Dirty South (A Blue Collar Bad Boy Romance) (16 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Six months later…

"So how'd you hear about this place again?" I ask,
glancing out the window as we pass an old farmhouse about twenty minutes
outside of Savannah.

"Buddy of mine on the site," Boone says.

"Well, I could use some more wood. I already ran out of
the shiplap from the place on 4
^th
," I say. For the past few
months, I've been designing furniture from old wood that Boone pulls from
construction sites, and I've been shocked by how many people are interested in
my pieces. I've found building something with my hands, with Boone's
instruction at first, to be much more satisfying than building graphics on a
computer screen.

"This is it," he says, pulling onto a gravel
driveway. Massive hedges out front obscure the house from the road, and I smile
as I see an old, converted farmhouse come into view.

"I don't know, I think this one's been redone already,
Boone," I say, admiring the new roof, the porch out front, and the huge
magnolia tree in the backyard. "It looks pretty much perfect. I don't
think there'll be anything to salvage."

"No?" Boone asks, hopping out of the truck. I hop
out after him, happy to spend time with him even if he did get bad information
about this place. My dad officially stepped down as Woodall & Sons' CEO
about a month ago, and Boone's been busy with his new responsibilities, even if
he already was doing most of them before gaining his official title. "Sits
on ten acres, and there's a stable over there beyond the trees," he says,
taking my hand and leading me into the backyard.

"Wow," I reply, admiring the bucolic setting.

"Come on," he says, tugging me toward the back
door of the house.

"Boone, I don't want to disturb the homeowners," I
protest.

"I don't think anyone's home," he says, peering
into the windows.

"It's still breaking and entering!" I reply, then
frown as he takes a key out of his pocket and opens the door. "Wait... why
do you have a key?"

He grins. "Check out this fireplace," he says,
leading me toward a brick fireplace in the middle of a giant great room with
dark beams reaching across the ceiling. "All original."

"Boone..." I murmur, eyeing him uncertainly. I
glance around at the completely unfurnished space. "How do you know
that?"

"I made sure to keep them when I remodeled."

"What are you telling me here?" I ask, my heart
beating out of my chest.

"I'm telling you that there's a studio space near the
stables so you have a separate place to work. I'm telling you that you could
have a horse or two, maybe some chickens. I'm telling you that you were right
when you told me that I didn't fit in a house in the middle of Savannah. It
never felt quite right. But as soon as I saw this house, I knew that it did.
That's why I bought it and fixed it up."

"Boone!" I exclaim, laughing, because I can hardly
believe what I'm hearing.

"Do you like it?"

"Are you serious? I love it! It's perfect!" I say,
my eyes threatening to overflow with tears.

"Good. Because I got it for us. And for our
children," he says, walking toward me. I gasp as he kneels. "Callie,
this is where I want to grow old with you, so I thought it would be the right
place to ask you for that honor. Will you marry me?" he asks, pulling a
small red box out of his pocket and flipping it open.

"Oh, Boone. I can't even believe this is happening. I
don't know what I've ever done to deserve feeling this happy, but of course I
will," I say, wiping a tear from my cheek. He takes the ring out of the
box and slides it onto my finger. I blink back tears so that I can actually see
it: a perfectly sized, vintage ring with two smaller diamonds flanking the
large one in the middle.

I sink down to my knees and wrap my arms around his neck. I
try to kiss him, but I'm laughing and crying too much, so I just tuck my head
against his chest and hold him tight.

"I didn't ask your father's permission, but—" he
says, his lips moving against my hair.

"I don't care," I stop him. "I don't need
anyone's permission to marry you. In fact, no one could stop me."

Epilogue

In the end, it turned out my father was in favor of our union,
so much so that he even walks me down the aisle the next spring. Boone and I
say our vows in a small ceremony, standing beneath the magnolia tree in our own
backyard. Lynn and Sheila serve as my bridesmaids, and Virginia is most
definitely not invited.

My mom is in attendance with her new boyfriend, and she and
my dad manage to keep the hatchet buried for at least a few hours. Boone's mom
showed up, even though he wasn't sure she would. I watch as my father dances
with Harper Dunleaf, and the way he looks at her, and I wonder if there's more
to the fact that he hasn't gotten serious about anyone after my mom. Maybe his
heart is already with someone else.

"Do you think anyone noticed about the champagne?"
I whisper to Boone as he holds me in his arms for another dance as the sun sets
over the trees. I raised the champagne flute to my lips during the toasts, but
didn’t actually drink.

"Not a chance," he assures me with a wink. Boone
and I didn't want to keep another secret from people, but I'm only a month or
so along in my pregnancy, so it's too soon to tell anyone anyway.

