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Reaching down, I grab them and feel paper brush against my knuckles. I snatch the folded sheet of paper up from the porch as well and head inside. After lugging my shopping bags up to what will be the nursery, I plop myself, and the bags, down onto the floor.

The paper I’m holding looks like some sort of scrap paper. It’s smudged and there’s an assortment of numbers scrawled in the margin.

As I slowly unfold the note, I’m hit with the delicious, familiar smell of Cash Carson. Did he leave these flowers? The handwriting is masculine and messy. It looks slightly rushed,like he was in a hurry to leave—though I'm surprised he was even here.

Myla Rose-

Sorry for . . . everything.

Again.

Please know those messages

weren't what you think.

I’m just . . . sorry. I’m sorry.

-Cash

The gesture’s sweet,though I’m not sure I believe him. Those texts had surely meant something . . . right?

I snip the ends of the flowers before arranging them in an antique brass vase. I have always loved fresh flowers.They just brighten up a room—that’s what Grams always said, and it stuck.

Ever since she passed, I’ve made sure to have them in at least one room of the house. Though I haven’t bought any since being pregnant. Turns out that my little bean didn’t share my fondness for fresh flowers for the first bit of my pregnancy.

Thankfully, my sensitivity to fragrance hit the road, along with my morning sickness, a while ago.Lord, yes. And now, I can start back up with my flower habit.

Carrying the vase out to the dining room, I place the arrangement in the center of the table. As much as I hate to admit it, he picked some really pretty flowers. An assortment of wildflowers, and you guessed it—roses.

It’s like the man has insider information on the things I love or he’s an incredibly lucky guesser. Whatever. I’ll send him a thank you note and call it a day. I have no desire to play with thefire that is Cash Carson. None whatsoever, at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

CHAPTER 23

MYLA ROSE

I wake from my nap,not necessarily tired, but cranky as all get out. What should’ve been a peaceful and relaxing sleep ended up being filled with restless dreams of Cash.

Yes, dreams. Plural.

One about how our night could have ended if I hadn't seen those vile texts. Another about him being my little bean’s daddy instead of Taylor. And oddly enough, a dream about him taking me to . . . a drag race? Beats me. All I know is that he needs to vacate my damn mind before I lose it.

Tapping out Simon’s number, I hitSend, waiting impatiently for him to pick up.

“Myles! What’s up?” He sounds really . . . excited. Wonder what that’s about. One more thing on the list of shit he and I need to talk about, I guess.

“Hey, Sim, can I come by?”

“You know my door’s always open for you. Come on, girl. D’s here too.”

“Oh? Perfect, that’s perfect. I have somethin’ for y’all. Be over in a few.”

Disconnecting the call, I fly back up the stairs to fish out Drake’s and Simon’s gifts. I’ve been thinking of a good way to tellthe boys that they’re getting a nephew, and I know I’ve struck gold with this plan.

“Eww-eww-eww!” A shiver of revulsion runs through my entire body as I hop my way through the field between our yards. I need to talk to Simon about cutting this clearing down a bit.

The cool evening breeze only intensifies the feeling of the dewy grass licking at my ankles, and there is nothing I hate more than wet grass. Except for maybe my ex. Yeah, he’s high on the list.

I’m just about to walk into Simon’s house when the door flies open . . .