Page 29 of Small Town Firsts

“Do you want to wear your hair straight or in waves?” Azalea calls to me through the bathroom door.

“AzzyJo,” I whine, “I’m not going, so it doesn’t matter. Give me my phone so I can call him and cancel.”

“No, ma’am. Not gonna happen.” Her voice is firm, unrelenting. This girl is a total force to be reckoned with.

“Okay, then you call him. Tell him I’m sick. Something—anything,” I beg.

She drums her nails against the bathroom door. "Come out and talk to me. What’s got you all spun up?”

I shove the door open and stalk over to my bed, where Azalea is laid out like a cat sunning at high noon.

“Azalea Josephine Barnes, I cannot go anywhere lookin’ like this.” I stomp my foot for emphasis. “My jeans don’t button, and this top makes me look like ten pounds of shit shoved into a five-pound bag. No, no, no, no!”

Azalea, to her credit, keeps her cool. She slowly assesses my outfit, her lips twitching as she tries not to laugh.

“Oh, Myla. Goodness gracious, you’re not lyin’. Take that off and let me pick something out for you.”

By the time I shimmy and jiggle out of the offending outfit, AzzyJo has a new one laid out on the bed for me.

“A dress? You want me to wear a dress?”

“Yes, a dress. Put it on and stop acting like I’m torturing you.”

I slip the dress over my head and appraise my appearance in the full-length mirror hanging on my closet door. This time, I don't hate what I see. I look . . . nice.

The dress is a deep navy, almost the color of ink, and made from the softest cotton I’ve ever felt, and its A-line silhouette is super flattering. “Where did you find this?” I ask, my tone accusing, because Iknowit isn’t from my closet.

She ignores me while I continue staring at myself in the mirror, turning every which way to check all my angles. I find no fault—I lookreallygood. The dark color of the dress pops against my red hair and pale skin.Damn her, why is she always right?

She laughs, knowing she has me beat. “Told you so, and I found it at this cute little boutique across the bay and just had to get it for you. Sit down, I’ll dry your damn hair for you, and as I asked earlier, straight or wavy?”

“I know I don’t say this enough, but thank you, Az. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

CHAPTER 19

CASH

Myla Roseand I settled on six o’clock for our not-date. But damn if it doesn’t feel like one. I even washed and waxed my truck. Which is why I’m five minutes past six pulling up to her house. Late. I’m fucking late. I scrub a hand over my face, hoping she doesn't hold my tardiness against me. I sure as hell don't need another tic in theConcolumn.

I take in her house in an entirely new light now. It was beautiful before—but knowing her Grandpa built it by hand . . . yeah, that blows my mind. As I approach the house, I really take the time to notice the detail, the trim and the intricate wood work on the porch.Incredible.

I rap my knuckles on the front door three times and wait. And wait, and wait. Girl's got a thing for not answering the door.

Finally, as I’m about to knock again, the door flies open, and I’m face-to-face with Azalea.

“Good evenin’, Azalea,” I greet her.

“Myla isn’t quite ready yet. You’re welcome to come on in and wait.” She opens the door wide enough for me to pass through.

She guides me to the living room, and just like outside, I take in the interior of the house with fresh eyes. I can almost hear theechoes of Myla Rose running up and down the steps as a little girl.

“Let me just run and check on her,” she tells me as I situate myself on the over-stuffed white loveseat.

I’ve been sitting here, waiting, for what feels like an eternity when I hear hushed voices from just outside the room. “Myla Rose, you get out there right now! That man is waitin’ on you!” I smile to myself, amused at her reluctance.

After a few more minutes, I hear them both approaching. It’s a good thing I’m seated when they come into view, because the sight of Myla Rose would have knocked me clear on my ass.

Her fiery locks are styled in long, cascading waves—it looks so pretty that I can’t help but want to mess it up, to run my hands through it and tug on it.

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