I rest my head against his chest. Even though we're
surrounded by our friends and family, it feels like it's just the two of us.
Soon to be three.

* * *

THE END

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Hard Tackle
by
Celia Loren

HARD TACKLE

A Stepbrother Warriors Novel

Book One

By Celia Loren

Prologue

I stare at the unusually tall man in the in the charcoal
grey suit, his salt-and-pepper hair arranged just so, despite the fact that he
just pulled into the parking lot with smoke leaking out of the hood of his car.
His car is a Bentley, but still. He looks remarkably well-composed as he
scrolls through his Blackberry, glancing up every now and then to the TV
mounted on the wall opposite his corner booth.

We don't get many rich people in here. My mom owns the
place, a small, kitschy diner in South Tampa, almost smack dab in the middle of
the Interbay Peninsula. Old Tampa Bay to the west, Hillsborough Bay on the
right, and ABC Diner lies in the center with no sea breeze from either.

I turn toward the kitchen and frown at our line cooks, Andrè
and Silvio, who are staring at the radio propped on the counter, as if they can
see the football game they're listening to inside its cheap metal exterior.

"Andrè, I've been waiting on a tuna salad sandwich for
ten minutes," I sigh. He glances up at me in faux shock and slaps his
brother on the arm.

"You believe this girl? I've known you since you were
this high," he says, indicating a height about three feet off the ground,
"and you're gonna take that tone with me? With the Buccaneers on the ten
yard line?"

I roll my eyes. When Andrè and Silvio emigrated from Cuba a
couple decades ago, they threw themselves into fitting in with their new
American compatriots, assiduously switching from avid baseball fans to football.
It was a struggle at first, but their presumed duty turned into a true
interest, and now they never miss a game.

"Just give it to Stratton! What are they doing?!"
Silvio cries in his lightly accented Spanish.

My mom walks over from the other end of the bar and pokes
her head through the window. "Don't make me come back there," she
says with a smile. They know she hates having football games playing at all,
but she relented to her customers' wishes and her cooks' passion. Silvio begins
gesticulating toward the radio as he fires off Spanish that goes over my head,
but he grabs a roll from the bag and begins to make the sandwich. The brothers
were the first two hires that my mom made when she bought the diner with the
last of my father's alimony, before he disappeared altogether, and now they're
like family. My mom's always had a good sense when it comes to people. Well,
most people.

I rest my head for a moment on her shoulder. We're both just
under 5'2", so it's rare to find someone else the same size. She has dark,
chestnut brown hair that swings above her shoulder, while I have my father's
thick blonde hair, currently pulled into a haphazard bun on top of my head.
I've thought about dyeing my hair dark to do away with any trace of him, but my
mom always tells me my hair is beautiful and I shouldn't mess with it. At least
I inherited her bright green eyes.

Silvio slides the plate toward me and I turn and duck under
the bar, headed for the rich man in the corner booth, and place it next to his
Diet Coke. Not that he notices; his gaze is now glued to the TV.

"Anything else I can—" I begin, and jump as he
suddenly raises his hand and slams it down on the tabletop. I stare at him,
shocked, as I feel my heartbeat quicken. "Was there—did you—" I
stumble, as I wonder if there's something wrong with his order.
I could have
sworn he said tuna salad sandwich, hold the cole slaw…

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says in a
low, gravelly voice, as he glances up and notices my expression. "That's
my son."

I turn to glance around the diner and am vaguely aware of
the brothers hollering about the game in the kitchen. "Where?" I ask,
frowning. Surely he can't mean the trucker seated at the bar…

"There," he says, pointing at the TV. "Jack
Stratton is my son." I follow his extended finger up to the photo of a
handsome young man that ESPN is showing next to his stats. The screen cuts back
to the game and I see a hulking man leaping from the end zone to chest bump his
teammates.

"Mmm," I mutter, unable to keep the scorn out of
my voice. I turn around to see a small smile on the man's face.

"Most people are impressed," he says, placing his
elbows on the table outside his plate and templing his fingers. I get the
distinct impression that he's studying me, and I square my shoulders. Driscoll
women don't back down.

"Not me," I reply. He holds my gaze for a moment,
then glances toward the bar.

"This your mother's place?" he asks.

"Yes," I answer warily. There's enough of a
resemblance between us that people have made the connection before, but there's
something about the man's confidence that I find unsettling. And I have a
feeling I know where this is headed.

