Weather the Storm (Southern Roots Book 3)

by LK Farlow

  Megan G, I’ve always adored you, but meeting you really cemented how much I love—no, how much I luuuuurve you. You are one of my favorite humans on this planet.

  Jennifer Van Wyk, you make my heart smile. Like a big, goofy, cheesing grin. I’m so thankful for our friendship and for your willingness to be a sounding board for me. For real, thanks babe!

  Harloe, I adore you puddin’ pop!

  Andee, Andrea, Mae, Lo, Kate S., Dani (& your nurse friends), Maria (& your former landlord), thank y’all *so* much for your input, feedback, and research! All the heart-eyes.

  Kiezha, you’re the best. Ever. Period. Never leave me! Seriously. Your edits are amazing and I’m beyond grateful for your patience with me.

  C Marie, I’m so thankful for you and your mad skills. Thank you for helping make this book shine.

  Judy, you’re proofreading skills are second to none. With you, I know I’m putting my best book forward.

  Juliana, thank you for breathing new life into these covers. They are to die for. <3

  Heather and Lo, dudes. Where do I even begin? Y’all are my spirit animal. I sure hope y’all plan to love me forever, because if not, I’ll stalk y’all’s asses. ‘Kay? Got it. F-O-R-E-V-E-R. Also, thank y’all for helping make Simon and Magnolia into what they are. Seriously, without y’all, I’m not sure this book would have happened the way it did. <3 #Tripod4Life.

  To my DND authors and my Minxes, thank you ladies so much.

  To the blogs and readers, thank you so much for reading me. Thank you for your sweet notes and emails. It means the world to me—for real, it means more than I’ll ever be able to articulate.

  Mom, it’s almost been a year. An entire year without you. To say I miss you would be an understatement. There’s not a day that goes by where you’re not in my thoughts.

  To my family, thank y’all for loving me and supporting me, even on my worst days. And let’s be real, there are a lot.

  But most of all, to my hubs and the littles. Y’all are the reason my sun rises and sets. My life begins and ends with y’all. Love y’all! <3

  And a special thanks to my dear friend Jessica W. Thank you for letting me pick your brain about certain aspects of this book. Your insight was invaluable.

  About the Author

  LK Farlow (A.K.A Kate) is a small town girl with a love for words. She’s been writing stories and poems for as long she can remember. A Southern girl through and through, Kate resides in beautiful, sunny LA—that’s Lower Alabama, y’all—with her amazing husband and three wonderful children. When she’s not writing, you can find her snuggled up on the couch watching nature documentaries while she crochets or with her nose in a book. All Kate really wants in this life is her family happy, strong coffee, a good book and more Happily Ever After’s.

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  Chapter One

  CASH

  Tonight’s the night. I’ve got everything planned to a T. I made sure to take off early from work so that I could get to the house before she did to set everything up. I’ve got her favorite Italian food from Luigi’s riding shotgun. I have candles and her favorite flowers, lilies, to place all around the dining room table—and the bed.

  But more important than any of that is the black velvet box—you know, the ring-holding kind—that’s tucked into my front pocket.

  I park my truck down the street so that if she happens to come home early, she won’t know I’m here. Gathering everything up, I head toward the house, my arms full and a spring in my step.

  It’s so damn gorgeous this time of year—cool October mornings and just a hair past warm at midday. Maybe Kayla will want to plan the wedding for this time next year. I pause at the sound of my phone ringing in my pocket. Shuffling the items I’m hauling, I carefully slide my phone from my pocket. Seeing that it’s my brother, I swipe to answer the call.

  “Jake, what’s up?”

  “Cash.” He sighs. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He’s never been very pro-Kayla. Come to think of it, none of my family is. Friends either, for that matter.

  “I’m sure. She’s been so off lately. Distant. This’ll get us back on the right path.”

  “Bro, don’t rush into something just because you think she wants it. You’re smarter than that.”

