by LK Farlow
Back in the guest room, I slide under the covers, and as if he can sense my presence, Drake instantly wraps an arm around me. “Don’t you wanna wear your PJs?” he murmurs in my ear, his breath hot on my neck. I hate the way his voice affects me, but at the same time, it’s the most comforting sound I know.
I shift from my side to my back. “No, I’m okay in my leggings and tank.”
“You sure?”
Releasing a deep, drawn-out sigh so I don’t snap at him, I tell him to go back to sleep. He once again flips me to face him and, together, we fall back asleep—though it takes me longer, as I do my best to focus on the here and now, and not the past.
The next time I open my eyes, the guest room is lit up with sunshine, and judging by the cool sheets next to me, Drake has been up for a while. Farmer’s hours, he calls it.
I stretch and groan before padding into the en suite to make myself presentable. After brushing my teeth and running a brush through my wild mane, I swap my leggings for a pair of holey jeans and a cream-colored long-sleeved thermal and head downstairs in search of coffee, something I know Myla Rose has in abundance.
The old wooden floors creak under my weight as I step into the kitchen, alerting Drake to my presence. “Well, if it ain’t Sleepin’ Beauty herself!”
“You hush! I got up with B-Man while you snoozed away,” I say, hip-checking him as I walk past him to get to the coffee. “Did you make this?”
“Yes, ma’am. Made it just how you like it, too.”
“You know how I like my coffee brewed?”
“Bit, I know damn near everything about you. From how you like your coffee brewed—with an extra heaping scoop of coffee—to the brand of toothpaste you like, Arm & Hammer with baking soda.”
“You sure seem to have a fixation with the things that go in my mouth.”
I realize my mistake as soon as it happens. Drake places his mug on the counter and stalks toward me. He grips my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilts my face up toward his, his eyes laser-focused on my lips. “You’re goddamn right I do. This mouth is enough to bring a giant to his knees. It’s perfect and pouty, and the way you roll your bottom lip between your teeth when you’re nervous is enough to drive any man insane. Add to that the fire that comes outta your mouth every time you talk? Yeah, Little Bit, it’s safe to say I’m just about always fixated on your mouth.”
He presses a chaste kiss to my lips before turning and walking away like he didn’t just drop a bomb in my lap, like he didn’t just rev my engine from zero to sixty. I slump back against the stainless steel fridge, relishing in the way the cold metal cools my overheated skin. Lord, the way that man gets to me.
Once I have my body—and my mind—under control, I pour myself a cup of coffee and doctor it up with cream and sugar. I inhale the first cup and take my second with me to the living room, where Drake has Brody on his belly on a quilt on the floor.
“Myla’s list said tummy time was of utmost importance,” he tells me with a sly smile, one I can’t help but to return as I claim the seat next to him.
We spend the rest of the morning sharing baby duty, and when we hear the sound of car doors shutting, I think we’re both surprised by just how quickly the day passed us by.
“Hello!” Myla Rose calls out as she enters the house.
“Hey, Myles, we’re in here,” Drake calls back.
Cash and Myla step into the room, and she immediately goes straight to Brody, picking him up and cradling him to her chest. “Oh, Mama missed you something fierce,” she tells him, burying her face in the crook of his neck.
“Everything go all right?” Cash asks us, though his eyes never leave his wife. They rarely do. He’s so captivated by her, it’s not even funny.
“Yup, just fine,” I tell him, and he cuts his eyes to me and then to Drake before inspecting the living room.
“Hmm. Guess it must’ve. The house is in one piece, and y’all are too.”
“Ha! You think you’re so funny. Y’all ever gonna stop making jokes about Drake and me?”
“You ever gonna stop kiddin’ yourself about Drake and you?” Cash fires back.
Drake rises from the couch and places himself slightly in front of me, as if to shield me. Or, more likely, to shield Cash from me. “That’s enough of that. Glad y’all had fun, but we’re outta here. C’mon, Bit.” He reaches back for my hand, and I offer it readily.