"My name's Ray. Ray Stratton. I was just heading to
check on some of my properties when my car started smoking, so I figured I'd
grab a bite while I wait for the tow truck. I don't suppose your mother
would—"

"She's not interested," I interrupt and spin
around. My mom walks toward me as I walk back under the bar and away from the
man's penetrating gaze.

"What was that about?" she murmurs, busying
herself by cleaning a glass with a cloth.

"Nothing. He's excited about the game, I guess."

"Good-looking," she observes, glancing over at
him.

"Really? I don't think so."

"Objectively good-looking," she murmurs with a
smile. "Looks like his water glass is a little empty," she says,
grabbing the pitcher from the bar.

"It does not—" I argue, but she's already off. I
watch her approach the table, her narrow hips swinging. I can't hear what
they're saying from here, but the body language is telling.

I bite the cuticle on the edge of my nail as the sounds of
the radio drift through the window toward me. My wise, beautiful mother is
always losing her otherwise practical head over these brief flings that leave
her emotionally exhausted. I see my mom take the pen out of her apron and write
something on a napkin. Giving him her number.

Best case scenario, this Ray guy never calls. A girl can
dream.

Chapter One

Eight months later

"I can't believe you guys are wearing those," I
groan, shaking my head at Andrè as he walks out from the kitchen. They both
have on red and black Buccaneers jerseys with Stratton emblazoned in capital
letters above his number 41 on their backs. "And I'll tell you when he
gets here. You don't have to keep checking."

"I needed a…salt shaker," he replies, sticking his
hand out to grab the nearest item as an excuse.

"Yeah, I'm sure the kitchen doesn't have salt," I
mutter under my breath. My mom's with Ray now as they head over to the diner
with his football star son Jack in tow. She tried to get me excited to meet
him, but I'm just not. From everything I've seen and read, he's just some
hard-partying jock. I guess I'll have to see him around Ray's mansion every now
and then when we move in next week, but thank god he's not actually living
there himself.

The front door jingles and I glance up to see my mom and Ray
walk in, my mom's arm laced through Ray's. And behind them, the infamous Jack
Stratton. My stomach involuntarily tightens and I turn around to hide my face.
He's even better-looking in person, with closely-cropped light brown hair, sea
blue eyes, and a strong nosed balanced by sensuous lips. And at 6'5'', he's
slightly taller than his father, with muscle packed onto every inch.

I hear the entire diner go quiet for a moment. You can't
help but notice the younger Stratton's hulking figure, plus he's one of Tampa's
heroes, the Buccaneers' star tight end after only two years in the NFL. I take
a deep breath and turn around. My mom's looking around for me as they head to
Ray's now regular corner booth. People are staring at Jack, but he's either
oblivious or used to it, because his expression remains nonplussed.

I hear frantic whispering through the window to the kitchen
and can't help but smile at Silvio and Andrè's excitement. "You wanna come
over with me?" I ask, sticking my head through.

"No, no, I'm too nervous," Silvio responds in
hushed tones.

"He's just a regular guy," I tell them.
"Except, you know, bigger." They both shake their heads so I shrug
and turn around. The patrons' conversations have resumed around the restaurant,
though many sets of eyes are still glancing over at the football player. My
mom's watching me expectantly as I walk over. She's sitting next to Ray, his
hand resting on her thigh under the table, and Jack's sitting across from them.
His thick, jean-covered legs are sticking out onto the tile floor next to the
booth, unable to fit under the table.

"Hey, honey," she greets me with a wide smile.

"How's business today?" Ray asks, ever the CEO.

"Not bad," I murmur, feeling my cheeks beginning
to burn. I can sense Jack's gaze on me, and I feel reluctant to look at him for
some reason. Is it obvious? Am I being awkward?

"I'm Jack," I hear a low voice say next to me. I
finally turn to see Jack flashing a megawatt smile at me. Something about the
way he's looking at me is too confident, too sure of himself, and I narrow my
eyes at him as we shake hands. He lets his rough fingers linger on mine for a
second too long, and I know what's bothering me.

He thinks I'm going to fall at his feet, like so many girls
in Florida and across the country would.
Don’t think so, buddy. Football
players just don't do it for me, even ones that look like you.

"Nice to meet you, Jack," I say, slapping his
shoulder like we've been pals forever. He looks slightly taken aback and I
smile inwardly. I grab a chair from the table behind us, pull it up to the end
of the table and sit.

"Jack's in the middle of the off-season right
now," my mom says, trying to start conversation between us. I know she and
Ray want Jack and me to be friends.

"Oh, right," I reply, nodding politely. Jack leans
back in the booth and surveys me, a slight tension creeping into the edges of
his lips.

"He's training and everything…and relaxing…" she continues,
raising her eyebrows slightly at him.