  “Jake, I got this.” I huff, and my annoyance comes through loud and clear. “I’m not rushing shit. We’ve been together six years. She’s probably just pissy because I’ve taken so damn long to ask.” His reply is nothing more than a grumble.

  My steps falter when I see Kayla’s car in the driveway. What’s she doing home already? “Hey, Jake? Let me call you back,” I mumble as I slide my key into the lock.

  “Kayla?” I call out. No answer. What the hell? I hear noise coming from the back of the house—in the direction of our bedroom—and my heart drops like lead into my stomach.

  I can feel it, soul-fucking-deep. Something’s not right.

  I shoulder the door open, and there she is. In our bed, head thrown back in ecstasy, someone else’s hands gripping her thick hips as she cries out his name. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. They’re so into each other, they don’t even notice me.

  “What the fuck?” I shout. Kayla’s head whips toward me, and Kevin—assuming the name she was chanting is his—sits up so fast that she falls back onto her ass. “WHAT THE FUCK?” I roar again. Because, really, what else is there to say?

  Kevin’s eyes slide from Kayla to me and back again. “Kay, what’s your brother doing here?” Kay? Dude has a nickname for MY girlfriend? She just blinks, tears welling.

  “Your brother?” I grit out. “Your fucking brother?” Kevin looks genuinely confused. “I’m here, Kevin, because this is my house. That’s what I’m doing here.”

  “Babes, I had no clue your brother was in town, or I would have suggested my place.” Kayla looks a little green, her eyes darting rapidly around the room like she’s looking for an exit. Tough luck, babes.

  “I’m not her brother,” I hiss at Kevin, who is clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed.

  Kayla’s given up on her escape plan and has devolved to crying. You know, that raccoon eyes, ugly kind of crying.

  “Bro, just chill.” The douche tries to pacify me. “I’ll be on my way, and you guys can talk.”

  I shake my head, my face a mask of cool indifference. “Nah, bro, nothing to talk about.” Storming over to the closet, I fling open the door and grab my overnight bag, throwing God knows what into it. Hopefully, enough shit to last me the weekend. “I’m outta here.”

  She’s sobbing uncontrollably into the sheets, refusing to look at either of us. But I have this nagging feeling that it’s all for show. “Ca–Cash. K–Kevin, I c–can explain—”

  “Nothin’ to explain, Kayla. Dinner’s on the table. Enjoy it.” Or choke on it. I keep that thought to myself, though. “We’ll deal with shit when I’m ready. Don’t call.” I snatch my bag up off the floor and head back the way I came, slamming the front door as I go, leaving my house—our house. The house I’d spent the last three years in, with her. The house we talked about raising kids in. Jesus. How did I miss this? I was ready to get down on one fucking knee. Guess she saved me the trouble by getting on both of hers.

  §

  After hours of aimless driving, I finally decide to grab a room at King’s Motor Lodge. A lumpy mattress sounds better than hearing the inevitable ‘I told you so’ I’d get crashing on a friend’s couch. The room is the size of a large closet, with dingy brown carpet and faded, peeling wallpaper. A mothball mixed with air freshener scent surrounds me as I
drop down onto the bed and check my phone—two missed calls from my mom and three from Jake, along with a slew of text messages. Not a thing from Kayla. I know I told her not to call, but damn. I swipe away the notifications and dial my brother. It’s time to face the music.

  “Cashmere,” Jake chirps into the phone. Goddamn, I hate that nickname. “So, did the tr—I mean Kayla—say ‘yes’?”

  “Nope,” I offer, knowing how much he hates single-word replies. Serves the asshole right for calling me Cashmere.

  “Seriously, bro. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours. Don’t leave me hangin’.”

  I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to gather my thoughts, and then launch into a play-by-play of everything that went down tonight.

  “I’m so sorry, Cash. Never did like her, but I didn’t think she was that . . .”

