Dirty South (A Blue Collar Bad Boy Romance)

by Celia Loren

  I stare up into his eyes, the wind blowing his light brown hair onto his forehead. I feel...seen.

  He leans down ever so slowly, and his lips press against mine. And this time it isn't a fantasy. Boone Tillman is really kissing me. His lips are surprisingly soft and gentle. They massage mine, and then part.

  His arm slips around my back, pulling me against him. Our tongues touch, and I almost gasp. I could melt into him at any moment. I wrap my arms around the back of his neck, running my fingers through his hair. I've imagined this moment for years.

  I feel his hand bunch up the fabric of my shirt against my bra strap. Our mouths open wider, our tongues exploring. He tastes like cinnamon. I want to feel him against every inch of my body.

  Suddenly, he pulls back. He's breathing hard, and he puts his hands on both sides of my waist as though he's steadying himself.

  "I have an idea," he says.

  "It better be a really good one," I reply.

  He throws his head back in a laugh. "Just give me a minute." To my surprise, he walks away and takes his phone out of his pocket. I can't hear his conversation, but my interest is certainly piqued. I take a deep breath and try not to giggle, wondering what my teenage self would think of this moment.

  "Alright, now it's my turn," he says, walking back and putting his phone in his pocket. He extends his hand, palm up. I smile, and place mine in his. His hands are shockingly rough, from years of working construction, no doubt. He leads me back over the stones and down to our horses, not letting go until the last moment.

  Silently, we saddle up, and he nods over his shoulder. Annalise naturally follows his stallion's lead, and I look around absentmindedly at the spreading shadows from the trees. My gaze falls onto the back of Boone's head, and his wide shoulders. My body is aching for him, but my mind is starting to shout out all the reasons that I should stop now and head home.

  When we get back to the trail, he heads in the other direction, away from the stables. At the next fork, he takes the left trail, and I realize where we're going. We reach the campsite after a couple miles, and in the setting sun, I can see a small fire being stoked by a shadowy figure. I glance around. The rest of the campsites are empty.

  "It's usually busier this time of year," I note.

  "I didn't want us to be disturbed," he says with a smile, his white teeth catching the last of the sun. I frown. Is he saying he reserved all the campsites just to get me alone? "And before you ask, no. This is not part of the normal 'Boone Tillman experience' as you put it."

  I shake my head, but the truth is, I had been wondering. I hop off my horse, and Boone takes the reins and hands them to the man by the fire.

  "Thanks, Raoul," he says quietly, and Raoul murmurs something back to him. I look around the fire. There are soft blankets spread on the ground and up against the large logs that provide seating. Raoul walks away, leading the horses, and soon I hear the sound of an engine. "Dinner," Boone says, taking a couple baskets from behind a log.

  "You have excellent taste in horses," I say, settling onto a blanket as he unpacks the food, and a bottle of red wine.

  "I always wanted horses of my own. My grandfather had to sell his eventually, just to keep his land." He glances at me. "I didn't grow up with very much money, so it's nice to be able to spend it."

  "What was the first thing you bought, when you did have money?" I ask.

  "I paid off the rest of the mortgage on the farm. Would've bought the horse back, too, but he had passed by then."

  I tilt my head, feeling impressed. "So is that where you grew up, on the farm?"

  "Sometimes. And sometimes with my mom, when she had her act together enough. My dad wasn't around. Then later, a few foster homes a couple hours outside the city."

  "What about your grandfather?"

  "You mean why didn't I live with him?" I nod. "He was a fine man, and tried his best, but he wasn't much of a caretaker. He was starting to get dementia, and sometimes he'd just forget about making meals for a couple days. The caseworker visited and thought it wasn't a good environment." He leans back against a log and hands me a glass of wine. I sit next to him, and feel his arm drape around my back.

  "Did you always plan on getting into construction?"

  "Well, I planned on finding some security. Construction was one of the only jobs I could get, but I found I loved it. I like building something that feels permanent. And then I started to see things in the business I thought could be done better, and I started doing my own research and taking some classes... and now here I am."

