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.

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.

“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?”

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

“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 nice evening.”

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’re hungry.”

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

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 an hour?”

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

“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’s her.

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 fancy one?”

“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 her alley.

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 and chocolate.

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 a spot.

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 voice husky.

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

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 want more. 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 in public.

“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 next Thursday?”

“Mmmkay, sure,” she says before leaning back in for one more kiss. But she pulls away just as quickly, and I know her gears are spinning. “Wait! That’s Thanksgiving.”

“Sure is.” I grip her hips and hold her to me, hoping the contact will make her more agreeable.

“You want us to spend Thanksgiving together?”

“That’s what I said.” I smile, watching her work her way through this.

“As friends?” I shake my head. “Then as what?”

“You know. You have to know.” Now it’s her shaking her head. “C’mon, Bit, it’s one night. Give me this one night. Please?”

Azalea lets out a long exhale, as if she’d been holding her breath. She starts to shake her head no again, but I thread my fingers into her hair, halting her movements. “Give me one good reason why not?”

We sit there, foreheads pressed together while she tries to invent some reason to say “no” to me, but we both know she won’t be able to come up with one. Not really.

“Fine, Drake, I’ll come over for dinner on turkey day. But only because Didi is the best cook I know.” It may not be the reason I was hoping for, but a win is a win.