Grit And Grind (Dirty South Book 1) Page 3

  His eyes followed the woman, Klara, as she ran up the stairs and out of sight. Her frazzled curls bouncing as they escaped the granny bun on her head. Granny bun. He didn’t think she would like that. Her … very sexy librarian bun. He wanted to reach over and take the tie out of her hair, letting her curls loose and wild. He pulled his phone out and set his alarm early, so he could stumble into her again the next morning.

  As Chris made his way back to the hotel, he noticed people all around him. He could hear music drifting out of several places already. The damp heat started to wear him down as soon as he walked back into his room. He fell back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts went back to the city, Superman, Klara, barbecue. Grabbing his laptop, he jotted down details of the sights he had taken in this morning. He decided he would return to the riverbanks at dusk to get a glimpse of the nightlife and compare notes. Flickering neon signs and smoky bars filled his head. The city—dirty, hot, gritty, and rough around the edges.

  Finally, he could see his new novel coming together. He wondered if that firecracker from this morning had had anything to do with it. He shook the thought from his head. He had to focus on navigating this city and getting to work.

  Lately, Chris had led so many writing workshops that they were starting to all run together. The past few months had been so busy that, sometimes, he wasn’t sure which city he needed to be at and when. His novels were taking the backseat to his workshops, and he wasn’t yet comfortable with that. He made a mental note to tell Marcy to slow it down. When the workshops had started up, his lifestyle had changed from that of leisure travel and writing to schedules, schedules, and more schedules. Though he was happy with his career opportunities, he was having a hard time adjusting. He didn’t want to be like the people he observed around him. Busily rushing from one task to the other. But, today, he had already been knocked off his game. He quickly got ready and headed to the university.

  Chris checked his watch before heading into the building. The students should be arriving any moment now. It was a small workshop this time. Only fifteen students allowed. He liked those better, as not only did he get to help the students individually, but he also got to get inside their heads. Usually, that helped him with his own writing. He was well known for his talent in character development. Most of his workshops centered on this skill. Rarely did his ideas come from his imagination, but real-life situations. People-watching and observing all and everything around him. He liked to take a more stop and smell the flowers approach to life. So far, it had proven successful. Although, with his head usually in the clouds, he could often get lost in his wanderings. It had its drawbacks, but it was a life that suited him and his career. He couldn’t imagine how much his work would suffer if he was firmly on foot, in one place, all the time.

  Chris turned the corner toward his classroom; his senses heightened as he followed an intoxicating scent. Honeysuckle? Daisies? Nectar? Something floral, something exotic. He followed his nose down the hall, checking the numbers above the doors—342. He’d arrived. With his head swimming in what smelled like a romp in the garden, he peeked into his classroom. There was only one student inside, but he instantly recognized the curls, the delicate movements, the dreadful but happy humming.

  Klara.

  The scent of her perfume hung in the air, surrounding Chris.

  Floral. Like a rose with thorns.

  He stood in shock, unsure of how to approach her. She still hadn’t noticed him yet, standing there like a weirdo with his mouth open. He had to think. And quick.

  “Perfecting that romance novel I suppose? The one where you crash into Mr. Abs at the park, and you both run off into the sunset?”

  Damn it. That was probably the wrong approach with her.

  Klara slowly lifted her gaze up to meet him. Her eyes narrowed. He was pretty sure, if looks could kill, he would have suffered a mild heart attack this morning, and she would be finishing the job right now. Chris was enjoying being a tease, and even though her posture looked ready to pounce, he could see a flicker of a smile beneath those lips of hers. He thought she might slightly enjoy being teased, too, except he would guess that she would never admit it. With footsteps echoing through the halls behind him, he turned to greet the other students before she ever got to respond to his unwelcome wit.

  The class flowed through the usual process. Introduction, syllabus, goals, and questions. Chris made sure to personally connect with each student, but his gaze kept coming back to Klara.

