Page 33 of Small Town Firsts

"A few reasons . . ." I trail off when I see why she's so angry. Goddamn it.

Jake

You take my advice, brother?

Jake

The best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.

Jake

Seriously, you hit that yet?

"Myla,it's not what you think?—"

"Just save it. I'm not an idiot."

I slip my phone back into my pocket, panic and guilt rioting inside me.

"If you—if you'd just let me explain . . ."

"Let you explain what? That you're only with me to get laid? No, you can get out." She tosses my wallet and my keys at me and points to the door.

"Okay, I’ll go . . . but this isn't finished." I roll my head from side to side, trying to release the mounting pressure. “Far from it. You be sure to lock up," I tell her before trudging back out to my truck.

Slamming the shifter into gear, I haul ass out of there, ready to tear my brother a new one. What the fuck was he thinking?

CHAPTER 20

MYLA ROSE

I stand there,staring out my front window, long after his tail lights disappear. After what feels like an eternity, I turn and head upstairs, making sure to lock up behind myself.

“Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid,” I mutter as I strip out of my dress.

“Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid,” I lament as I braid my hair and again as I brush my teeth.

Stupid-stupid-stupid-stupid,loops through my mind like a broken record until sleep finally finds me.

I wake the next morning, still feeling dejected. If I thought the Strawberry Festival was bad, it doesn't hold a candle to this. He was literally only interested in sleeping with me to get over his ex. All those sweet words . . . nothing more than lies. Here’s history, repeating itself.When will I ever learn?

Fuck Cash Carson and his bullshit. I’m done.

Thankfully, Grams taught me a thing or two about making lemonade out of life's lemons.

“Lemonade, Myla Rose, lemonade.” With my new mantra in mind, I decide to take the rest of the day to pamper myself, starting with a relaxing soak in the tub—lemon-scented bubbles and all.Take that, universe.

After doing a face mask and a deep conditioner, I call Azalea to see if she feels like getting in on all this goodness.

She doesn’t answer, which is unlike her. Especially after my 'not-date’ last night. Honestly, I half expected her to be beating my door down before the birds chirped.

So, I redial.

It rings and rings and rings. She answers just before her voicemail picks up.

“Hello? Myla?” She sounds winded, completely out of breath.

“What on earth are you doin’?”

---