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"What would your mother say if she could hear you right now?" I say as I rise from the booth. I almost laugh at the absurdity of my question. His mother would probably be proud—because that tone I couldn't place earlier . . . it's all Kathy Mills.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to investigate. Like a devil summoned, there stands Mrs. Mills, her face as pinched as ever. "If I could hear what, Ms. McGraw?" She shuffles past me and arranges herself into the seat I was just in.

"Mother, Myla here was just informing me that she's . . .with child."

Mrs. Mills entire body tightens. "Are you now? And my Taylor needed to know why?"

"Because he's the father," I tell her honestly. Some stupid part of me is holding out that the thought of becoming a grandmother will make her knock some sense into him.

She looks down her nose at me. "Oh, Myla Rose. You poor, poor thing. You're certainly turning out to be just like your mother."

I suck in a breath through my teeth. The nerve of this woman. I'm done playing nice.Finished.

Leaning down, I press my palms into the end of the table top. "Well, I'm sorry y'all feel this way. A baby is always a blessing, and I've got this with or without you, Taylor Mills. Not only will I raiseourbaby on my own, I'll thrive while doing it." Taylor makes to interrupt me, but I stand to my full height and place my hands on my hips, silencing him with a sharp look. "If there's one thing my Grams has taught me, it’s that from shit, flowers grow. So, y'all can sit back and watch me fucking blossom."

CHAPTER 4

MYLA ROSE

I'm going on almosttwo months of little-to-no sleep. At first, I was heartsick over the way things ended with Taylor. It wasn’t so much that he only saw me as a fling. I mean, did it hurt my pride? You bet. Did it break my heart? Maybe, a little. But nothing hurt more than the fact that he was trying to act like he wasn't this baby's father. His mother's willingness to play along is a whole ‘nother story.

I moped and moped over the fact that my little bean would never know its daddy until Azalea whipped me into shape with a "What would Grams say if she could see you now?" That girl knows just how to get to me. Thank God.

Now, it's morning sickness keeping me awake. Morning sickness, my ass—I swear the son of a bitch who thought up that name had a perverse sense of humor. After spending allnightthrowing up, I would kill for five more minutes of sleep, butbeauty calls.

I’ve got back-to-back clients at the salon today, with none other than Kathy Mills to start me off. “Thinks she’s so much better than me . . . sure loves the way I do her damn hair though.” I bitch and grumble as I kick back the covers and head for the shower.

As the hot water and suds wash away any lingering nausea, my mind wanders. I imagine a different future for me and my little bean. In my mind, we’re a family of three instead of two. I'm not still hung up on Taylor. I just wish like hell my baby had a daddy who loved him—or her, but I'm hoping for a boy—a daddy who would coach his T-ball team. A daddy who would read him bedtime stories and take him camping. If only . . .

“Ain't no sense in wallowing, Myla Rose. Pull up them bootstraps, girl,” I chide myself, just like Grams would’ve done.

I guide my car into a parking spot in front of Southern Roots, the salon I own with Azalea. With a quick check of the time, I see that I'm earlier than I thought, so I pop into Dream Beans, Dogwood’s local coffee shop.

It’s a cozy little place, with stained concrete floors covered in gorgeous Oriental rugs, mismatched antique furniture, and funky industrial lighting.

I step up to the reclaimed wood bar to order, hoping that caffeine will knock out that last bit of sluggishness my shower missed.

“Good mornin’. Whatcha drinking today?” Hazel, the barista, asks with a small smile.

“A large coffee with room for cream,” I tell her through a yawn.

As I’m pulling out my wallet to pay, I hear a hushed voice behind me. “Well, my goodness, drinking coffee while pregnant. Hmph.” I glance over my shoulder as Mrs. Mills continues griping to herself. “A good mother would never subject her baby to anything that could cause harm.”God bless it, I swear she thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.

I look back to Hazel, roll my eyes, and move down the counter to fix up my coffee. I take a sip of the steamy beverage and release a dramatic sigh as I make my way to the door. Ipause as I pass Mrs. Mills, look her dead in the eye, and take another big gulp of coffee.

"Now, Mrs. Mills, I figured you'd know that expectin' women can have up to two hundred milligrams of caffeine a day, what with your husband being an obstetrician and all." With a big fake smile and a wave, I continue on my way out the door. I pause once more, holding the door with my hip, and call over my shoulder, "Looking forward to your appointment, as always."

I hop across the street to the salon, fighting my frustration with every step. That woman knows just how to push my buttons—always has—and now I have to spend the next two hours with her. I should have just kept my mouth shut, but who the hell is she to judge me? I roll my shoulders back and crack my neck before heading into the salon. “Mornin’, y’all.” I greet Azalea and Seraphine—our receptionist—trying my hardest to check my attitude at the door.

“Good mornin’ to you too, Myla Rose. Wanna tell me about that sour look you’re wearing?” Azalea asks, her perfectly arched brows dipped in worry.

“Nothin’ major. I just let Mrs. Mills get under my skin.”

“Well, bad news then,” Seraphine interjects. “She called to say she was gonna be late.” Her dark chocolate eyes asses me, waiting to see my reaction. These pregnancy hormones have made me a tad more emotional than usual.

“Great. Of course she is.” I fume, angrier than a wet cat. "Obviously, I have nothing better to do than wait for Kathy fucking Mills to finish her coffee. Now my entire day is going to be one big game of catch up." Azalea and Seraphine both look at me with sympathetic expressions.

With a huff and a few more muttered curses, I set to work pulling foils and gathering the color I’ll need for her hair—sheneverchanges it. Apparently, consistency is key.