  “Man, I didn’t even see it coming,” I whisper into the phone. My voice breaks, utterly defeated. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what to do? Pack your shit and head to Dogwood. Come home, Cash.”

  “Right, because it’s just that easy. I can totally just throw my shit into the back of my truck and move. I have obligations here, Jake. I can’t just up and move because Kayla fucked me over.”

  “Wasn’t you she was fucking, Cash.”

  “Thanks, Jake. Because that isn’t still fresh in my mind,” I snarl.

  “Check yourself. I know you’re pissed, but don’t take it out on me.”

  I huff out a harsh breath. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so damn angry.”

  We both know he isn’t the problem. Kayla is. And maybe I am too. How could I have been so blind? I jump up from the bed and start pacing the small room, trying to get a grip on the rage building inside me.

  “I bet you are. If Paige ever . . . Jesus. Do you know how long? Not like that matters. Once is enough.”

  “It was definitely more than once. I can feel it.” My eyes are watering, but I refuse to let the tears spill. Man up, Cash. “I wasted all this time. I had plans, a vision, and she shot it all to hell. What am I gonna do, Jake?” I fish the ring box out of my pocket and just stare at it. I was so damn convinced this little box was the key to my future—our future. What a joke. I slam it down onto the small table by the door and zone back in on my brother’s words.

  “Listen, here’s the plan. You’re gonna talk to her.” I start to interrupt him, but he just keeps on. “Sucks, I know, but it has to be done. Y’all are going to get shit sorted with the house and the lease. Then you’re going to pack up and come home. Stay here, or at Mom’s, or Drake’s, until you figure out a plan. You have options. Use them. You know you can do some work from here. That’s the joy of self-employment. Stop overthinking. You can’t change what happened, you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I hear you. I’ll call you in a few days and let you know what’s up. Thanks, brother.”

  I know I need to call my mom. And Kayla. I rub my hand down my face, the full weight of my exhaustion settling in. I toss my phone down beside the little black box and collapse into the rickety chair next to it as a cloud of dust floats up around me.

  Tomorrow. I’ll call them tomorrow.

  §

  The sound of someone knocking wakes me, and I stumble as I walk to check the door, my muscles stiff from sleeping in that damn chair all night. I look through the peephole and there she is. Kayla. How in the hell did she know where to find me?

  “Cash, I know you’re in there!” Seriously, how does she know I’m here? “Open the door, Cash. We need to talk.” She sounds angry, and that’s just fuel to my fire. What right does she have to be mad?

  “How the hell did you know where to find me?” I whisper-shout at her through the crack in the door.

  “Open up and I’ll tell you, Cash.”

  “You can tell me now.”

  “I checked your bank account. Your room here was the last charge.”

  “You’ve got some nerve.” I throw open the door, ready to tear into her. My outrage over her checking my bank account takes a backseat when I see what looks like all of my belongings shoved into garbage bags piled around her feet. “What the fuck is all of this?”

  “Your stuff from the house,” she says slowly. Like saying it slow clarifies anything. So, I ask her again, and she sighs like she’s being inconvenienced. “Look, Cash, obviously, we weren’t working out. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it.” Her tone is so fucking nonchalant, like she’s telling me the goddamn weather.

  “You’ve been meaning to talk to me about us . . . ‘not working out’? Are you kidding me right now?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in an effort to control my temper. A few people are staring at us from the parking lot, so I usher her inside, not in the mood to carry this conversation out in front of an audience.

  I park myself back in the chair I slept in while she perches on the edge of the bed. “Cash, I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a long time.”

  I stare at her in disbelief. “So, you cheated?”

  “I met Kevin, and he just sparked something in me. I–I don’t know how to explain it, and even if I could, I doubt you’d understand. He just has this passion for me, and it—”

  “Stop!” I cut her off, not wanting to hear any more. “Almost seven damn years down the drain. How long have you been seeing him?”

  “Three years.” I stare at her in disbelief. Who is this girl in front of me?

