[Southern Roots 01.0] Coming Up Roses

by LK Farlow

  I mean, I live nice and easy with what Grams left behind—the house and car were paid for and passed down as well. And yeah, the salon is profitable, but I can just feel it. This place is going to be outrageous. Plus, I’m officially building a nest egg for little man—college isn’t cheap.

  Everything inside STORK is luxurious. From the oh-so-soft new baby scent tickling my nose to the feel of the velvety soft blankets, this place is mom-to-be heaven.

  The back of the boutique is divided into five small rooms, each one set up like a nursery. There are two girl rooms, two boy rooms, and one gender-neutral.

  The third room is practically shouting Myla Rose, come in, come see. The walls in that room are an ivory color, Swiss Coffee, according to the plaque on the wall. But what really draws my eye is the crib. It’s a farmhouse crib, if there ever was one, and I absolutely love it.

  Walking further into the room, I trail my fingertips along the edge of the crib. I can just see myself laying my little man down to sleep in this bed. I can see myself watching over him in it as he snoozes—until I see the price tag.

  Good gravy, it’s almost $2500. They’ve lost their ever-loving minds. I can find something that’ll do just fine at the big box store for way, way less. Even if I don’t like it as much. It’s just a crib, Myla Rose.

  I turn to go and search for Azalea, only to find her standing in the entryway to the room I’m in snapping pictures. “Why’re you taking pictures?”

  “Memories, Myla. Memories.”

  “Sure, okay. You ready to go now?” I ask her. My earlier tiredness is hitting me hard all of a sudden.

  “Yeah, let me check out really quick. You go on out to the car.” She tosses me my keys, and that’s that.

  My head’s resting against my seat with the air conditioner on high. I’m thumbing through notifications on my phone when a text from Simon pops up.

  Simon: You okay, Myles?

  Me: Yeah, I am. Why?

  Simon: Just checking on you. Saw Cash outside your house this morning.

  Me: What? Why was he there?

  Simon: We’ll talk later.

  Why would Cash have been at my house? That’s just the strangest thing. Before I can stew on it too much, Azalea throws herself into the passenger seat. Maybe she can make heads or tails of it.

  “Simon just texted me and said Cash was outside my house earlier. That’s weird, right?”

  She’s on her phone again, so she doesn’t respond, her fingers flying across the screen faster than a hot knife through butter. I guess I’ll just have to wait for Simon to tell me.

  “Huh? What’d you say?” she asks me several minutes later.

  “Nothin’, AzzyJo. It’s not important.” I figure it’s better not to get into with her. She’ll have me thinking it means more than it does.

  While she may not be much for romance in her personal life, she loves to set others up. Dogwood’s very own Cupid.

  After dropping Azalea at her car, I head home. I need to get the stuff from our shopping trip sorted, and then I plan on having a little chat with Simon McAllister.

  I pull up to my house, beyond exhausted. A nap sounds like heaven. Then, I’ll head over to Simon’s house. Maybe I can talk Drake into coming over—two birds and whatnot.

  I'm just about to slide my key into the lock when I notice flowers propped up against the door. What on earth?

  Reaching down, I grab them and feel paper brush against my knuckles. I snatch the folded sheet of paper up from the porch as well and head inside. After lugging my shopping bags up to what will be the nursery, I plop myself, and the bags, down onto the floor.

  The paper I’m holding looks like some sort of scrap paper. It’s smudged and there’s an assortment of numbers scrawled in the margin.

  As I slowly unfold the note, I’m hit with the delicious, familiar smell of Cash Carson. Did he leave these flowers? The handwriting is masculine and messy. It looks slightly rushed, like he was in a hurry to leave—though I'm surprised he was even here.

  Myla Rose-

  Sorry for . . . everything. Again.

  Please know those messages

  weren't what you think.

  I’m just . . . sorry. I’m sorry.

  -Cash

  The gesture’s sweet, though I’m not sure I believe him. Those texts had surely meant something . . . right?

  I snip the ends of the flowers before arranging them in an antique brass vase. I have always loved fresh flowers. They just brighten up a room—that’s what Grams always said, and it stuck.

  Ever since she passed, I’ve made sure to have them in at least one room of the house. Though I haven’t bought any since being pregnant. Turns out that my little bean didn’t share my fondness for fresh flowers for the first bit of my pregnancy.