  "Simple as that, huh?" I smile, thinking of how many hardships he must be leaving out.

  "Pretty much," he grins. I take a long sip of my wine, feeling its smoky flavor run down my throat. We start picking at the food, and gradually I find myself relaxing into him. A couple of hours later, I'm in a tipsy state of bliss, my legs hanging over his, and his hand tangled in my hair as he rubs my neck.

  "Tell me truthfully, Boone," I say, running my finger down the side of his cheek. He always seems to have just the slightest bit of stubble. "This the first time you've brought a date here?"

  "First time. I swear, Callie," he says seriously.

  "I'd like us to be honest with each other," I say carefully.

  "Me too," he replies quietly. I feel his hand reach up to grasp mine. "I think this could be something real."

  I feel a surge of warmth in my body even as the color drains from my face. "Wait, what?" I whisper.

  He searches my eyes, looking taken aback. "Or maybe not."

  I untwine my legs from his and lean back against the log. "Is that... is that just something you say to women? Like 'I'll call you tomorrow'?"

  "No, it's not," he says flatly, staring down at his hands. Suddenly, he turns to me. "You really don't feel a connection here?" He reaches forward and places his hand across my heart.

  I bite my lip and pull back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have even come today." I stand up and look around, feeling frantic.

  Boone jumps up. "What are you talking about? What's going on?"

  "It's nothing. It's just... too complicated, alright? You're Upland's client now—"

  "That's it? Just because of Upland? I can find another firm to work with."

  "No! No, please don't. I just can't explain right now, OK? I just need to go home." I fight back tears. I feel wretched. I knew coming here that Boone and I could never have a real relationship, and then I pressed him to make me feel special, and now I've led him on. I just never expected that he would actually fall for me.

  He stares at me for a moment. He looks as though he's going to ask me another question, but instead he pulls out his cell phone. "Can you pull the car around?" he says into it. "Thanks."

  We stand in a horrible silence for what feels like forever. Finally, I hear the sound of an engine and headlights flickering through the trees. A black Mercedes, looking completely at odds with its surroundings, pulls up on the dirt road to the campsite. Raoul rolls down the driver's side window, and I follow Boone as he walks toward him.

  "You take her back to her car, alright? I'll take care of the horses," he says, then opens the rear door for me. I want to say something, but his expression is so closed off. I silently get in the back seat.

  Chapter Seven

  Boone

  I head to the Hail Mary, the bar I go to on the outskirts of Savannah when I just want to be able to relax. I've fought my entire life for status and stability, but I never knew how exhausting it would be to maintain. I don't want to see and be seen right now. I just want to sit in a dark corner and drink.

  Sydney's bartending when I head inside. Hank's playing on the speakers, and there's only a few other customers around. She gives me a nod when I walk in. She's busy with a regular, so I head to the back corner booth. We've had flings now and then, but we both know where we stand. Not that I'm in the mood tonight anyway.

  "Bad deal?" she asks when she comes over and sets a beer and a shot of Jack on the table i
n front of me and slides into the other side of the booth.

  "Bad date," I reply. She chortles, and I shoot her a glare.

  "Sorry," she says with a shrug. "Just didn't think you cared enough."

  "What's that mean?" I frown.

  "Usually for you, a bad date means you didn't get laid, which is fine, because you can just call another girl in your rolodex. Or, you know, phone contacts or whatever. So, what's she like?" she asks, leaning her forearms on the slightly sticky table.

  What's she like? Funny, smart, her emotions play across her face like a cattail dancing in the breeze. But she's not fragile, either. She can ride a horse like hell, her perfect thighs gripping the saddle and guiding the horse with just the smallest flexion. She's pale, with a rope of thick, dark hair, like she's jumped here from another time. She seems like a perfect Southern debutante on the outside, but I know she's got a wild heart.

  "Doesn't matter," I grunt.