“Bye, y’all. Hope it was a good night.” I drop a quick kiss to Brody’s cheek, and we’re out the door.
6
Drake
“So, whatcha got goin’ on today?” I ask Azalea as we walk to our cars.
“Nothing much. Grocery shopping, meal planning, that kinda stuff. You?”
“Nothing much. Gonna head over to my parents’ place and visit for a bit.” Leaning against the hood of Azalea’s little matchbox car, I reach a hand out toward her to stop her from going past me. “I know they’d love to see you.”
“Oh, um. Maybe next time? I really need to get to the store.” She’s full of crap, and we both know it, but whatever. She needs time, and that’s fine.
“Sure thing, Little Bit. Next time.” I rise to my full height and open her door for her. Once she’s seated and buckled, I start off toward my truck. With one last look back at her, I tell her to drive safe, and then I get into my truck and start the trek home.
It’s been two weeks since Azalea and I babysat together, and aside from a few scattered text messages, she’s been ducking me, and I’m fed up with it. Needing time is one thing—and after what I know she heard on the baby monitor, I’m sure she does need some time—but ignoring me is something else entirely, and it’s not gonna fly.
No way, no how.
So, I’ll catch her where I know she can’t escape. Her salon. No appointment, no warning. It’s perfect.
“Drake Collins, I don’t see you on our appointment book today,” Seraphine says, wagging her finger at me with a twinkle in her dark brown eyes.
“That’s because I’m not. Does Azalea have time to fit me in?”
“Hmm. Magnolia could fit you in quicker than—”
“Nah, I don’t mind the wait. How long’s it gonna be?”
“About twenty minutes.”
I turn and make myself comfy in one of the waiting room chairs. “That’ll be just fine, Seraphine.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Sure thing, Drake. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
“Totally unnecessary. It’s a surprise visit.”
Seraphine shakes her head, her dark chocolate eyes full of mirth, but she goes back to whatever she was doing at the computer, thank God. Because I’m counting on the element of surprise to work in my favor here. If she knows I’m here, she’ll start working on getting her walls up, but if I catch her off guard, I might just catch her unguarded, if you know what I mean.
To pass the time, I play around on my phone, checking social media and shooting the shit with Simon and Cash in our group text. I impress myself by only checking the time every five minutes, but my God, it really does feel like an eternity waiting on her. I’m anxious and ready to see her. Two weeks is too long. Hell, one day is too long. I’m a needy man when it comes to Azalea Barnes.
I perk up when I hear the sound of her sweet voice coming closer. “You have a wonderful day, Mrs. Jones, and be sure to tell Seraphine to book extra time at your next appointment so that we can do those lowlights.”
She doesn’t walk far enough into the room to see me, so I stand and follow behind her to her station. She grabs the broom and starts sweeping but jumps and throws it down when she catches my reflection in the mirror. “Holy guacamole, you scared the ba-jeezus outta me!”
I cover my smile with my fist. “I can see that.”
“What’re you doing here?”
“Need a haircut,” I tell her, claiming her chair.
She scowls her trademark scowl at me, her eyes drilling into me like lasers. “So, make an appointment.”
She turns to walk away, but I reach out and snag her wrist.
“Don’t need one,” I tell her, knowing it will make her that much more irritated. I know these games are stupid, but her ire gets me so hot.
“You most certainly do,” Azalea replies, her cheeks red with anger.
“Pretty sure there’s a sign in the window that reads Walk-ins welcome. You’re certainly not making me feel very welcome. Not at all. Which, as the owner of this establishment, you should know is bad for business.” I wag my finger at her, with a tsk-tsk to really drive home my point.
“Drake Ulysses Collins, you get your ass up right now!” Azalea hisses through her clenched teeth. Her eyes are so big they look like they might pop right on out of her head.
“Nah, don’t think so. You get your cute ass over here and buzz my hair down.”
“No!”
“Now.” It’s a battle of wills, and like I said, I’m not just playing to win—I’m playing to keep. We remain frozen, staring one another down, until she rolls her eyes and stomps back over to me, like I knew she would. Drake, 1. Azalea, 0.
