Page 24 of An Uphill Battle

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 getthere.

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 arewe?”

“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 theirpits.

“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 thecab.

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

“You’re gonna love it. It’s calledFIRE.”

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

“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 greetpatrons.

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

“Yes, ma’am. For two, underCollins.”

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

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 eachone.

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 didgood.

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

“Don’t worry ’bout that. Let’s just enjoy it,” I tell her, knowing she’d immediately hate this if she knewhowI’d foundit.

“All right, here we are,” our hostess tells us. “There’s a fire extinguisher to your left, and your dessert and beverage basket is to your right. Please ensure that at least two sides of the privacy curtain remain open, for safety reasons. Y’all have a niceevening.”

Wordlessly, I unroll the blanket I brought and begin setting up our picnic. Once I’ve arranged everything just so, I pull two of the curtains closed before turning to Azalea. “Hope you’rehungry.”

“Starved,” she replies, her green eyes sparkling in thefirelight.

We both lower ourselves down onto the blanket, and Azalea gasps when she sees the spread laid out before her. Two insulated thermoses of my mama’s white chicken chili, big hunks of French bread, and a premade basket of all the fixings for s’mores, provided by the venue. “Drake, how on earth did you do all of this in less than anhour?”

“Not gonna lie, Mama D helped. And by helped, I mean she packed the entirepicnic.”

“Well, God bless her, it is perfection.” I feel my heart tug at her words, because she’s right. This is perfect. But then again, everything with Azalea is perfect. Even when we fight, it’s fucking perfect because it’sher.

We quickly devour our soup and bread in our eagerness to get to the s’mores. Taking charge, I open the basket and examine the contents. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill s’mores. “Bit, you want a regular s’more or a fancyone?”

“What do you mean, fancy?” she asks, reaching for the box, which I gladly place in her hands. I’m a basic kind of man. I don’t need or want a salted-caramel marshmallow, but it seems right up heralley.

She sifts through the basket a minute before settling on a French vanilla-flavored one. I spear our marshmallows and hold them over the flame while Azalea preps the graham crackers andchocolate.

I pull the telescoping forks from the fire and point them toward Azalea, and she sandwiches each crispy marshmallow with the grahams, creating an ooey-gooey mess. I help her slide our desserts from the tines and watch with rapt attention as she bites into her s’more, the pressure causing the melted chocolate to squish out from the sides. I stare as she finishes it off and slowly runs her tongue along her plump bottom lip, trying to swipe away the left-behind chocolate, and thank God, she misses aspot.

Tossing my s’more aside, I draw her face toward mine. Her eyes widen as I lean in and trace my tongue along the curve of her bottom lip, following the same path she did. “Missed a spot,” I murmur, my voicehusky.

“Did I?” She sounds breathless, and fuck if I don’t loveit.

Leaning further in, I angle her face just so and nod before pressing my lips to hers. Azalea opens for me, greedily drinking down my kiss, oblivious to our surroundings. She shimmies her way into my lap, straddling me, and as much as I’m loving this, as much as I want her, I wantmore.I want her forever, not just her “for right now.” And not to mention, the sweet little sounds she’s making? Yeah, those are for my ears only, and we’re definitely inpublic.

“Damn, Little Bit, slow down,” I whisper, my lips still brushing hers. She pulls back, gazing at me with lust in her eyes, and I decide to take advantage of her momentary bewilderment. “Come to my house for dinner nextThursday?”

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