An Uphill Battle (The Southern Roots Series Book 2)

by LK Farlow

  She may want my body, but she doesn’t want my heart. Luckily, I’m no quitter. I’ll keep trying, even if it kills me, because you don’t let a woman like Azalea Barnes walk away without one hell of a fight.

  AZALEA

  I keep my eyes trained on the task at hand—spooning a generous portion of my shells and cheese into our bowls. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him.

  I can’t. The way he so easily tosses around the “L” word, like it’s nothing, like it has no meaning. The way he’s so oblivious to my feelings, but then again, I guess that’s my fault. It’s not like I talk about them. Ever.

  No way. I keep that shit locked down tight, or so I tell myself. Myla Rose and the girls say I wear them on my sleeve and that everyone except Drake and me can see how perfect we’d be, but what do they know?

  I mean, sure, Myla Rose found her happily ever after, but Seraphine and Magnolia are as single as can be, so . . . whatever.

  “Little Bit,” Drake calls after me as I head into the dining room, where I throw our bowls onto the table before hurling myself into a chair. “Bit, c’mon, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  I cut my eyes to him, my anger and hurt blanketing the room. “Eat before your food gets cold.”

  “You really gonna act like this?”

  “Act like what?” I know I’m being bitchy, but I can’t help it.

  “Azalea, for real. I don’t know what’s got you so pissy, but let’s talk this shit out. I was lookin’ forward to a nice day with you, so . . . please?”

  Drake shoots me his best puppy-dog eyes, and I can feel my icy resolve softening. I can never stay mad at him, especially when he’s so damn clueless as to what he did.

  “Yeah, sure, D. Let’s eat, and then we can watch a movie.”

  “I didn’t say let’s sweep shit under the rug. I said let’s talk.”

  It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes. “Don’t worry about it. It was nothing.”

  “Wasn’t nothin’ either. Something I said got you upset, and I’m pretty sure I know what. I just don’t know why.”

  “And what, pray tell, do you think it was?” I ask him, my spine ramrod straight and my food long forgotten.

  “I started to tell you I loved you, and you got all fifty shades of crazy.”

  “I–I . . . you wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t,” I tell him, hoping he’ll drop the subject.

  “How you figure?” he counters like the stubborn mule he is.

  “Drake, please just drop it?”

  “No way, not gonna happen. I’ve loved you since the day I met you, Azalea, and I’m tired of us dancin’ around this thing.”

  His words pierce me, like an arrow straight through my heart. I can feel the pink on my cheeks as it travels down my neck toward my chest. I gasp, struggling to inhale, because his words have sucked all the oxygen from the room. Desperate for a subject change, because God forbid we talk this shit out, I deflect. “Please. I bet you don’t even remember the day we met.” Thankfully, my words come out strong, masking the trembling mess I am on the inside.

  10

  Drake

  Abandoning our meal, I lead Azalea over to my worn tweed couch, positioning us so damn close together that we’re almost sharing a cushion. She makes a move to scoot away from me, but I halt her movement by grasping her leg, just above her knee. She rolls her eyes before scrunching up her nose and pursing her lips, her aggravation written clearly across her face.

  My cheeks split with a wide grin, because the face she’s making . . . it’s the very same one she made the day we met. “You know you’ve been sporting that same mean-ass look as long as I’ve known you, right?”

  Insert eye roll number two.

  “Have not.” Her tone is petulant, and I can’t help but love it.

  “Yeah, you have. You screw your pretty little lips up and try so damn hard to look mean.” I laugh, thinking back to so long ago when we first met. “What you really look like, though, is a wet kitten.”

  “Drake Collins, you’re an asshole. You don’t even know what you’re talking about. In fact, all you’re doin’ is trying to change the subject because you don’t remember a damn thing.”

  “I remember it like it was yesterday.” It sounds like a line, but it’s the honest-to-God truth.

  Azalea brushes her hair off her face and scoots a little closer to me, her eyes softening. “Tell me ’bout it?”

