Dirty South (A Blue Collar Bad Boy Romance) Read online

  By Celia Loren

  Copyright © 2016 Hearts Collective

  All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.

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  DIRTY SOUTH

  A Blue Collar Bad Boy Romance

  By Celia Loren

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I gasp as he strides around the tree, his scent of sweat and dirt overpowering me. To my surprise, he takes my hand and pulls me into the alleyway between two houses.

  "I've seen you watching me," he grunts, backing me against a flagstone wall.

  "I—"

  "You're so beautiful, how could I not notice you?" He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. "I need you. Now."

  "It's the middle of the day!" I protest halfheartedly.

  "I can't wait." He presses himself against me and I shiver as he pulls my skirt up over my waist and touches me...there. The bulge in his jeans grows against my thigh. "Tell me your name," he demands, his mouth so close that I can feel his breath on my lips as he speaks.

  "It's—"

  "Callie!" I jump as Virginia appears next to me. "What are you doing, hiding behind this tree?" she asks suspiciously.

  "Nothing," I murmur.

  "Oh my god," she snickers, glancing around it toward the construction site. "Are you checking out that construction worker? You pervert!" The other girls behind her from my class giggle.

  "No, I'm just here to see my dad," I insist, trying to let her insult roll off me. There's a first time for everything.

  "You're such a liar, Callie," she snaps back. "That's why no one likes you. And you better watch out. Looks like you're starting to burn." She turns on her heel and walks off, accompanied by the other popular girls.

  I bite my lip to keep from crying because I know that will just make things worse. I look down at my arm and sigh. The Georgia sun is punishing in June, and her last comment wasn't just an insult. My pale skin really is starting to turn pink. Between my complexion and my dark, almost black, hair, I often get teased about looking like a Victorian ghost. But ghosts don't wear glasses and have braces.

  I glance back toward the site. At least the man hasn't noticed me. Virginia was right. I was staring at him, and fantasizing about what it would be like to be with him. In fact, I've been stopping by my father's construction site every day after school for weeks for that exact purpose.

  I can't stop thinking about him. He's not like the other workers. I've never once seen him take a break, even just to wipe the sweat that's pouring down his face. And he's younger, too. And more muscular. I can practically feel his muscles tense under my fingertips as I watch him push a wheelbarrow of concrete mix across the dusty site.

  But I better get moving. I don't want Virginia to catch me here again. At least I won't have to deal with her for very much longer. Just one more week until my sophomore year ends, and then another week after and I move up to Portland, Maine, to live with my mom and go to school up there.

  My dad says it's important for me to bond with my mom, which is really just a nice way of saying that he doesn't know what to do with me anymore. He never says it out loud, but I can tell I'm not the daughter he thought he'd have. He was probably picturing someone more like Virginia: a pillar of feminine grace and beauty, always saying the right thing, never ending up with food all over her shirt like I do.

  That's why he's sending me to live with my mom while I finish up my last two years of high school, even though he fought for full custody during the divorce. He thinks of it as some sort of finishing school. My parents didn't have a good marriage, but my mom was quite the charming socialite before her drinking got a hold of her.

  When I get home, I grab some water from the kitchen and head up to my room to do my homework. I'm in the middle of my geometry sets when Mrs. Hunt, our housekeeper/cook/former nanny knocks on my door.

  "You're having a guest over for dinner," she tells me as she opens it.

  "Who?"

  "Someone from work, your father said. Just wanted to warn you." She's about to close it again when she pauses and studies me for a moment. "What is it? Down about the move?"

  "No," I reply truthfully. She waits. "Mrs. Hunt, do you think I'm pretty?"

  "Of course!"

  "Really?"

  "You just have to grow into your features a little."

  "You keep saying that, but when will it happen?"

  "Soon," she promises me with a smile. "Put on something else besides your school uniform for dinner, OK?"

  I nod, and she shuts the door. The school year is almost over and our assignments are really light now, so I finish all my work before dinner. I pull on my favorite cotton dress with buttons up the front and run a brush through my hair, then stare into the mirror above my bureau for a minute. I know just what Mrs. Hunt means. It's like my mouth and eyes were made for someone with a much larger head. I look like a cartoon fish. I sigh, then head downstairs and into the parlor.

  My dad is sitting in his favorite armchair by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand. His blonde hair
has receded a bit onto his forehead, and his stomach is starting to test his waistband a bit, but he still looks as imposing as ever. Or at least, he does to me. I know he's my father, but I always feel a little nervous around him, like I can't do anything right.

