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She may be petite, but in that short, flowy dress, her legs look like they go on for days. But what strikes me the most is that even without a lick of makeup, she glows. She shines so bright that everything around her dulls. It’s like I have tunnel vision, and she’s all I can see.

I stand and walk to her, not by choice, but by force. She’s reeling me toward her, and I’m helpless to stop it. I stop directly in front of her. “You look . . . absolutely radiant.” She tilts her head down to hide the pink creeping up her neck and into her cheeks.

“Okay, you kids have a nice night now,” Azalea says, ushering us out the door.

“So, where are we going?”Myla Rose asks as I steer us down her long driveway. I’m not gonna lie. I was looking forward to helping her up into the truck, but she had herself seated andbuckled before I even had a chance. As hot as Myla Rose is, her independence is hotter.

“Well, I thought we’d head on over to Cotton?”

“The farm-to-table place?”

“That’s the one.” I sneak a glance in her direction, only to find her eyes lit up like Christmas lights. Guess she likes that idea.

“Oh, my stars! I have just been dyin’ to try that place! I’ve heard they have thebeststeaks!” Her excitement is so damn cute that I don’t even try to conceal the grin spreading across my face.

We fall into a comfortable silence, the tires spinning on the asphalt and the low hum of the radio the only sounds in the cab of the truck.

As I navigate the truck into a parking spot, I clear my throat to get her attention. “Now, Myla Rose, you wait for me to come around and open your door, yeah?”

“I’m more than capable—” she starts to protest.

“Never said you weren’t, darlin’. Now, sit tight.” I jog around to her side of the truck and open her door, extending my hand to her.

She hesitates but then takes it, her skin warm against mine. She hops down, her body sliding against mine as she does.God, yes. More, please.

“Oh! Look how pretty,” she squeals as we approach Cotton.

She isn’t wrong either. It’s got some definite curb appeal. The restaurant is housed in an old white-washed brick building, the entrance framed by a pergola covered in jasmine.

Myla Rose stops just outside the pergola, an awestruck look on her face. “Cash, this is just . . . perfect.”

She’s right about that, too, except I’m not looking at the restaurant. I’m looking at her. Looking at the way she appreciates everything around her. I’m taken with the way the setting sun silhouettes her curves.

“Yeah, darlin', it sure is.”

Missing the feel of her, I press a hand to the small of her back and guide her inside. We both stop to take it all in—marbled bamboo flooring, sage green walls, and wrought iron chandeliers.

Yeah, this is a place I’d love to do some work for. Maybe I’ll try to snag a meeting with the owner.

The hostess leads us to a small two-seater in the back, which I requested when I called to make our reservation. Just like the other day at Dream Beans, I pull out her chair for her before taking the seat across from her. My hand feels empty and cool, instantly missing the heat from her body.

The hostess rattles off the specials and leaves us to look over our menus. I’m leaning toward the filet mignon served over broccolini, topped with truffle butter and a poached egg, when Myla Rose announces she wants the same thing. Girl’s got good taste.

“I plan on having the filet as well. Must be fate.” I waggle my brows at her, and she giggles at my joke, and goddamn, I’m intoxicated by the sound.

We place our orders and munch on some of the housemade rosemary bread while we wait. During this time, she asks me about the work I’m doing for Dream Beans, and I ask her about the salon. I’m impressed as hell that she owns a business at only twenty, and I tell her so. Her eyes shine with pride at my compliment, which only serves to make me want to compliment her more.

It's moments like these that really hit home for me what a rarity she is. Most women expect to be doted on, but Myla Rose takes nothing for granted—she's appreciative of even the smallest of things.

Our server places our meals before us and we waste no time digging in. The food is phenomenal. Even better? The little noises of delight she makes while eating it.

"So." I clear my throat before asking her, "How far along are you?"

I know most men would be put off by the fact that she's pregnant—and I'm not gonna lie, it threw me for a loop at first—but at the end of the day, the way she's making the best of being a young, single mom and her steadfast dedication to doing what's right for her baby only add to her appeal.

"Seventeen weeks, so almost halfway." She sounds less sure of herself now, like she isn't used to talking about her pregnancy—but with friends like Azalea, Simon, and Drake, I know that isn't the case. They may be more excited about the baby than she is.

"Have you always wanted kids?" I regret the words the second I speak them, and the pained look on her face only firms up my regret.