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.
“Girl. Calm down. I’m too tired for your level of perky this morning. Let’s sit down, and I’ll take a look, okay?”
“Fine. Just come on. I worked hard, and you know how I am. I thrive on positive praise.” I roll my eyes and inspect the flier. It really is beautiful. A background of watercolor flowers, with our salon name in a brushed script front and center. The flier also details our need for a third stylist. Azalea outdid herself with this. It’s perfect, and I tell her so.
“Oh. I’m so thrilled you like it. I was worried you’d hate it.” Her smile stretches wide from one peridot eye to the other.
“Nope, AzzyJo, it is just what we need. Do whatcha need to and get it posted.” I stand and hand the paper back to her. “Now, I have errands that need runnin’ and laundry that needs tendin’. So, I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”
“Yes, ma’am, bright and early. And you wear some yoga pants or something stretchy, because tomorrow is Tuesday, and we ARE going to eat our weight in tacos after work! No excuses, Myla Rose. Tired or not!”
AzzyJo was good on her suggestion for yoga pants. My jeans are all too damn tight thanks to my ever-growing baby bump. I mean, I’m hardly showing, but my clothes sure don’t fit right. With a resigned huff, I pull on my most comfy black yogas and pair them with a loose-fitting, sleeveless white trapeze top. I slip my feet into my trusty, well-worn Keds and finish the look with a messy bun—let’s call it I’m-too-tired-for-this chic.
I decide to walk the few blocks to the salon today, hoping that the fresh air, along with my travel mug of coffee, will energize me.
By the time I make it to the salon, I am slightly sweaty—or as Azalea would say, glistening. It’s only April, but it’s already warm as hell this morning. That’s life in the South though. The warm weather comes quick and lingers long.
“Whatcha smilin’ about?” Seraphine asks as I set my station up for the day. Guess that fresh air did the trick.
“I didn’t realize I was smiling. Must just be a good morning.”
She tucks her waist-length black hair behind her ear, waiting for me to elaborate. After a short pause, she moves on. “Well, I wanted to tell you that I added an appointment to your book this morning. Some guy called—said he was new in town and that his buddies told him this was the only place worth coming to. Hope that’s okay?”
“Of course, that’s totally fine. New business is always good. What time did you book him?”
“I stuck him in your ten o’clock slot.”
“In my ten? I thought Mrs. Sutherland was—”
“Yeah, she was, but she called right before he did and rescheduled to Thursday. Something about her kid swallowing a penny.”
“Poor guy.” I grin, thinking that will be my life in a few years. “Thanks for letting me know.” I head back to the dispensary, where we keep our excess supplies and color, to chat with Azalea before my first client arrives.
She’s sitting at our small break table folding towels, so I grab one and start folding to help out. She looks up and greets me with a beaming smile. “Myla Rose! Are you ready for tacos tonight?”
I can’t help but laugh at her excitement. “Yes, I’m ready for tacos—yoga pants and all.” I wave my arms Vanna White style to showcase my stretchy, loose-fitting ensemble. “And the bean is on our side. All I can think about is some fresh guac!” I rub my bump to emphasize my point, and she reaches out to do the same.
We simultaneously pause the belly rubbing when we hear the bell on the door chime. “You head on out, Myla Rose. That must be yours. My first isn’t until eleven.” I nod and head toward my station.
I’m organizing my clipper guards at my station when I hear, "Grocery store girl! It's you!" I gasp and look up to see Mr. Good Eyes smiling down at me.
"Oh, my! It's y–you." I know I’m blushing and internally scold myself. Get it together, Myla Rose. He is a client in your salon. It doesn’t matter one bit that he's too handsome for his own good.
I tighten my messy bun with a tug before attempting to greet him in a more professional manner. "Hello, I'm Myla Rose, and it's a pleasure to meet you." Oh, come the fuck on. GET. IT. TOGETHER. A pleasure to meet you? Could my blush get any deeper?
He holds out his hand. "Cash Carson, and the pleasure is mine." His deep voice moves right through me—straight to my core. Pleasure, indeed.
I place my hand in his to shake it. His hand completely engulfs mine. His grip is strong and his hand rough, callused from what has to be some form of manual labor. He lingers, holding my hand just past what's normal for a handshake. His fingers feather mine as he releases my hand, sending a wave of chills over my entire body.
I blink myself out of the fog he has me in. "Okay, Cash, how are we cuttin' you today?" I offer a small smile and tilt my chin down, hoping it hides my nerves. I don't know what it is about this guy . . .
Cash clears his throat, causing me to look up, and his stormy gaze captures mine in the reflection of the mirror. "Well, Miss Myla Rose, this hair gets hot when I'm working in my shop. I'm talking unbearable."
I run my fingers through his curls and a soft sigh escapes my lips. They're every bit as soft as I imagined them to be. "How short you thinkin'?"
"You're the pro here, Myla Rose. You tell me.” He emphasizes my name, and the way his lips form around it makes it sound sinful. I get chills from the sound of it.
He has me rattled. I do my best to ignore the feeling and set to work shearing off the length on the sides and back, cropping it close. I leave the top a bit longer and cut it to comb back out of his face. Once I finish, I turn him toward the mirror so that he can inspect my work. "You want me to wash it? Keep you from itchin' all day?"
He runs a hand through his hair in that way only a guy can and winks. He fucking winks. "Lead the way, Myla Rose." I guide him to the shampoo room and direct him to have a seat and lie back. I lean over him to pull the lever to put up his feet, and I catch his scent. Citrus, spice, and pure man. Good Lord, help me.
"Th–That water feel okay?" He just nods, his eyes pinched tightly closed and his knuckles white from gripping the armrests.
I work the shampoo into his scalp, creating a rich lather, massaging as I go. "Mmm . . . damn, girl, that feels good. I need this every day after work." He groans, and the sound is so sensual, my knees almost buckle.
Holy hell. Thankfully, his eyes are closed so he can't see my embarrassment. I rinse the suds and grab a towel. "All done," I announce, ignoring his comment. He follows behind me to my chair, where I run some gel through his locks and give his hair a final inspection. "I think you're good to go, Cash. It looks mighty fine."
His eyes hold mine. "Yes, ma'am, mighty fine, indeed. I pay up front?" he inquires with a tilt of his head.
"Mmmhmm," I mumble, no longer sure if we're talking about his hair.
Or if we ever were . . .