  He checked his class roster for her full name—Klara Woods. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.

  He couldn't keep his eyes off of her. Her hazel eyes, her dark, almost-gothic hair. The way she crossed her legs and then uncrossed them. Her chest rising and falling with each breath. She must know he was watching her again. When their eyes met, she smirked and nodded at him as if she knew exactly what he was thinking. He continued the lecture, pacing back and forth. He could see her out of the corner of his eye. Her gaze never left him.

  As the students started working quietly on the assignment, he sat at his desk, opened his laptop, and peered out over the class. Klara’s eyes were on the paper in front of her, but he could see she was struggling as she quietly tapped the pen on her paper. She was distracted and unable to focus. He wondered what she was thinking about as she looked up and met his eyes again. His stare didn’t waver. He locked eyes with her and cocked his head to the side. She blushed and cast her eyes back down to her paper.

  Just then, the clock dinged, and the students began shuffling their things into their bags. Chris made his way over to Klara while she packed up.

  “Well, you’re quite a surprise. I wouldn’t have guessed you as the writing type.”

  “What the heck is that supposed to mean? How exactly does a writing type look?”

  “No, I didn’t mean that! Shit! I meant … ”

  “Would you like a shovel, so you can dig yourself a little deeper in that hole you started this morning?” Klara looked up at him, one hand on her hip.

  He was used to Southern women. He could handle her. Couldn’t he?

  He laughed and shook his head.

  “I would guess,” she continued, “you aren’t the writing type, seeing as you can’t find the right words.”

  “Touché.” He grinned. “Tell me about why you’re here. What are you really writing about? I’ll not pick on you anymore. I’m interested.”

  Klara bit her lip, thinking. She wasn’t even sure how to answer that because she had no idea what she was even writing about. “I don’t know actually. I’ve been struggling a bit. I have a hard time focusing on my characters and feeling out their emotions. I was hoping your class could help with that, but so far, the only emotion I’m getting is an overwhelming need to give you a swift kick in the ass.”

  “I do deserve that. I think I might have been a little too teasing toward you with my odd sense of humor. Please accept my apologies.”

  He looked sincere, but Klara wasn’t easily tricked with puppy-dog eyes. She gave him the benefit of the doubt and smiled.

  “You did good today, by the way. Not this morning. Although, technically, yeah, I’ll have to admit, you did good there, too. What I mean is, your class was helpful today.”

  “Thank you. I hope you can get something out of it,” he said as she zipped up her bag and headed toward the door.

  “Me, too,” she said, flashing a smile.

  She was halfway down the hall when he called her back.

  “Klara, wait! I have a proposition for you. You said you owed me for my chivalry this morning, right? I have my own project I’m working on, based here, in the city. Can you show me around some? Introduce me to the local scene? Maybe we can make a trade-off, and I’ll take you on a character observation?”

  “Is that like what you were doing to me this morning? Observing my character?”

  Chris flushed, thinking if he should admit he was observing her or checking her out. Which one wo
uld scare her off more? He decided he would be vague. It wasn’t a lie if you just omitted the dirty creeper details, right?

  “Yeah, kind of.”

  “Fine. But don’t expect me to be ‘saving’ anyone,” she said as she raised her eyebrows and turned to go.

  Air quotes. She’d made air quotes.

  Chris cringed, watching her go. He didn’t know if he was more turned off or more turned on.

  three

  It was bright and early Saturday morning when Klara pulled up to the hotel lobby. Chris was already waiting and dressed in his Sunday best.

  “You do know we’ll be getting our hands dirty in the mud today, right?” she said as she looked over Chris’s slim-cut jeans, his leather dress shoes, and white button-up top. Several bouquets of flowers were spilling over his arms.

  “What? I thought we were interviewing local residents today and bringing them flowers?”