  She thinks I don’t realize that this is all a diversion from our earlier blow-up, but I’ll let it slide. Maybe when she sees I truly do remember every little detail, it’ll open her eyes to the reality of how I feel about her. “You were standing in the field between the McGraws’ and the McAllisters’ like you fucking owned it. You had your hands on your hips and your pretty little mouth twisted up in an ugly snarl—”

  “Hey! Did not!” she argues, smacking me in my chest.

  “Did too.” She goes to smack me again, but this time I’m prepared, and I grab her hand before it makes contact. I don’t let it go. “Your hair was lit up by sunlight, and right then and there, I knew you were somethin’ special.”

  Azalea’s looking at me like I’m batshit crazy, but I’m too far into my memories to care. I’m lost remembering the way I knew exactly who she was, no introductions needed, because Simon never shut up when we’d talk on the phone about his neighbor and her friend—his little sisters, he called ’em. I took one look at the tiny little freckle-faced redhead and dismissed her on sight. She was sweet-looking, but her friend . . . she wasn’t. Not at all.

  I remember taking her in from head to toe. There wasn’t much special about her, with her chicken legs and a chest as flat as her back. But something about that angry twist of her lips and the way she stared me down drew me in. My sixteen-year-old brain was screaming for me to get to know her. And once my eyes landed on hers, I was a goddamn goner. Green as a forest, and I was lost in the trees.

  Azalea nudges her shoulder into mine, breaking me from my memories. “Where did ya go?”

  “Just thinking ’bout what you asked me,” I tell her honestly. I keep that day tucked away like an old polaroid in my wallet. It’s a well-worn memory.

  “About when we met?”

  “Mmmhmm.” Looking down at my lap, I’m surprised to see I’m still holding her hand. Even more surprised she’s letting me.

  “Tell me more?” she asks, laying her head on my shoulder, cozying right up next to me so that there’s not even an inch between us.

  I stroke my thumb over the soft skin of her wrist, causing her to shiver, and I fucking love it. “First words you said to me were, ‘What are you staring at, asshole?’ You were barely thirteen and so full of fire. Loved your silver tongue then, and I love it now, Little Bit.” I cringe at my word choice, hoping it doesn’t set her off again, but she just buries her head in my shoulder.

  “Ugh. You were such an ass.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you. I asked what you were lookin’ at, and what’d you say?”

  “I said, ‘Certainly not you, Little Bit. Move along.’ You gotta know I was only a dick because you called me an asshole.” Another thing she doesn’t know . . . I straight-up lied. I was looking at her, and I have been ever since. Because even then, as plain as could be, I knew she was my future. Her soul fucking called to mine, all kindred and shit.

  “Keep telling yourself that.”

  “Don’t you go actin’ like I hurt your feelings, Bit. You started it.”

  “I. Did. Not.”

  “You did. And after I told you to move along, you got all huffy, just like you are now. You cocked your bony little hip to the side and told me you were there first. Like that meant something.” I laugh, remembering the fierce expression on her face and how her green eyes blazed when I asked her if she wanted a prize for being there first. “You were such an angry little thing.”

  She pulls back from me and tilts her head to the side, studying me. “Was not.”


  “Yeah, you were. I saw you. Saw that hurt and anger you kept so hidden from everyone else.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Drake.”

  “Yeah, okay. Pretend all you want, but we both know.”

  “Ugh!” She stands from the couch and starts pacing, wearing a trail in my rug. “You’re so impossible.”

  “Why’re you getting so mad? You asked me about when we first met, and I answered you.”

  “No, you started trying to psychoanalyze me.” Her tone is accusing, and it pisses me off.

  “Didn’t, but it’s nice to see some things never change.” I snort out a frustrated laugh, because damn if this isn’t just like us. We can’t make it ten minutes without fighting.

  She pins me with a glare. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  I figure I’m already in deep, so I may as well keep right on digging. “Means you’re every bit in denial about your feelings now as you’ve always been.”