  Sydney whistles. "Turned you down, huh? Well, I get off in a couple hours." I shake my head no. "You've got it bad."

  "Just not in the mood tonight," I reply, trying to keep the defensiveness out of my voice.

  "Alright," she says, backing off. "Keep 'em coming?" she asks, indicating the drinks.

  I nod.

  * * *

  My mood's no better the next morning, though the hangover isn't helping. I stare at my bedroom window, admiring the moldings and custom drapes. It's an old house built in the English Regency style that defines Savannah architecture, but everyone else was scared off by its dilapidated state. I bought it and fixed it up myself. Just finished it a year or so ago.

  I live in the right house, wear the right clothes... but still I feel I don't belong here. I can't tell if my outsider status is real or imagined. Do these old money Savannah people really consider me one of them? Or will I always be some kind of interloper, making off with their precious daughters? And the daughters are never nearly as innocent as they claim, by the way. The gatekeepers love to help me spend my money, putting me on the board of this society and that charitable association, but I can't help but feel I'm not truly accepted.

  Or maybe I'm being paranoid. It's true that I've always had a massive chip on my shoulder, needing to prove I'm better than my druggie mother and absentee father. Well, it's always kept me working hard, harder than anyone around me. I thought that by making myself into a successful businessman, my insecurities would vanish, but I guess I was wrong.

  I pull on a pair of short and sneakers and head out for a jog along the Savannah River. It always helps me to clear my head, and I don't want to get soft like some of the other people who work in Woodall & Sons front office, especially Mason Woodall himself. Sometimes I walk in on him studying his gut in the mirror in his office.

  My gratitude to him knows no bounds, but he can't deny that I've proved my worth to him ten times over. I wish I could say he trusts me completely now, but he still pushes back on some of my ideas for the company. Like the rebranding, for one. At least he finally relented on that issue, though who knows why. Months of trying to convince him, with no headway, and then one day he comes into my office all ready to go and has even picked out the company we should hire.

  My head snaps and I almost trip as a leggy brunette jogs past me. I thought for a second it was Callie. Shit. I need to let that one go. Clearly she's got something going on. My money's on a boyfriend, maybe from college and living in a different state. Probably she was just feeling lonely, and then pulled back at the last second when the guilt was settling in.

  I just wish she'd tell me straight out. I pull out my phone and type in her number, then shut it again. If it is a boyfriend issue, then I'm not getting involved. All the women I go out with need to be free and clear. And if it's not... well, then a phone call isn't going to do a fucking thing.

  You know what? To hell with her. I don't need some girl fucking with my brain. I have my pick of Savannah's eligible women. All I have to decide is blonde, redhead, or brunette.

  My phone beeps and I start. Is it her? No... but it could be just what I need right now.

  "Virginia," I say as I answer. Blonde it is.

  "Boone," she drawls. "I thought maybe you lost my number." I smile. A woman like Virginia isn't used to being kept waiting.

  "Not at all. I've been replaying that time in the shower over and—"

  "Boone!" she protests, but I can hear her breath catch over the phone. I smile. I do enjoy the effect I have on women. "You are too much, you know that?"

  "Why don't I take you out this Saturday?" I suggest. The best way to forget about Callie is to get right back in the game. Virginia might act prudish in public, but she's a more than willing participant once we're in my bedroom.

  "Really?" she says, then backs off her excitement. "Well, I have to check my schedule."

  "Pick you up at nine," I reply with a smile, and hang up.

  Chapter Eight

  Callie

  I stare absentmindedly out the front window of the parlor. I don't hear my dad come in until he's standing almost next to me.

  "What's going on with you? You look like hell," he comments.

  "Dad..." I sigh. "I just had a bad date last night, alright?"

  "A bad date!" he exclaims. "Not with Vernon Dunleaf?"

  "No, not with Vernon Dunleaf," I assure him.

  "Who then?" he asks, sitting down across from me.

  "It's not important. I'm not going to see him again."

