Page 10 of Small Town Firsts

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 isbadass,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 appears 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.

CHAPTER 7

MYLA ROSE

I feelhis 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, forweeks, 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. Dogwoodmay 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 thesalon. 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?”

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