  Azalea stares at me, like my words have shocked her into silence. Thank God. But the silence doesn’t last. She blinks at me a few times before lighting into me. “Now you listen here, you pig-headed asshole. I asked a simple question. You’re the one that turned it into all this. Gah. You think the whole damn world revolves around—”

  Rising from the couch, I grab her by her waist and pull her small body flush against mine. She’s teetering on the edge of a full-blown hissy-fit, and I’m so not in the mood.

  “What do you think you’re—” I silence her with my lips. Nipping at her bottom lip and licking away the sting, again and again until she opens up for me. Our tongues fight for control, and our kiss is punishing. She winds her arms around my neck, digging her nails into the skin there. Marking me, owning me. But Azalea Barnes has always owned me. She just doesn’t know it.

  She moans and mewls into my mouth, and the sound travels straight below my belt. Judging by her sharp intake of breath, she’s all too aware.

  “Drake,” she pants. “We have to stop.” I know she’s right, because if we end up in bed right now, it’ll only solidify her hair-brained idea that I only want her for sex. But still, fuck. I step away, not bothering to adjust myself. I’m one hundred percent fine with her knowing how she affects me.

  “You’re right, Little Bit. You’re right.” Lowering myself back onto the couch, I tug her wrist to pull her down beside me, and she snuggles into me without argument. “That’s better. Havin’ you close keeps me happy.”

  “Wanna know what makes me happy, D?” she asks, hitting me with the same puppy-dog eyes I used on her.

  “What’s that?” I ask, knowing I’ll probably regret it.

  “Picking the movie!” she singsongs, her mood doing a total one-eighty.

  “Mmm, go on, then,” I say, handing her the remote, because let’s be real, with her in my arms, who cares what’s on the TV?

  11

  Azalea

  Shockingly, Drake let me have free rein of the remote all afternoon, and snuggling up to him while forcing him through Clueless, Bring It On, & Mean Girls was pretty much amazing. Like, it’ll probably go down as one of my top ten memories with him. He didn’t complain, not even when I cheered along with all the cheers in Bring It On.

  “So, whatcha wanna do now?” I ask, peering up at Drake from beneath my lashes.

  “I’m thinkin’ food. Man’s gotta eat, you know?”

  And right on cue, my stomach releases a loud rumble. “Yup, food it is. Wanna order a pizza?”

  “Nah, not for real. Let’s go out?”

  “Out, like out-out? Like together?”

  “Yes, Azalea,” he says with a pacifying smile. “Out to dinner, as in together.”

  “Oh. Umm . . .” I’m not even sure why I’m hesitating. It isn’t like we haven’t ever been out together, but somehow, this just seems more . . . intimate. “I don’t have anything to wear!”

  “I’ll take you to your car, and you can run home and get dressed. That’ll give me time to get ready too,” he tells me, but I remain seated next to him, unmoving. Drake unwraps himself from around me and stands, offering me a hand. “C’mon, Little Bit, let’s go. I’ll head over to pick you up in about an hour.”

  “Like right now?” I ask, my brow quirked in challenge.

  “Yeah, right now.” His words are delivered with a devilish smirk and a hard smack to my ass, but just as he planned, it has me moving out the door.

  After he drops me at my car, I rush home and make it there with forty minutes to spare. Just enough time for some dry shampoo and a touch of makeup before figuring out what to wear. “Woulda been easier if he’d said where we were going!” I grumble as I riffle through my closet.

  Settling on a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans tucked into chestnut riding boots and a chunky, oatmeal-colored fisherman’s sweater, I feel casual enough for a dive bar but nice enough for a sit-down restaurant. Plus, my ass looks killer in these jeans.

  Exactly an hour from the time Drake dropped me off, I hear the sound of my door knocker hitting against its plate. That man is nothing if not punctual. Which I guess is a good thing.

