Kings of Linwood Academy - The Complete Box Set: A Dark High School Romance Series

over some ice cream tonight. What do you say?” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
Her mini apartment comes complete with a little galley kitchen. It really is it’s own self-contained space.
“Mm.” I grin. “Yes, please.”
I break down the last moving box and lay it on top of the others, stepping on them to squish them down further. She salutes me with two fingers and steps back into the hall, closing the door behind her.
Her meeting with Mr. Black lasts over an hour, and I’m tempted to leave my room to explore some more, but I don’t want to risk running into Lincoln. It fucking sucks that there’s a guy in this house who’s my age—a hot as hell guy, even—and he turned out to be a major asshole. Not that I was hoping to make a new best friend here or anything, but it’d be nice if I didn’t feel like my very existence was a personal affront to him.
So instead, I pass the time lounging on my bed texting Hunter. She’s on a date with her boyfriend of five months, Kevin, and I feel a little bad for totally distracting her. But I’m calling best friend privileges here.
I tell her all about the weird interactions I had with Lincoln and his mom, but somehow all that gets through to her is my offhanded comment that he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. By the time Mom gets back upstairs and comes to get me, I’m under strict instructions to snap a picture of the younger Black and send it to my bestie.
Yeah. Not happening, Dummy. Sorry.
I am a little tempted, I have to admit. Mostly because I’d like to be able to examine his features more thoroughly without him glaring at me—or knowing I’m looking at all, really. Like his eyes. They’re the most incredible shade of amber, so bright they almost have a golden hue. And set beneath his tousled dark hair, they seemed to stand out even more. His dad has light brown eyes, but nowhere near the same brilliance and clarity as Lincoln’s.
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