The Pool Boy Read online

  The Pool Boy

  Penny Wylder

  Contents

  Copyright

  Also by Penny Wylder

  1. Vera

  2. Vera

  3. James

  4. Vera

  5. Vera

  6. James

  7. Vera

  8. Vera

  9. James

  10. Vera

  11. Vera

  12. James

  13. Vera

  14. Vera

  15. James

  16. Vera

  17. Vera

  Epilogue

  Excerpt of HER DIRTY PROFESSOR

  THE VIRGIN INTERN

  PENNY WYLDER

  Copyright © 2016 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  Also by Penny Wylder

  Filthy Boss (A Dirty Office Romance)

  Her Dad’s Friend (A Romance Novella)

  Rockstars F#*k Harder

  The Virgin Intern

  Her Dirty Professor

  1

  Vera

  I read the email again for the third time, the disappointment sinking into my chest and sticking like glue.

  Dear Ms. Caldwell,

  Thank you very much for giving us the chance to consider you. We have reviewed your application and the supplemental materials you sent, but we are sorry to say that we are not able to offer you a position at this time.

  Please feel free to continue checking our website so that you may apply again if another position becomes available.

  Best,

  The Essex Foundation Recruiting Team

  P.S. We very much enjoyed meeting with you this past week. Please give our best to your father.

  I don’t understand what’s happening here. I walked out of that interview feeling amazing. I connected with my interviewers, and they seemed genuinely interested in me. They also seemed really intrigued by my insistence on working in low-income areas. Plus, I rocked the test they gave me—hypothetical plans for a neighborhood square. What could have possibly gone wrong?

  I guess it doesn’t really matter why. Once someone turns you down, that’s it. I sigh, grabbing a pen and crossing off The Essex Foundation from my list of applications. That’s my twenty third rejection in the last three months. It’s only the fourth time I even got an interview. I try not to take it personally anymore, but it feels personal.

  I glance down at my list of outstanding applications. It’s getting thin now. I’ll have to take some time tonight to send some more out because I’m running out of time.

  Wandering down to the kitchen, I grab a sleeve of Oreos from the secret stash that our chef Gregory keeps for me. It’s definitely cookie time. I get a glass of milk and a fork and dig in, pushing the fork through the cream and dunking. I watch little air bubble pop up as the cookie absorbs the milk. Whoever thought of this combination should be added to the list of saints.

  I’m halfway through the sleeve when my mother comes into the kitchen. “Uh-oh,” she says, “I know that face and I know that snack.” My mother pretends to understand my obsession with Oreos, though she doesn’t. To her, processed food is the devil and all evil springs from it. But she tries not to judge too much. I shove another cookie in my mouth.

  “Another rejection?” she asks.

  “The Essex Foundation.”

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I know you wanted that one.”

  I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge whether she’s being sincere. Neither of my parents agrees with my professed choice of career, but just like the Oreos, my mom tries to give me as much support as she can. From the look on her face, she’s actually a bit sad for me. That’s nice.

  She pours herself a glass of water and perches on a bar stool across from me. “What happened?”

  The last thing I want to do is rehash everything I’ve been thinking about for the last hour, but I know better than to not answer. She’ll just continue to ask me pointed questions until I do. I shake my head. “I honestly don’t know. That was the interview I felt best about. The interviewers and I really had a great conversation, and I thought we connected. I was really confident about the sample materials I sent in. I just…I don’t know.”

  “Well,” my father’s voice cuts across the kitchen, “If they didn’t hire you, it’s obviously not the right place for you. Time to move on.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. My father is Timothy Caldwell. Yes, that Timothy Caldwell. Architect to the stars, builder of half the celebrity homes and high rises in L.A., and number one on the list of people who disapprove of my life choices. “I am moving on, Dad,” I say, “I thought maybe I’d just take an hour to regroup.” I dunk another Oreo a little too forcefully, causing some milk to spill onto the counter.

  Dad comes into the kitchen and stands in front of my mother, who helps him fix his tie automatically. This has been one of their routines for as long as I can remember. Whenever my father goes out to meet a client, my mother gets the final polish. “How much longer?” he asks.

  My stomach drops. I know exactly what he’s talking about and I don’t even want to think about it because it makes me nauseous. “A week.”

  We made a bargain. Well, I say we made it, but it was basically my father dictating the terms. He said he’d give me till the end of the summer—the actual calendar day at the end of the summer—to find a job on my own, doing whatever I wanted. If it didn’t happen, he’d draft me into service at his company. I think the phrase he used was, ‘you’ll come work for me,’ but being drafted is probably more accurate.

  Now, I’ve got only one week left until the deadline, and then I get swept against my will into the high-end world of luxury real estate. That is nowhere near where I want to be. I’m grateful for the money that I’ve grown up with, but I have no interest in building a millionaire’s fourth home. I’ve been given a lot, and I would much rather try to pass what I can on to people that need it instead of serving the people who can afford more than enough.