  Thankfully, my sensitivity to fragrance hit the road, along with my morning sickness, a while ago. Lord, yes. And now, I can start back up with my flower habit.

  Carrying the vase out to the dining room, I place the arrangement in the center of the table. As much as I hate to admit it, he picked some really pretty flowers. An assortment of wildflowers, and you guessed it—roses.

  It’s like the man has insider information on the things I love or he’s an incredibly lucky guesser. Whatever. I’ll send him a thank you note and call it a day. I have no desire to play with the fire that is Cash Carson. None whatsoever, at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

  23

  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.

  I wiggle out of their arms and settle in for the long haul. I’m sure they have questions. I know I do, and I’m gonna get some damn answers.

  “Kid got a name yet?” Simon asks, trying to discreetly wipe the moisture gathering in his lashes on his shirt sleeve.

  “Nope,” I say popping the 'P'. "Figure I need to meet him first."

  “Drake! Name him Drake.” I laugh and shake my head no, causing Drake to pout. Which only makes me laugh harder.

  “Drake Collins, you’re enough trouble on your own. The world don’t need two of you,” I tell him once I catch my breath.

  “Now, boys, let’s get down to business.” I school my features, trying to look stern and serious.

  As much as I want to question Drake about Azalea, I don’t. She’d kill me if I told him I knew they hooked up, and obviously, he doesn’t want me to know. So, I swallow those questions down and focus on getting some answers about this morning.

  “Why was Cash Carson at my house?”

  “He said he was coming to apologize, but you weren’t home. Said y’all went on a date.” Drake trails off.

  “We may have,” I hedge. “Well, not really. He was only taking me out to say sorry for the other time he was an ass. See a pattern emerging?”

  “I’m not sure two times makes a pattern, Myles.”

  “I dunno, Simon. Two times seems legit. Is there a formula for that shit or something?” At least Drake has my back.

  “Yeah, actually. They say it takes three to make a pattern.”

  “Who is they?” Drake questions him, doubt evident in his tone. Simon just shrugs his shoulders before kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

  “Not the point, D.” Simon scoffs before turning to look at me. “Myles, you know we have your back, right? Cash is cool and all, but if he hurts you, we’ll—”

  I cut him off with a snort-laugh. “Y’all know y’all are idiots, right?”

  “Sure enough,” Drake agrees.

  “Totally,” Simon adds.

  “Plus, I can handle Cash just fine on my own.”

  “Handle him how?” Simon asks, sitting up board straight.

  “Chill out, Sim.” I can’t help but smirk at his over-the-top big brother act.

  He’s always been fiercely protective of me. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t manage to scare Taylor off—not for lack of trying.

  “Y’all wanna order pizza and watch a movie?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  Drake and Simon agree, and I snatch up the remote before either of them can put on some dumb sports movie.

  I must’ve fallen asleep during the movie at some point. One second, I was laughing at the antics on screen and the next, Drake is nudging me with his elbow, whispering for me to wake up.

  I glance around the room, trying to find my phone, but I come up empty.

  “D, what time is it?” I ask through a yawn.

  “It’s two thirty. Simon went to bed. Want me to drive you home?”

  “Yeah, sounds good. Help me find my phone?”

  “It’s in your bag. I gathered everything up when I woke up a few minutes ago. I guess we all fell asleep.”

  “Thanks, Drake,” I tell him as I try to haul myself up off the couch.

  This baby bump, I swear it gets bigger every day. After watching me struggle for a few moments, Drake extends his hand to help me up, chuckling all the while.

  “Thanks, asshole,” I snap, even though we both know I’m not mad. I’d laugh too if I were him.

  We walk out to his truck, and he holds my bag for me as I climb up into the cab. There’s something to be said for Southern men.

  We’re silent on the quick drive to my house, both too tired to make small talk, but when I go to get out the truck, Drake stops me. “Hey, Myla?”

  “Yeah?” I ask him as I hop down from the truck.

  “Cash is a good guy. Give him a chance.”

  24

  Cash

  “Don’t forget to stop and pick up a bag—”

  “Of ice. I know, Mom. I’m almost to the store.” Love my mom, but damn. Every Family Dinner Night, it's the same routine.