  "Grace," he nods by way of greeting as I walk in. My dad calls me Grace because I'm named after my mom's mother, and after they divorced he refused to call me by his former mother-in-law's name. Granny's always seemed nice to me, but my dad refuses to budge. "Go put something else on."

  "Oh. Like a different dress?"

  "I don't know. I'm not a woman. That one just doesn't look right."

  "Okay," I reply, nervously biting my cuticle.

  "And don't bite your nails."

  I sigh and head back upstairs, feeling stymied as I look over the other dresses in my closet. I try to imagine which one Virginia would pick because she always looks nice, and decide on a pale blue gingham dress. I put it on, and head back downstairs. My dad looks at me but doesn't say anything, so I figure he likes this dress better.

  "Mrs. Hunt said we're having someone over for dinner," I say, flopping down into the armchair across from him.

  "Sit like a lady," he says with a frown, and waits until I sit up straight and cross my legs at the ankle. "One of my workers has been bugging me for a sit-down. Says he's got some ideas for 'improving' the business."

  "You don't seem too excited to hear them," I observe shyly. My dad has quite a temper, and I'm never quite sure what's going to set him off.

  "Well, it's damn impertinent. He's been working for me for a couple of years, and he thinks he knows how to turn around a business that's been in my family for three generations? But he's been hounding me for months, so I figure I better hear him out and then he'll stop bugging me."

  "Sounds like dinner isn't going to be very interesting."

  "He's coming to dinner just so I can get a feel for his character. No shop talk at the table, don't worry."

  The doorbell rings and I hear Mrs. Hunt go to answer it. There's a muffled conversation that grows louder as she shows him down the hallway.

  "Boone, come on in," my dad says as he stands up. I turn around to see the visitor and freeze. It's my fantasy guy from the construction site. I feel beads of sweat begin to form on my hairline as I watch him shake my father's hand. "This is my daughter, Grace. Grace, Boone Tillman."

  I try to say hi, but an airy grunt comes out instead. "Nice to meet you, Grace," Boone says with a nod. I swallow and give an awkward wave. My dad offers him something to drink, and I sink back into my chair and try to make myself invisible as I study him.

  He's taller than my dad, maybe about 6'3'', and his light brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, though a piece of it drops down as he turns his head slightly. Even with his navy blazer on, he still looks like a working man, though I couldn't say whether it's because he's actually uncomfortable in the clothes or because of the width of his shoulders and the way his biceps are pressing against the coat's fabric.

  His face is tan and I can see where his hair has been turned blonde by the sun. His white teeth almost glow as he smiles and small dimples appear on either side of his full lips, underneath a tiny bit of stubble. He looks like he could be an Abercrombie model, but his eyes betray a watchful intelligence, like a hawk that's taking in everything that he sees.

  He and my dad sit on the long sofa, but I can barely hear their conversation. My self-consciousness, while always present, is now all-enveloping. I catch stray words and phrases that they're saying, but mostly all I hear is white noise. I follow them into the dining room when Mrs. Hunt comes to fetch us, blushing as I watch Boone's back muscles move with his every gesture.

  Boone and I sit across from each other, so while I'm glad to have the distraction of food, now I have to worry about how I'm eating it.

  "Grace, you're eating so slowly!" my father laughs. "Usually she just shovels it into her mouth," he adds to Boone as I bite my lip, mortified.

  "Me too," Boone says with a smile...and then he winks at me. I almost drop my fork, but I think I manage to smile back before he looks away. I feel a glow so intense spread through my body that I wonder if he can actually see it. When I finally snap back to the conversation, my father's asking Boone about his upbringing.

  "I don't know my father too well, sir," Boone is saying reluctantly. "He left my mother when I was three."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Does your mother live in the area?" my dad asks, taking a sip of wine.

  Boone clears his throat. "No. Well, in a way. She's at Coastal State Prison. Non-violent offense."

  It's the first time I stop feeling self-conscious and really look at him. His eyes are almost golden in the candlelight as he waits for my father's response. I've never met anyone whose mother was in prison.

  "Hm," is all my father says for a moment. "Well, Boone, I'll be honest. A man's family says a lot about him."

  "Oh, Dad, you're so old-fashioned," I pipe up without thinking. "He didn't choose his parents."

  "No, but—" The corner of my father's eyebrows begin to twitch like they do just before he's going to yell, but I can't stop.