"A little heavy on the relaxing side, actually,"
Ray says sternly, though not unkindly.

"Dad, it's fine," Jack assures him.

"What are we talking about here?" I ask, still
trying to keep my voice light. Whatever it is, I want him to know I don't care.

"Well, Jack's coaches have suggested that maybe a
change in his lifestyle could be helpful," my mom says.

"Why do you sound like a politician?" I ask her
suspiciously. Jack leans in, spreading his forearms on the table, a slight
smirk on his face.

"She's worried we're not going to like living in the
same house," he informs me.

"Same house?" I repeat, alarmed.
Shit, I wasn't
supposed to care.

"Jack's been partying too much in his penthouse and his
coaches think it's better if he spends the off-season training in a quieter
atmosphere," Ray sums up concisely.

"You're moving back home?" I ask Jack, unable to
keep a hint of derision out of my voice.

"It's not like that," he responds, his jaw muscle
twitching. I hear the front door jingle and glance to my right to see a large
group walk in. I flush as I recognize all of them: the popular group from high
school. Including Jenni, my least favorite person who knew just how to push my
buttons, and my most favorite person, Miles, my crush since the second week of
ninth grade. We all graduated a couple weeks ago, and I was fervently hoping
I'd never see Jenni again. Whether it was my height, my lack of makeup, my
baggy clothes…she never let an opportunity pass by to tease me.

Jenni's eyes lock onto mine and I see her grin. Not a nice
grin, more like the grin of a shark that just spotted its lunch. I stare down
at the laminated tabletop, wishing she would just go away, but knowing she
won't.

"Bree! I forgot you work here!" she crows, walking
over with the rest of the group in tow. "Oh, and you must be Mrs.
Driscoll!" she says sweetly to my mom. She always knew how to make adults
happy.

"Yes…you and Bree went to high school together, is that
right?" she asks, trying to place her. "Oh, this is my boyfriend, Ray
Stratton, and his son—"

"Holy shit. Holy shit!" Jenni exclaims as her eyes
land on Jack. "I cannot believe I'm meeting Jack Stratton right now! I'm
like, your biggest fan." The rest of the girls around her begin to squeal,
and the guys try to hide their excitement. Only Miles seems uninterested,
glancing at the specials written above the counter. Jack gives her that
mega-watt grin, and I roll my eyes. Jenni's attention snaps back toward me.
"Wait. How do
you
know Jack Stratton?"

"Like my mom said," I say through gritted teeth,
"she's dating his father."

"Oh, that makes more sense. Wasn't your dad a football
player too, though?" I wince. She knows damn well he was. "That's
sort of weird."

"Not really," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. But
she knows she's hit a nerve.

"Yeah, that's right! He used to be a big deal, but then
he—"

"Yup, that's him," I cut her off.

"Jack would you mind—" Jenni begins, turning to
him. But my mom's caught a whiff of her attitude and interrupts her.

"Nice to meet you Jenni. Feel free to grab that table
over there," my mom says, pointing to an eight-top on the other side of
the diner.

"I just wanted—" Jenni protests.

"But it was
so
nice to meet you," my mom
repeats with an icy smile. Man, I wish I could handle a mean girl like she can.

Jenni stares at her for a moment, then gives Jack a sweet
shrug. "Bye, Jack," she purrs, and the group follows her to the other
side of the diner. Jack nods in response, and I stiffen as I see Miles
approaching the table from the counter.

"Hey, Bree."

"Hi," I breathe as I look up at his dark brown
eyes and long hair pushed carelessly back from his forehead.

"I didn't get a chance to see you after graduation, but
I wanted to tell you I liked that piece you wrote for the paper."

"Thank you," I whisper, shocked that he even knows
my name, much less admires the short story I wrote for the final issue of the
student newspaper. Someone from his group calls him over to their table, and he
heads away without another word. Thank goodness – I've forgotten how to breathe
and I can feel Jack's eyes on me.

"So, how's your sister doing, Jack?" my mom asks,
thankfully changing the subject.

"Good, I guess. Last I heard she was in Monaco, or
maybe it was Milan," Jack answers, and his father snorts. In that one
short sound, I can hear a wealth of disapproval. Silvio and Andrè shyly
approach the table, their posture almost deferential. I stand up to give them
room to talk to Jack, and fade back toward the rear wall.

I'm still reeling from my encounters with Jenni and Miles,
and now I have to live in the same house as Jack Stratton? His blue eyes glance
up from signing the brothers' jerseys and catch me looking at him. The light
from the window plays over his irises and I shiver at the expression in them.
He's looking at me like he knows me. I don't like it.