  “Thank goodness for that,” my father says, opening the fridge and grabbing a bottle of his favorite green tea to go with him. “I’d much rather have you learning the ropes with me. I didn’t build an empire just to leave it to no one.”

  I sigh pointedly. “Dad, your empire is very impressive,” I say dutifully, “but building the fourth house of some pop star is the furthest thing from what I want.”

  “Vera, you’re twenty-two,” he says, his face darkening. “You don’t know what you want. And since you don’t have a job or a house or money of your own, I would think you’d be grateful that I paid for the entirety of your education and that I’m willing to give you a place at the company. Not all fathers would be willing to do that.”

  I glance over at my mother, and she nods encouragingly. I know she agrees with him, but she doesn’t want to pile any more stress onto me. I appreciate that at least, but the anger boiling up inside is too much not to let out. “You did pay for everything, and I’m very grateful for that. I’m thankful that you have allowed me to be debt free. But up till now you also let me choose. So why does everything I’ve worked for go out the window just three months after graduation?”

  He doesn’t even bat an eye at my words. Nothing ever riles my
father, which infuriates me even more. “Because I know this world better than you. You had your fun, and it’s good to have dreams. The things you talk about are very noble, Vera. But people don’t hire untested architects who only want to make houses for people who can’t pay. Maybe sometime down the road when you’ve got some experience in the real world you can try to change it. But right now, you’re going to work for me.”

  My eyes prick with angry tears. If he was just going to stop me from going after my dreams, why did he let me follow them this far? “I still have a week,” I say.

  “A week or a month, the end result is the same.” He picks up his briefcase and kisses my mother lightly before leaving. The kitchen is filled with an awkward silence now.

  I pour what’s left of my milk down the drain and put the cookies back in their cubby. My mother clears her throat, but I ignore her. She’s just going to defend him.

  She clears her throat again.

  “Yes?”

  She takes a small sip of her water. “He just wants what’s best for you.”

  “Really?” I laugh, but it gets cut off by the lump in my throat. “If he wants what’s best for me, then why hasn’t he bothered to consider what I think is best?”

  “Because you’re young,” she says, “and—”

  “Mom,” I interrupt, “I’m young, but I’m not stupid. It’s really time you and Dad stopped treating me otherwise. I’ll be in the garden.”

  I throw myself out the back door and onto the patio before she can say anything else to stop me, hating myself for acting childish but unable to take the higher road. I want to do something meaningful with my career, with my life, but most of the time it feels like I’m the only person who believes I’m capable. And what drives me craziest of all is my fear that maybe they’re right.

  2

  Vera

  I feel like a cloud of bad energy follows as I head toward the garden to try and get some zen. I try to fight the anger building in my chest, but it’s hard. How can my father, a self-made man himself, be so brazenly against me striking out on my own? He has all the power right now, too, since I’ve been miserably unsuccessful at finding a job so far. That thought sends another pang through my chest, and more than a little panic.

  The grounds of our house are huge for L.A., but I’ve managed to claim a little corner as my own. It’s a little fenced in garden with a mix of roses and wildflowers, plus a few neatly-tended rows of spices and vegetables that I give to Gregory when I can. Working outside and helping things grow has always brought me a special kind of peace and calm. I’ve never been able to replicate the simple feeling of happiness I get when I’m out here—which means it’s exactly where I should be right now.

  Because I’ve been busy stressing about my interview, researching other potential employers, and prepping materials to send out to new design firms and foundations, I know my garden is going to be a mess. There will be weeds to pull and watering to do. It will be perfect.

  I retrieve my gloves and tools from our utility building and head over to my fence. I painted it a bright blue when I was in my teens and it’s faded now to something sunwashed, cracked and beautiful. I push past the gate and look around, analyzing where the most desperate work is needed…except there isn’t any.

  The garden is immaculate. There isn’t a weed in sight, and my flowers have been pruned. There’s fresh dirt around some of the plants and I can still see the damp places where they’ve been watered. The air huffs out of me like a blow to the stomach. The caretakers aren’t supposed to touch my garden. Whenever I’m home I make sure to tell them to let me do all the work. It’s less for them to do and stress relief for me.

  After the rejection and the argument with my dad, this feels like the last straw. I missed out on taking care of my garden by what may have been just a few minutes. The loss of the work and the feeling of betrayal from someone else tending my plants, everything releases the anger I’ve been holding in. I leave my garden and head further into the grounds. The caretaker is here somewhere and I’m going to make sure they know this was a mistake: no one touches my garden but me.

  Coming around one of the tall hedges that gives us privacy, I see the telltale blue polo of one of our caretakers. He’s watering the flowerbeds at the edge of a fountain, and I can’t see which of our staff it is since he’s facing away from me.