  “Not those kinds of flowers.” Klara laughed. “We’re planting flowers! And, yes, we’ll be talking with the neighbors some, too. I work for a charity through a local florist. Our mission is to brighten up the neighborhoods for the elderly and disabled who can’t work their yards themselves.”

  “Oh. Well, crap. Here ya go. Happy Hot Summer’s Day,” Chris said as he handed her the bouquets.

  “No, no. Let’s still give them out. I think it’s a great idea actually. Just put them in the back.”

  Klara motioned toward the backseat of her car. She had driven through a carwash and vacuumed it out right before she picked him up, but the smell of lost and forgotten French fries still lingered from somewhere she couldn’t reach. The carwash only had those cheesy Christmas trees for air fresheners, so she’d bought a handful of spring fresh scents and shoved them under her seats.

  “Wow, I didn’t notice how good these flowers smell,” he said as he set them down and hopped in the passenger seat.

  Klara held her tongue and let him believe it was the flowers and not the six hundred eighty-seven air fresheners hiding in her car. “That’s because they’re from my store. Good choice,” she said, noticing the gold embellished wrapping.

  “Save the girl. Bring the flowers. I impress myself sometimes.”

  “Hold up there, buddy. This isn’t one of your romance novels. You’ll be getting super sweaty and dirty today, and I’m sorry to say, but your clothes might get ruined.”

  “You’ve read my novels, right? I can definitely do sweaty and dirty.”

  Klara blushed, realizing her instructor was flirting with her. There had to be some law against that. She was going to let him romanticize this outing and see how quickly he learned to hate the sun this time of year. She smiled as she thought of the work he was in for. Mr. Saves The Day was about to be put through the wringer and get a taste of that good ole Memphis grit. Maybe a bit of hard labor would cure his cockiness. But she had to admit, she did find his confidence and go-getter attitude pretty damn hot. Especially after all the Farmer Lazybones and Farmer Douche Bags.

  “I think we are talking about a different kind of dirty, but ya never know. There are some awfully lonely elderly women in this neighborhood who would probably jump on the chance to get down and dirty with you.”

  Chris laughed at the banter. He had to be on his toes and prepared for anything with Klara. She was a firecracker. She wasn’t like the rest. Easily meltable.

  She bites, he thought.

  They pulled up next to the community produce garden. Several people were already working—pulling weeds, harvesting herbs, replanting and moving the crops. Klara quickly introduced Chris to the volunteers and grabbed a cart. They filled it with gardening tools, gloves, flowers, and the bouquets Chris had brought along.

  “Ready?” she said as he swiped a bead of sweat off his brow.

  He was already cooking in this heat.

  “I’m always ready.”

  “These ladies are going to eat you alive.”

  “Bring it.” He smirked.

  Chris and Klara started near the end of their route and worked their way up the street. They stopped at each house, delivering their bouquets and checking the flowerbeds. She showed Chris how to deadhead the flowers and check for signs of disease or rot. Each resident came out to watch and enjoy the company. Many of these women, and a few men, were skeptical at first of Chris and his questions, but they slowly opened up once he explained to them his stories and what he was writing.

  Klara smiled at him as he gently took one lady’s hand and led her down the porch steps to show her the new blooms on her roses. He listened intently to the men and women who told tales of growing up in a segregated town. She noticed the smiles on the women’s faces as he handed off the bouquets. His charisma had been winning everyone over. The way he moved, the way he talked, his ideas, his laughter, his kindness, his brain. He was damn near perfect. She could see herself easily falling for him if she let herself. But she couldn’t let herself. He was only here a few weeks, and it would just end up in heartbreak.

  She enjoyed the sexual tension, the banter, the flirting. Maybe she would just keep her walls up and let herself have some fun. She should loosen up; she knew it. But with her instructor? She had this secret internal debate, all the while mindlessly digging and planting, pruning and watering. Klara went back and forth in her mind while she did the dirty work. He offered to help, but she knew he was here for his research, and she knew the residents loved the attention anyway. A lot of them never had company. Their kids, all grown and moved out of the city. There were still a few young families in the neighborhood but not on this street. This street, Ms. May had said, was Dusty Row. Mostly left alone and respected, but neglected and forgotten. Just like its elderly residents.