  "Give me his name. I'll have a talk with him."

  I can't help but giggle. "Dad! You can't be serious!"

  "I'm dead serious. No one messes with my daughter and gets away with it." I consider him, surprised by the flashes of real anger in his eyes.

  "Dad. I'm fine. It was my fault the date went badly."

  He snorts. "Well, you let me know if you want me to get involved."

  "I'll do that," I reply gently, not wanting to bruise his ego.

  "I hope you feel up to dinner tonight."

  "What do you mean?" I ask, frowning.

  "We're having guests over."

  "Who?"

  "It's a surprise."

  "I'm still annoyed at you for your last 'surprise'!" I exclaim, remembering his selection of Upland for Woodall & Sons rebranding.

  He throws back his head and laughs, delighted by himself. "That's what you get for not keeping me informed!"

  "Oh god," I mutter, burying my head in my hands. A frightening thought occurs to me, and I look up. "It's not someone from Woodall & Sons, is it?" I ask, worrying he's invited Boone for some reason.

  "No! Why would I invite someone from work? No, no, this is a good surprise. You're going to like it," he promises.

  I groan inwardly. My father has very little understanding of what surprises I'm going to like and what I'm not. Still, I do my best to shake off my mood, and head upstairs to take a shower.

  I glance at my phone on my desk as I get undressed. I was half-hoping Boone would call, but he hasn't. Either he's angry, or simply doesn't care. I'm hoping for the first, even though I know the second would make my life easier.

  As I shower, I consider how I should proceed. Maybe it would be easiest to not tell Boone who I am. It's already tough enough at work now that Upland is working on the Woodall & Sons rebranding, and I would essentially be asking him to also keep my identity a secret from my colleagues. Last night was not a good night, but maybe the best move is just to let it be.

  After I dry off, I blow dry my hair a little and then pull on a simple cotton shift. I amble down to the kitchen, and inhale deeply as the scent of Mrs. Hunt's cooking reaches me.

  "Wow. What is that?" I ask as I meet her at the stove.

  "Pork tenderloin. Your father asked for it specifically."

  "I thought his doctor told him to eat healthier. He is getting a bit of a belly."

  She smiles and shakes his head. "That sneak. He didn't pass that on to me, I can tell you that much."

  "He claims
it makes him look more imposing," I say, rolling my eyes. "Maybe if he met a new woman, he'd try to get back in shape. You ever see him date anybody?"

  "Here and there, but nothing serious," she replies. The doorbell rings, and she reaches for a dishcloth to wipe her hands.

  "I'll get it," I say, stopping her. I head towards the front door, wondering who I'm going to find on the other side of it. Maybe a potential client my father is wooing? I open the door with a smile, which falters drastically as I see the Dunleaf family gathered on the porch. James, Harper, Lynn, and Vernon, whose calls I still haven't returned. Shit. "So wonderful to see y'all!" I say, recovering.

  "You too, Callie," Harper says. "I don't know if you've met my husband, Mayor Dunleaf."

  "Call me James," he says, in a smooth voice as he shakes my hand.

  "Please, come in," I say, waving them into the parlor. "Can I get anyone anything to drink?" Vernon pauses by the foyer with me as I listen with half an ear to the drink requests. The rest of his family moves further into the parlor and begins to admire the fireplace, so before he can say anything, I turn to him and murmur, "Vernon, I'm so sorry I haven't returned your call. My father told me we'd all be having dinner tonight, so I figured since I hadn't spoken to you yet, I might as well do it in person."

  "Oh, of course," he replies, looking mollified by my mostly white lie. He heads into the parlor with his parents and Lynn jumps up.

  "I'll help you with those drinks, Callie," she says, hurrying after me. We head down the hallway, but I duck into the study and pull her in after me.

  "Why didn't you warn me?" I whisper.

  "I didn't know! They're always dragging me to parties and dinners, so I just stopped asking after a while. Your dad didn't tell you either?" I shake my head. She leans in. "So? How was last night?"