  "And aren't you always saying that people need to be taking responsibility for themselves? Seems like that's what he's doing." I can't think why I'm talking to my father like this. Normally I wouldn't dare.

  My dad pauses and takes a deep breath. "You did interrupt me, but you may be right. From the mouths of babes, I suppose..."

  I blush, wishing he hadn't referred to my age in front of Boone. I can't make eye contact with Boone, but I can feel him looking at me. After Mrs. Hunt takes away our dessert plates, my father stands.

  "Boone, why don't you come into my study? I'm interested to hear your ideas on Woodall & Sons."

  "Thank you, sir," Boone replies. I stand and follow them out into the foyer, watching as they turn down the hallway toward the study. I'm surprised to see Boone stop and turn back to me. He reaches out his hand, and I automatically raise mine to receive his. His palm is dry and calloused against mine. "In case I don't see you after, I wanted to say it was a pleasure meeting you tonight, Grace. You're a lovely young woman."

  "Thank you," I manage to squeak out before he drops his hand. As soon as they disappear into the study, I run upstairs and throw myself onto my bed, kicking my legs into the air in excitement.

  He touched me! And he thinks I'm a "lovely young woman!" And he winked at me earlier!

  For the first time, I wish I weren't leaving in two weeks. I mean, who knows what could happen? I drop by the construction site, Boone recognizes me...maybe my fantasies aren't so far-fetched. I close my eyes and imagine what it could be like. Boone and me. Mr. and Mrs. Callie Grace Tillman. Our wedding could be right out in Forsyth Square, with the Spanish moss coming down from the trees, and me with one of those vintage-looking veils. Or no, someplace more intimate. Just me and Boone and a preacher.

  My eyes fly open as the front door shuts. How long have I been day-dreaming for? I head to the window. It's dark out now, but I can just see Boone walk along the sidewalk outside the front of the house and dial on his cell phone. I slide my window open as quietly as I can, hoping it won't squeak. I can just hear his low voice carrying in the quiet night air.

  "He went for it! I know!" he's saying excitedly, and I smile. "I'm going to be a manager now. He's making me the head of the division! I told you it would happen! Didn't I say?" There's a long pause, and I wonder who he's talking to. "We had dinner, me, him, and his daughter. No, just some awkward teenager. Then we go into his office—"

  It takes me a second to stop smiling because I don't realize at first that he's describing me. He can't be. Earlier tonight he called me "lovely" and now I'm "awkward"? But I was the only teenager there. "Some awkward teenager." The words bang around in my head until I leave the window and crumple onto my bed.

  So Boone sees me the way everyone else does. He was probably just being nice earlier because my father was there. I'm su
ch an idiot.

  Maine doesn't sound so bad anymore.

  Chapter One

  Six years later…

  "Just on the left here," I tell the cabdriver.

  "Wow," he says with a whistle as he pulls over to the sidewalk. "That's your place?"

  "Well, it's my dad's," I tell him as I hand him the fare, plus tip. "But I'm going to be living here. Think you could help me with my bags?"

  I don't know when I started thinking of this house as my dad's home and not mine. Sometime during college, I guess. I look up at its impressive English Regency architecture and then turn and gaze over Forsyth Square. Growing up, I never realized how privileged I was to live in this neighborhood in Savannah. With its historic homes, moss-covered trees, and white marble fountains, it looks like something straight of Southern Living.

  Mrs. Hunt opens the door and waves. "Welcome home!" she shouts from the porch. "Hot enough for you?"

  "I always manage to block the humidity from my memory," I say as I walk up. "Thanks very much," I add to the cabdriver as he deposits the last of my bags.

  "Ma'am," he replies as Mrs. Hunt sweeps me into a hug.

  "You look so grown up!" she cries.

  "You saw me over Christmas!" I reply with a laugh.

  "I know, but it's different now. You're a college graduate and everything." She takes one of my rolling suitcases and I take the other, and together we head inside. "You want sweet tea? You can unpack later."

  "Sure."

  "So where are you working? Your father didn't say," she asks as we walk back to the kitchen. I study her now graying hair, pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck.

  "That's because I was waiting to tell him until I got home," I reply with a smile. "I knew if I told him, he'd call and try to wield his influence, and I just wanted to get the job on my own merits. I even used my mom's maiden name on my application."

  "That must have gone over well," Mrs. Hunt remarks with her eyebrows raised.

  "Yeah, he just about had a meltdown, but luckily it was just over the phone."