Page 7 of Small Town Firsts

By the time she arrives, I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes. Seraphine walks her to my chair, and without a word, I get straight to work applying her color.

“Myla Rose, aren’t you going to ask me what we’re doing today?” She turns her head, causing the lightener on my brush to almost miss the foil.

“Damnit,” I hiss under my breath. “Did you want to do something different, Mrs. Mills?” I struggle to keep my annoyance to myself. I glance up, and AzzyJo’s brilliant green eyes catch mine in the mirror. She shoots me a look that screamscalm down, Myla.

“No, but I may have, and that is my point.” Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard.Doesn’t she know that self-righteousness is an ugly color?

“You’re absolutely right, Mrs. Mills. I apologize." My cheeks ache from holding my oh-so-fake smile. All of my smiles around this woman are fake.

You’d think knowing her most of my life would dull her effect on me, but nope. I’m not that lucky. If anything, with age, she aggravates me more. After all, she’s had damn near ten years to learn the best way to get under my skin. We fall into a somewhat comfortable silence after our little exchange. Thank God.

I’m roughing a towel through her wet hair when she clears her throat to get my attention. “Myla Rose, did you hear about Taylor?—”

“NO!” I all but shout. Every damn time she comes in, she tries to update me on her son's life. It’s like some sick form of punishment.

She was delighted to tell me when he transferred from our local community college to the big state university—full academic scholarship, at that. And in her very next breath, she told me all about his new girlfriend. A respectable girl, with a good pedigree and the right kinda family. What is she, a dog?

Swear to God, it feels like she plans her color services with me around his life events. “Please spare us both and just don’t go there, 'kay?”

Switching on my blow dryer, I let the noise drown out any response she may have had. I finish styling her hair to Southern Blonde Perfection—the higher the hair, the closer to Heaven, y’all—and she isfinallyout the door and on her way.

I’m finishing up my last client of the day when I hear the door to the salon chime, and I’m suddenly hit with the strongest perfume ever.What fresh floral hell is that?

Throwing my hands over my mouth, I dash to the restroom. There’s that morning sickness again. Yeah, smells trigger it too. Go figure. After washing my hands, popping a mint, and fixing my smudged makeup, I hold my breath and make my way back to my station. I sweep my eyes across the salon and slowly release the breath I was holding. Whoever it was must have left because I don’t see anyone other than Azalea.

“Myla Rose! My goodness, are you okay?” she inquires in that sweet Southern drawl of hers.

“I’m fine,” I say as I rinse my color bowl in the sink. “Don’t you worry about me. Dr. Mills says morning sickness usually only lasts the first trimester. So, it should be on its way out the damn door.”

I step back over to my station, gathering my things while simultaneously working up a plan to tell Azalea that I’m flaking out on our plans for the night. “AzzyJo, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She cuts her eyes at me, and they blaze like emeralds. Such a contrast to her pale hair and tanned skin.

I raise my hands, as if I’m trying to keep her at bay. “I know, I know. Taco Tuesday, but I am dog tired. I just want a bubble bath and my bed.”

“Myla Rose, you will not ditch me next month, tired or not. In fact, you can treat me,” Azalea retorts with a false look ofexasperation. We walk together to the door, where she engulfs me in the biggest, tightest hug—just what I needed after today.

I’m halfwayhome when I realize I need groceries. Sure, a drive-thru is an option, but my little bean is making me crave a BLT with Thousand Island dressing on sourdough bread. So, to Piggly Wiggly I go. I figure I’ll grab just enough for dinner tonight and some Cliff Bars for breakfast—the rest can wait.

I’m pushing my buggy through the store, humming to myself, mentally checking my shopping list when I walk right into a . . . wall?

No, not a wall.

A person.

A man.

He towers over my five-foot-three frame by at least a foot, all broad-shouldered and solid. “Oh, my stars—I am so sorr?—”

I don’t even finish my sentence before he whips around to face me, and I’m met with the most stunning gray-blue eyes, the color of the summer sky right before a thunderstorm. And his hair. He has gorgeous brown ringlets that flop every which way—a bit of boyishness to temper his ruggedness.

His mere presence unsteadies me, causing me to wobble on my feet. I reach an arm out to balance myself, only he beats me to it, dropping his big, warm hands to my shoulders to hold me still.

His touch is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, and if I never moved from this spot, that’d be fine by me. All this time, while I’m caught up in my own crazy, he just stares down at me with a slight smirk, waiting on me to finish my forgotten apology.

I clear my throat and rush my words out. “I am so sorry. I was caught up in my own head, checking my list and not paying attention at all. I didn’t hurtcha with my buggy, did I?”

I chance a look up at him. He chuckles and shakes his head. “No, ma’am, I’m just fine.” His voice is nothing more than a deep rumble, and it hits me straight in my belly, sending those butterflies swooping. “You have a nice evening, yeah?” Just like that, he turns and walks away.

“Uhhh. Um, yeah, you too,” I holler to his retreating back. Mindlessly, I walk to the checkout and then out to Bertha, my old Land Cruiser. Mint green paint still gleaming, she's a thing of beauty, passed down from my Grams.

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