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Ugh. And now I just spent the past five minutes thinking about his eyes.
Scraping my spoon through the tub of ice cream, I zone back in on what Mom’s saying about coordinating duties with the groundskeeper and cook.
I’m not here to ogle the rich kids. I’m just here to work.
3
The worst thing about this new job is the fucking uniforms we have to wear.
I swear to God, they’re just this side of being sexy French maid Halloween costumes. What is this, the nineteen-fifties? It’s like they don’t think we’ll be able to remember our job descriptions if we’re not wearing the black dress and white apron that signify us unmistakably as “the help”.
Then again, maybe I should be grateful we have to wear them, since it helps delineate when we’re on and off the clock. I feel more human when I slip on my street clothes again at the end of the day—more myself. I guess if the uniform is good for anything, it’s reminding me that being a housekeeper, working for these filthy rich people, is just what I do.
It’s not who I am.
These are the things I tell myself as I scrub the grout between the tiles on the pool house floor anyway.
We’ve been at the house for three days, and I’ll be starting school in another three. That’ll mean I won’t be around to help my mom as much, so I’m trying to do whatever I can before then to make things easier on her.
Hence, the tiles and the scrub brush.
The pool house is gorgeous though, which helps the chore feel a little less torturous. A long pool runs through the middle of it, with expensive, padded lounge chairs gathered at one end. There’s a skylight over the pool, and one entire wall is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a view of the manicured backyard. And even though I’m in here to work, not swim, the sound of the water lapping gently at the side of the pool is soothing, and the slight humidity in the air feels good.
I pick up my bucket, rags, and scrub brush and am about to move to a new section of the floor when the door to the pool house opens behind me. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Mom coming in to ask for my help with something in the main house.
But, no.
It’s Lincoln. And three other boys.
They’re all wearing board shorts that sit low on their hips, revealing cut abs and muscled chests. They each have broad shoulders and thick biceps and forearms, and even the shortest of them is at least six inches taller than me.
Of course the hot asshole would have three hot friends. They always seem to move
in packs.
Lincoln pauses for the barest second when he sees me, then his gaze slides right over me like I’m not even here. He sinks down onto one of the lounge chairs, leaning against the reclined back, and his buddies do the same.
Goddammit. Did he know I was in here? They didn’t come out here just to watch me work, did they?
That would be rude as fuck and would also make no sense. There couldn’t possibly be anything less interesting than scrubbing tiles—except maybe watching someone else do it.
Anyway, it doesn’t even matter. I need to finish this up before moving on to the next project on Mom’s task list. If I walk away thinking I’ll come back later, Mr. Black could come in here and see it half-done, and I don’t want him to think we’re slacking on our first week.
So I just ignore the guys and get back to work, dragging my bucket to a new section of the floor and kneeling on the cool tiles to scrub. I keep my back to them as much as I can, but it’s not always possible. And besides, curiosity goads me into stealing a few peeks at Lincoln’s friends—just to see if I can get a read on them too.
Two of them are definitely brothers. Twins, probably. They look eerily similar in the way identical twins do, although I can tell them apart. They both have coppery hair, but one’s leans more toward blond and the other’s more toward brown. I think their eyes are different colors too, but I can’t quite tell without openly staring, and I’m sure as fuck not gonna do that. The darker haired one is bigger, broader in the chest and shoulders, and seems a little more serious than his brother, although they both laugh boisterously and often.
The fourth guy is quieter, more deliberate. He has ash-brown hair that’s shorter on the sides and longer on top, held up by a little bit of gel. His jaw is square, and he’s got a straight nose and a broad forehead. I don’t know what color his eyes are either, but they’re light. Gray, maybe?
I want to look closer, to know more, but eventually, I stop peeking altogether, because every time I look up, one of them catches me staring.
For fuck’s sake.
I finish with the new section I was working on and move to the next, working my way down the length of the pool. The boys are talking in low murmurs, and as I get closer, I pick up more of their words.
“What, her chest? Eh, I’ve seen better.”
The dark-copper haired guy lifts his volume a little higher as he says it, and it suddenly dawns on me what they’ve been muttering about this whole time.