With a snap of her wrists, she has the cape draped around me. She shoots me an evil gleam before pulling it as tight as it will go, damn-near choking me. “Take it easy, Bit,” I croak, only to be whopped upside the back of my head with her comb. “What the hell?” I yell at her, but she just smiles and pops the guard she knows I like onto her clippers.
With one hand planted on the top of my head, she uses the other to move the clippers through my hair, buzzing it down in fluid movements. Azalea takes her time, dragging out my simple buzz cut because she thinks it’ll annoy me. She couldn’t be more wrong. Hell, for half the haircut, her perky C cups are all up in my face, and for the rest of it . . . her hands are on me, and there’s not a single thing annoying about any of that. No, I fucking love it.
“There, all done, assface.”
“Assface, huh? That an invitation?”
“God! You’re so gross!”
Grasping the front of the cape with both hands, I pull until it unsnaps. I rise from the chair and take two steps toward Azalea, effectively backing her into her station. “Gross? You think I’m gross?” I gently run my nose up her neck, lingering just below her ear. “Now, you don’t mean that, do you?” My voice is hoarse and low, and the sound of it causes Azalea’s skin to break out in goose bumps.
“Sure do,” she fires back, but her tone—all soft with want— betrays her words.
I take a step closer, leaving not even an inch between us. “We both know you’re lying through your teeth, but that’s okay, Bit. Best be glad we’re in your place of business, or I’d call your bluff.” I cover her lips with mine and tunnel my fingers into her long, blonde hair. “Or maybe I still will.” I speak the words against her lips, delighting in the feel of her rapid breaths. “Right here. Right now.” I punctuate the words with a kiss, hard and rough, before stepping back.
Azalea stands there, bracing herself against her station, almost as if she’d crumple to the floor without its support, and damn if that doesn’t make me feel like the king of the world. “Thanks for the haircut, Bit. You have a nice day, and when I call you later . . . answer.”
Turning, I walk to the counter and slap down two twenties before heading out the door. I know she’s gonna tear me a new one, and so be it, because it was more than worth it. Just to be next to her, to have her hands on me, to get a reaction out of her. I may be playing to win, but I never said I wouldn’t play dirty.
7
Azalea
Knots.
I’ve been tied up in knots since Drake left the salon. That infuriating, insufferable man. He thinks he can bust into my business and rile me up and leave me all hot and wanting? Well, he has another thing coming. I’ll make damn sure of that.
“Seraphine!” I yell, storming from my station to the front desk. “We’re going out tonight!”
“We are?” she asks, though her eyes are glinting with humor. She knows exactly what’s got me all wound up.
“We sure are. Dress hot and be ready to dance. I’ll pick you up at eight. And if you happen to slip up and mention our plans to the guys, then so be it.”
“If I happen to slip up, you say?” She’s full-on laughing at me now, but I don’t even care. Drake Collins needs to learn that I’m the one in charge.
“Go ahead and laugh, Seraphine, but by the end of the night, that man will be regretting coming in here and actin’ a fool,” I tell her, stomping my foot for emphasis. “I’m the boss. Not him. Me! He can’t just swing his sexy at me and expect me to fall all over him like some love-struck, googly-eyed girl.”
“Can’t he, though?” Seraphine asks, tapping her long, manicured nails on the desktop.
“I mean, ugh. Yes, physically, he can. That man is catnip to my libido, but he doesn’t need to know that—”
“Hun, I’m ninety-nine percent positive he already knows it.”
“So not the point. I need to flip this around. Stay on top of him.” Seraphine quirks a brow at me, and I can’t help but giggle. “The situation with him, not him-him.”
“Why’re you so against being with him, Az?”
“Because we want totally different things from each other. He wants no-strings fun, and I want to settle down one day. I’ve loved Drake since before I was old enough to even understand the feelings he stirred in me, and unfortunately, the only thing I stir in him is lust. So, I need to stay on top of this shit. It’d be so easy to give in, and then I’d just end up with a hurt heart. No, thanks.”