  Chris gave his undivided attention to the neighbors and their stories. He loved hearing about real-life struggles and the history of the city. How times had changed and how they hadn’t. He sat, listening, halfway fidgeting and guilt-ridden for not being on his knees in the mud beside Klara, but she’d insisted, and her stubbornness was not something he wanted to toy with right now. So, he listened to the narrators and enjoyed the show. His mouth watered as he caught sight of her kneeling in the grass, bending over, hips slightly raised. Her fitted tank showing the slightest glimpse of cleavage while she leaned forward and aggressively dug out a hole and then very gently placed a flower inside.

  He watched as her skin warmed in the sun and started to glow with tiny sparkles of sweat. Her hair, frazzled and up again in the sexy librarian … not granny … bun. Once or twice, she had looked up and caught his eye, but just as quickly, she had looked away and kept working. Her entire focus on the task in front of her.

  Is her mind elsewhere? He thought he could pick up on a hint of hesitation, backtracking, thinking.

  Maybe she was in her element and using her creativity. Maybe this was how she worked, and he was slowly learning that he so loved to watch her work.

  Klara stepped back, admiring the flowerbeds, as he admired her. She was covered in mud, dirt, grass, and sweat, and he had never seen someone so beautiful in his life. The neighbor’s words ran together and faded. Time had stopped. He needed her then and now. He wanted to grab her and pull her to the side of the house, behind the bushes, and take her against the bricks. His heart beat faster as he imagined his lips on hers, her breath on his neck while her legs wrapped around him. That first moment he entered her, a cry of relief for them both. Her arms holding on as he thrust harder and harder when she cried, Yes! Yes! Yes! Their moans stifled as they sneakily gave in to their desires.

  “Are you okay? Do you need some water?” the neighbor said as she woke Chris from his trance.

  Her husband, sitting beside her, slowly shook his head and grinned. Without saying a word, they both knew what Chris really needed was not water. The man winked and looked the other way. Pretending he didn’t see into Chris’s dirty mind as he fantasized about the beautiful woman in front of him.

  “Water would be great. Thank you!” he
barely choked out, tugging at his collar. The sweat now dripping from his brows.

  Klara looked over at them all, seemingly not paying attention, but he thought he could see a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.

  It was nearing lunchtime when they reached the last few houses, including Ms. May’s. Chris had by now unbuttoned his shirt a bit, loosened his collar, and dabbed his hairline with a glove. Klara was impressed by his silent suffering. She couldn’t believe he was still hanging in there.

  “You might as well just take it off now anyway. I don’t know how you are even surviving in jeans! Do you want to skip the rest and leave?”

  Chris looked around, defeated. With one swift movement, he pulled his shirt off and over his head. Klara stopped walking and could have sworn that the heavens parted and shone down on him in that moment. Her jaw dropped as she took in his extremely fit physique.

  Why, oh why was he hiding that under there? And why, oh why is he doing this to me?

  There had to be something terrible about him. Something, anything. He was too good to be true. Maybe she should just ask him to take his pants off, too. She needed an excuse, a fault, something wrong with him so that she wouldn’t fall for him. Maybe he was hiding a pickle. A gherkin. Tiny, odd-shaped, leaning too far to the right. Not that it would matter. Much. Motion in the ocean and all. Right?

  “Earth to Klara.” He laughed. Loving every moment of watching her lose her focus. “I forgot what abs did to you. Tsk, tsk. Shame on me. I’m not sure I can save you from this situation. I’m not really sure I even want to.”

  “Yeah? So, what’s your secret? I’ll admit, I’m a bit shocked. I think you might be able to give Farmer John a run for his money.”