  Grabbing my purse, I race down the stairs and open the door, only to freeze at the sight of him. He’s standing tall in a burgundy-and-navy buffalo check plaid button-down and a pair of well-worn jeans that hug his thighs just right. He’s sporting a five-o’clock shadow, and sweet baby Jesus, my mouth is watering.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen Drake dressed up plenty of times over the years, and at Myla Rose’s wedding, even nicer than this. But tonight, he’s dressed up for me. Only for me. I’m trying not to read into it, but a guy wouldn’t bother looking nice for his good-time girl, would he?

  Shaking my head, I shoulder past him without a word because this is the effect he has on me. A button-down shirt has me thinking he wants more than no-strings fun. Puh-lease.

  “Hello there, Azalea,” he says, falling into step beside me.

  “Mmm. Hi,” I reply, staring down at my feet.

  “Something wrong?” he asks, and even though I’m not looking at him, I can hear his smile.

  “Nope, not a thing.” He opens the passenger side door to this truck and helps me in. “Where’re you takin’ me?”

  He shuts the door without answering me, and swear to God, he somehow takes five minutes rounding the truck before opening his door and sliding behind the wheel. Still silent, he throws the gearshift into reverse and backs out of his parking spot in front of my apartment.

  “Drake, hello? Did you hear me?”

  “Yup, heard ya just fine.”

  “Okay, then where are we going?”

  “Calm your tits, Little Bit. It’s a surprise.”

  “I hate surprises, Drake.”

  He moves his hand from the gear shifter to my thigh, squeezing it gently. “Not this one.”

  With a resigned huff, I settle back into the cracked leather passenger seat. “Fine, whatever. But if you’re wrong, I won’t hesitate to say, ‘I told you so.’”

  “Okay, Bit, if I’m wrong and you hate it, you go right on ahead. Don’t hold back,” he tells me, his hand briefly leaving my thigh to switch on the radio. We both sit quietly for the remainder of the drive, with me obsessing over our destination and him humming along with the songs filtering through the speakers.

  DRAKE

  With my hand resting on Azalea’s denim-clad thigh, I drive us to the next town over. I know she claims she hates surprises, but I’m feeling pretty damn confident about this one. I can hardly wait to see the look on her face when we get there.

  Ten minutes later, I turn into the parking lot for FIRE, marked only by two gas torches at the end of a long drive. “Drake, where in the heck are we?”

  “Patience, Bit, patience.” Following the winding driveway, every six or so yards is another torch guiding the way. When we finally make it to the gravel parking lot, the entire area is lit up by the glow of at least thirty small fires burning in their pits.
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br />   “Wait here,” I tell Azalea before sliding out of the truck to grab our supplies from the bed. A warm blanket, a picnic, and my girl . . . yeah, this is gonna be fucking perfect. “C’mon,” I tell her, helping her down from the cab.

  “Drake, what is this place?” Azalea asks, looking around.

  “You’re gonna love it. It’s called FIRE.”

  “Right, but what is it? And what’s with all that?” She gestures toward my insulated backpack with the blanket bundled in its straps.

  “With you? It’s a dream come true. Now let’s go.” I ignore her question about our supplies as I guide her from my truck to the entrance, which is nothing more than a hulking brick wall with a wrought iron gate. Posted to the left of the gate is the hostess station, where three hostesses wait to greet patrons.

  “Hello, and welcome to FIRE. Do you have a reservation?”

  “Yes, ma’am. For two, under Collins.”

  She clicks around on a computer for a few moments before gesturing for us to follow her. “Yes, sir, right this way.”

  Stepping through that gate feels like stepping into a real-life fairy tale. The oversized patio is lit up with big-bulb string lights, and there are private trellises every couple of feet or so, just far enough from its neighbor to afford privacy, with a fire pit blazing in each one.

  The sounds of laughter and crackling logs fills the air, and when I look to Azalea, I’m fucking pleased at the wowed expression lighting up her pretty little face. Her eyes are as wide as an ocean, and her bow lips form a perfect “O.” Yeah, I did good.

  “Drake,” Azalea whispers as we trail behind the hostess, “how on earth did you find this place?”