“And you think going out, dressed sexy, and putting on a show for him is the way to stay on top of the ‘situation’?” Seraphine asks, using air quotes.
Briefly, I ponder her words. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this isn’t the way to guard my heart, but he deserves the payback. “Yup, totally. See ya at eight. Invite Mags, too.”
DRAKE
The feeling of my phone buzzing in my pocket startles me out of my daze. Across the screen, it reads One unread message from Seraphine Reynolds. “What the . . .?” Don’t get me wrong. I like the girl just fine, but we aren’t the texting kind of friends.
Shaking off the weird feeling, I unlock my phone and pull up her text.
Seraphine: Be at Big O’s at 9.
The hell? Big O’s is a local dive bar, owned by a burly-ass ex-linebacker named Owen Heely. Why on earth is Seraphine inviting me out drinking? Girl ain’t even old enough to drink. Just as I’m about to reply, another text pings through.
Seraphine: Your girl’s got a wild hair about her tonight.
Plans on going drinking and dancing. Be there.
Drake: Say no more. See you then.
Wasting no time, I fire off a text to Simon telling him he has plans tonight now, and that he’d best be there because if some dude hits on my girl, I’ll need his ass to hold me back.
Or to help me hide the body. Either way.
I pull up to Big O’s at five past nine, and the parking lot is damn-near overflowing, cars and trucks everywhere. I manage to snag a spot, conveniently next to a certain blonde’s little toy-sized BMW.
Stalking into the building, I immediately see Simon manning his post at the bar with an ice-cold beer in his grip. As I approach, I nod my head to the bartender, and before I’m even seated, there’s one waiting for me.
“Seen the girls?” I ask Simon, not bothering to beat around the bush.
“Everyone has seen the girls,” comes his dark reply.
“And that means what, exactly?”
He tips his beer bottle toward the dance floor, and my eyes find Azalea almost immediately. Just like every time we’re near one another, I can’t help but only see her. Always her.
I watch in a trance-like state as Azalea rolls her hips to a song about bodies and backroads. I lean forward to get a better view when she lowers herself toward the floor, because hot damn, that ass.
As she shimmies her way back up, I relax into my seat, conten
t to watch her twist her hips and shake her ass.
Suddenly, Simon reaches over and hands me a bar napkin. I shoot him a WTF glare, and he just laughs and says, “To wipe your drool, brother.” And I gotta laugh too, because with the way that girl moves her body, there ain’t a man in here—except Simon—who isn’t drooling a little.
Simon and I waste time, talking shit and shooting the breeze while simultaneously keeping an eye on Azalea and Seraphine, when Magnolia walks up, looking a little worse for wear.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Um, y–yes. Just didn’t realize there’d be s–so many people.” Her cheeks go rosy at her stutter.
“It’s a Friday night in a small town,” I say, and she shrugs, rounding her shoulders in on herself.
“Maybe I’ll just go—”
“Drake, you better go check your girl,” Simon interrupts. “I’ll keep this one company.”
I whip my eyes back to where Azalea was dancing, and sure enough, some prick is all up behind her, with his hands in places liable to get them broke.
Not sparing Magnolia and Simon a second glance, I take off for Azalea like a man on a mission. “Mind if I cut in?” I ask, my voice deathly low, nothing more than a growl.
“Yeah, bud, I do, so back off,” the prick replies.
“Not gonna happen. Get your hands off her. Now.” I give him a few seconds to comply, because I’m a nice guy like that, but when he makes no effort to step back, I’m done.
“Little Bit,” I grit out, “tell your friend here to get lost, yeah?”
“We’re just dancin,’ D,” she slurs back. Drunk. Great. She’s drunk.
Ya know how some people are funny drunks, and others mean or sad? Well, Azalea is a rollercoaster drunk. Her mood climbs, like the car does on the track, and just as quickly, it plummets, and before you even have a chance to adjust, she takes you on a loop-de-loop.