  “Hey!” I call out to him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s next to the fountain, so maybe he didn’t hear me. I jog over to him and tap him on the shoulder. “Hey. Are you the one who did work in the private garden?”

  He turns around, and all my irritation evaporates as the words that were forming leave my mouth. In fact, every thought flies out of my head except one: That is one fucking hot gardener.

  I have a hard time breathing, because I’m trying to take it all in and also make it look like I’m not staring. And not salivating. I’m not doing that, right? Tan skin, dark hair, dark eyes, and arms that are bursting out of that stupid polo the company makes them wear. If the rest of his body is like his arms…damn.

  “Private garden?” he asks, confusion written all over his face.

  Oh. Right. I’m supposed to be here to yell at him about the garden. “Yeah.” I say, trying to form words. “The garden that’s fenced off. No one on the staff is supposed to take care of it. It’s my garden—I do the work.” I’m finding it hard to be mad anymore, and to be honest I can’t fault what he did there. His work was flawless, and I wonder if his work in other areas is equally flawless. Wonder if he’s as good with his hands as he seems to be… I rein in my thoughts from the path they’re going down. What is wrong with me?

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know. I’m…new.”

  I nod, resigned to the fact that my anger is gone and that it was misplaced to begin with. This isn’t about my garden. It’s about my dad, my job, my entire life spinning out of my control. I force a smile. “It’s okay, and you did a good job. But you don’t need to do anything in there from now on. I like to do it.”

  He gives me a smile in return, and I feel my pulse kick up a few solid notches. “I’m sorry for the oversight, and I’ll remember that. The plants just really looked like they wanted some attention.” I could swear his eyes stray down my body for half an instant, but maybe I imagined it.

  “How bad was it?” I ask.

  “It honestly wasn’t too bad. A few weeds here and there, some deadfall to trim, but nothing terrible,” he says, his eyes warm. “First time back in a while? Maybe you were away on vacation, or…?”

  “I wish.” I run a hand through my hair in frustration. “I’ve actually been busy with these job interviews and stuff. It’s all I think about. And then today…” I gesture blindly toward the house, unable to put into words the conflict with my dad. Not to mention he’s a total stranger. I can’t believe I’m standing here confessing all of this. “Anyway, I was just hoping to blow off some steam,” I finish. “I’m Vera.” I hold out my hand, which he takes.

  A hot jolt runs through me. His grip is firm and his hands are rough and calloused. I can feel my cheeks heating. “I’m James London,” he says. “Nice to meet you.”

  I nod, reluctantly letting go of his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  I look back toward the house, and see someone at the patio doors. It’s been only a few minutes since I left, and I’m sure it’s my mother looking out to check on me. I imagine her seeing me talking to a caretaker and smile. There’s an opportunity here, and I’m not going to waste it. I look back at James. “Do you need any help?”

  His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “You want to help me?”

  “Well, I was going to work in my garden. But since I can’t…” I smile.

  “Right.” He laughs a little nervously. “Well, sure. I still need to water all of the flowers here, and add some new soil. I can go grab the bags if you keep watering.”

  “That I can do.” My mom will see me working with James, and I have no doubt she’
ll tell my dad. Being able to look at someone this hot and piss off my parents at the same time? This is a priceless opportunity.

  He hands me the hose, and I aim it at the flowers. I definitely, definitely watch him walk away and back toward the utility building. I wasn’t focused on his ass when I was about to yell at him, but now that I look…yeah. I didn’t think it was possible to be attracted to a guy’s ass. I guess this proves that theory wrong.

  When James comes back out of the building, he has two bags of soil on his shoulder. The shirt they gave him doesn’t fit him well, and it keeps riding up as he walks, affording me some priceless views of his tight abs. I’m about to call up that company and say thank you. The skin I see is tan and toned, and suddenly I realize that he’s looking at me looking at him, and I’m watering the ground and not the flowers.

  I look away, a flush of embarrassment rolling over my whole body.

  He sets down the bags by the flowerbed I’m watering and starts to add new soil around the existing and newly planted flowers. “So, Vera.” I think I hear a smile in his voice, but maybe he talks to everyone that way. “What kind of jobs are you applying to?”

  “Architecture.”

  “Following in your dad’s footsteps?” It’s so unexpected that I look over at him. He says, “I know who your father is.”

  “Yeah…” I clear my throat. “His line of work isn’t exactly what I’m interested in.” I move on to the next flowerbed.

  “What are you interested in?”

  Part of me doesn’t want to tell him, afraid that he’ll judge me just as harshly as my friends and family. But I dismiss my hesitation—he’s just trying to make conversation. “Ultimately I’d like my work to be humanitarian. Hopefully someday overseas. I probably won’t be able to do that right away, but I’d like to be part of a firm that’s at least interested in that.” I glance over at him, trying to read his reaction.