  “Oh, good. You know how I worry. Okay, sweetie, see you soon.”

  “Hey, Mom!” I call out, hoping I catch her before she disconnects the call.

  “Yeah?”

  “Will Preston and Lucas be there tonight?” I’m feeling like ice cream, and if the twins will be there, I’ll need to pick up some magic shell topping as well.

  “As far as I know.”

  “Great, thanks, Mom. See y’all in a few.” I hang up and toss the phone into the cup holder.

  Even though I only need to hit the ice cream topping aisle, I find myself strolling through Piggly Wiggly, just praying for a certain redhead to crash into me again. It’s been almost two weeks since I left the note on her porch, and aside from a very to-the-point Thank you text and our stilted passing at Simon’s, I haven’t heard a peep from her and it’s killing me.

  Unfortunately, luck’s not on my side today. Grabbing the shell topping from the shelf, I toss some sprinkles into my basket for good measure before making my way to the checkout area.

  I’m waiting in line as the cashier bags up the order from the woman in front of me, listening as the she chats on her phone all the while. I’m not even trying to listen, but she’s talking so loudly I don’t really have a choice.

  “Ma’am,” I say, inserting myself into her conversation. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard you mention you were lookin’ for a new buffet?”

  She tells the person on the phone to hold on before turning to face me. She has this pinched lemon look to her, but I keep on. “I only ask because I have a custom carpentry business—Carson’s Custom. I’d love to give you a card. You can visit my website and give me a call if you like what you see.”

  “Well, I suppose that would be okay, young man. Your name?” she asks, looking down her beak-like nose at me.

  “Cash Carson. Nice to meet you, Mrs. . . .?” I fish out a business card while I wait.

  “Mills, Kathy Mills.” She takes the card I offer but doesn’t shake my hand. Okay, then.

  She turns back to the cashier and snatches her receipt with a rushed Thank you before returning to her call. “Sorry, Phil, this young man . . .” the automatic doors close behind her, preventing me from hearing the rest of her sentence.

  “Okay, sir, your total comes to five dollars and—”

  “Oh, hey! I need to add a bag of ice, please,” I say, cutting her off. I’m on a daggum roll interrupting people today.

  “Yes sir, that brings your total to seven dollars and fifty-five cents. Cash or card?”

  After I fin
ish checking out, I grab my bag of ice and head on to Mom’s house. I’m sure that after walking the aisles like some hopeful, love-struck teenaged idiot hoping to run into the girl he likes, everyone’s well past waiting on me.

  As predicted, everyone’s sitting around the table waiting on me when I walk in.

  “Sorry to keep y’all—had to grab a few things from the store,” I say, taking my seat in between the twins.

  “Sumfin good for us, Uncle Cash?” Preston asks.

  “Yeah, is it?” Lucas echoes.

  “Might be. Now, settle down.” I ruffle their already messy hair. “You boys need haircuts. Y’all are lookin’ like ragamuffins."

  “I’ve been telling Jake to take them to the barber for weeks, Cash. But, does he listen?” Paige says, her exasperation backed by an eye roll and a huff.

  “Gotcha. Why don’t you just take them to the salon in town?” I ask her.

  “Oh, I don’t want to bother them with my wild boys.”

  “Wild? They’re perfect angels,” my mom interjects.

  God bless her, she sees the good in absolutely everyone. Not to say my nephews aren’t good—they’re just boys, and all boy at that. Paige isn’t too far off calling them wild, but what six-year-old boys aren’t?

  “Nah, the girls at the salon wouldn’t mind,” I say confidently. I’m one hundred and ten percent sure they’d be great with Preston and Lucas.

  “Yeah?” Jake asks, looking too smug for his own good. “You’d know, wouldn’t you, Cash?”

  I'm not sure what his game here is, but he needs to stop. There's no sense in bringing Myla Rose up to Mom. Especially now.

  “What are you blabbing on about, Jacob?” Mom asks.

  “Oh, nothing, just . . . y’all know Cash is seeing the owner of Southern Roots?”

  Mom’s fork clatters against her plate. Paige stops with hers halfway to her mouth. Thankfully, the twins are too busy flicking peas at one another to be bothered with this conversation.