  “You know what? Fuck this, you, all of it. You can go.” She doesn’t move an inch. “Get out, Kayla!”

  “Cash, be reasonable, we still need to talk.”

  “Be reasonable? REASONABLE? I’m about three years past reasonable,” I roar, my temples throbbing from the adrenaline rushing through me. “I bought a goddamn ring, Kayla. I was going to propose. We had an entire life planned together, and y–you blindside me with this—with him.” It’s then she notices the ring box on the table. Her eyes flick from it, then over to me, from me to her left hand, and then back to me. My eyes follow hers, guiding me straight to the ring on her left hand. A ring I didn’t put there. My brain can’t seem to catch up with what’s happening.

  “I love him. We’re getting married, Cash. I already talked to our landlord, and he’s allowing us to break the lease. Something about a commercial offer on the house. It’s over. We’re over.”

  My fucking world implodes. I drop my head into my hands to hide the tears trailing down my cheeks. “Just go.”

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  ONE

  SPENCER

  I love sex. I love the power, the intimacy, the euphoria it brings.

  Don’t misunderstand, I’m not a slut. God, the mere thought of the word makes me cringe. I’m simply a woman unashamed of her desires. A woman who knows her own body and wants you to know yours just as well.

  For instance, did you know that the clitoris has roughly twice the nerve endings as a penis? In fact, it is the only body part, male or female, that exists solely for pleasure. That’s right, ladies. Sex is supposed to feel good. If it doesn’t, call my office and make an appointment. I’ll see what I can do to help.

  No, I’m not running some scandalous operation. I am a family psychologist specializing in sex therapy, or more commonly known simply as a sex therapist, and I love my job. There are few things I find more rewarding than knowing I’ve helped an individual or couple learn to find pleasure in what I consider to be one of the most vital of ways.

  There are many reasons, beyond the usual emotional connection, that make a healthy sexual relationship important. Sex contributes to your overall well-being. It has magical powers. I’m serious. It’s scientifically proven that sex releases hormones that both calm and relieve stress. It is a natural antidepressant
as well as pain killer. Therefore, next time you feel like pushing your man away because you have a headache, consider taking one for the team. By the time you reach orgasm, that headache will have been long forgotten. I swear by it.

  So, if I’m such an expert, you may ask yourselves how I ended up here. A thirty-three-year-old woman with three children by two different men—not presently married to either. Stop judging me. Some problems can’t be solved in the bedroom, and apparently, I attract those kinds of problems.

  You see, I’ve only had sex with three men, and consequently, two of those relationships resulted in tiny humans whose sperm donors wanted no part in raising.

  When I was nineteen, and in my sophomore year of college, two years into a broken heart, I met Tate Tenning. He was a senior and the star of the football team. His blond curls, blue eyes, and perfect ass were just too much for my drunken mind to refuse. We hooked up in the backseat of his Explorer during a frat party, and a whirlwind romance ensued. We hit it off in a big way. That man could make my body scream, and he was a good boyfriend, too. Tate was kind, attentive, and he worshipped the ground I walked on. We traveled a lot and partied even more. About a month after he graduated, we took a trip to Vegas to celebrate, and when we returned, I had a ring on my finger. He was a good husband, for the most part, and we were happy, young, and in love. Fast forward a few months, a positive pregnancy test, sonogram, and two heartbeats later...Well, I’m sure you can piece together the rest of that story.

  Lake and Landon were born six months after our divorce. Tate didn’t even bother coming to the hospital, but I’d wanted my children to have a father. I had hopes that he would eventually come around. So, I put his name on their birth certificates, and at my father’s insistence, filed for child support. For a few years, he was no more than a check in the mail. His measly seven hundred dollars a month barely put diapers on their asses and clothes on their backs. My parents paid for their daycare so that I could finish school and made sure we always had food on the table. They’d already been paying for my apartment since I’d started college, so they simply upgraded me from a one bedroom to a two, and we made it. It was hard as hell, but we did it.