.” I shrug my shoulders and once again run my hands through my thick hair. “Just haven’t made it.”
“Nah, man. Don’t go there. Those old dudes will jack your shit up. Ask Simon about his last time there.” He's doubled over from his effort to contain his laughter at our friend's expense. “Seriously, Cash. Save yourself the trouble. Go to Southern Roots.”
“Southern Roots? That sounds like some chick shit.”
“Yeah, it is. But they know how to cut some hair. Seriously. Either girl there will rock that shit. They’re sweethearts too. Well, one of them is sweet. The other is full of nothin’ but piss and vinegar. The sweet one, she’s preg—”
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel drive derails his train of thought. “Fucking finally! Took you long enough,” he calls out as Simon walks through the door. “You bring that potato salad you wouldn’t shut up about the other day? If not, you can head your ass right back home and get it.”
“Quit your bitchin’,” Simon counters with a lazy smile as he sets a bowl on the table. “Now, what’re we talking about?”
“Yeah, yeah, I was just telling Cash here all about why he shouldn’t hit up the barber shop.” Drake chuckles, ambling off toward the grill.
The look on Simon’s face is priceless, like he’s smelled something foul. His thick brows pinch and his mouth sets in a firm line. “No, just no.” He pulls off his ball cap, runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair, and readjusts it on his head. “Go see the girls at Southern Roots. Ain’t no one else taking scissors to my head except one of them.”
"Guess that settles it—Southern Roots it is."
A plate of mouth-watering ribs ap
pears on the table we’re seated around. “Y’all gonna sit around and chat all day, or are we gonna eat?” Drake asks, smirking like the asshole he is.
7
Myla Rose
I feel his hand resting on my growing belly and I snuggle into his warmth. He brushes my hair out of my face and places a soft kiss on my neck, just beneath my ear, and murmurs, “Good mornin’, darlin’.” I roll over and reach out for him, only to find cold sheets.
No one is there. It’s that damn dream. Again. Mr. Good Eyes has been the star of my dreams almost every night since I assaulted him with my buggy at the Piggly Wiggly. That was weeks ago. So, for weeks, I've been dreaming of some guy I talked to for a total of sixty seconds, tops.
Maybe when I see Dr. Mills for my sixteen-week appointment, I’ll ask him if outrageous dreams are a pregnant thing. Because that is the only word to describe these dreams. We don’t even know each other, and I can guaran-damn-tee that man wouldn’t have a lick of interest in me.
Even though the salon is technically closed today, I’m meeting AzzyJo there to talk about hiring a third stylist. Dogwood may be a small town, but Southern ladies are religious about their hair—every four-to-six weeks, like clockwork.
I’m barely through the door when Azalea is shoving a piece of paper in my face. “Myla Rose, just look at this flier I made for the salon. Gorgeous, huh?” She is literally so close to my face that everything on the page blurs together.
I swat her hand away. “Well, AzzyJo, I would certainly love to offer my opinion, but you have the damn paper so close to me I can’t see shit!”
“Sorry, I am just so excited! I worked all night on this.” She takes a breath. “So, what do you think? I’m dyin’ here, Myla!” Her blonde curls spring and boing all around as she bounces on the balls of her feet. I swear, someone put crack in her coffee this morning.