The Help: A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance (Kings of Linwood Academy Book 1) Read online

  The Help

  Kings of Linwood Academy #1

  Callie Rose

  Copyright © 2019 by Callie Rose

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or had, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Backmatter

  Thank You For Reading

  1

  Our squat two-bedroom house looks even uglier now that it’s empty.

  When my shoes sat by the door and Mom’s cheesy art prints decorated the walls and our stuff was spread around the low-ceilinged space, it was easier to pretend it wasn’t a shithole.

  Now?

  There’s nothing to hide the peeling paint and the cracks in the plaster, the warped floors or the faintly mildewy smell that I guess has always been here. The outdated appliances sit like homages to the eighties in the dingy, worn kitchen. And strangely, the house looks smaller without all our stuff in it, almost claustrophobically tight. Thank God we’re done packing up the truck, because I don’t really want to step foot inside this place again.

  My mom wraps an arm around my shoulder as we stand on the front stoop peering into the empty space.

  “Well, that’s it, kiddo. End of an era.”

  She sounds wistful and nostalgic already, and I know in her head, she’s already carefully erasing all the bad shit that happened while we lived here, polishing up only the happy memories and placing them front and center. By the time we get to Connecticut, this old house in Arizona will have reached an almost mythical status in her head—only the good remembered, the bad buried as if it never happened.

  I don’t bother pointing out that the past decade is an era we should both be happy to see end. She knows it.

  She just doesn’t like to dwell on that stuff.

  And I know planning and organizing the move has been stressful enough for her, so I just hug her back and rest my head on her shoulder. She’s a few inches taller than I am, and now that I’m seventeen, I’ve pretty much given up hope that I’m ever going to catch up to her in height.

  “Yep. End of an era.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Harlow?” She glances down at me, concern shining in her toffee-brown eyes. “I know it was sudden. And I hate to take you away from all your friends here—”

  “Mom, it’s okay. I’m okay,” I say firmly, interrupting her before she lets her guilt snowball. She shouldn’t feel guilty for this at all. If anything, I’m the one who ruined her life. “This is an amazing job offer. You have to take it.”

  She squeezes my shoulder tighter, and I feel her shrug. “Well, it’s not that amazing. It’s just housekeeping—”

  “Yeah, but for a family that’s so fucking rich they can afford to pay you almost six figures a year to be their Executive Housekeeper or whatever.”

  She pokes me in the side with her free hand as she laughs. “That’s Ms. Executive Housekeeper to you.”

  I squirm out of her grasp then turn to face her, leveling her with my most serious stare. She was nineteen when she had me, so people often mistake her for my older sister. I look a lot like her—same straight nose, heart-shaped face, and dark chocolate hair—but I must’ve gotten my green eyes from my dad.

  “Mom, this is a good thing. It’s worth moving for. I’ll miss Bayard, but I’m sure this Fox Hill place will be cool too.”

  Actually, I looked it up online, and “cool” isn’t exactly the right word to describe it. “Painfully rich” or “extremely ostentatious” are probably better descriptors. It looks like an East Coast, yuppy waterfront town, and I’m not sure how the fuck I’m ever going to fit in there. Bayard might be kind of a shithole, just like our house, but at least it’s familiar. I know where I fit in here, and I don’t have to put on airs or try to please anybody but myself.

  But I’d rather shove hot needles under my fingernails than say any of that to my mom. She’s already agonized over this decision enough.

  “I think it will be.” She beams at me, her optimism breaking to the surface again like it always does. “You want the Nissan or the moving truck?”

  “Ugh. Nissan, please.” The truck isn’t even that big, but I still cringe at the idea of trying to navigate my way through traffic in that thing.

  “Deal.” She fishes her keys out of her pocket, closes and locks the front door of the house, and then hands the key ring to me. “You know where we’re stopping, right? In case we get separated.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yup, I know, Mom. And I’ve got GPS on my phone. I’ll be fine.”

  We’re heading down the walk toward the beat-up Nissan Versa and the moving truck parked by the curb when the door to the house across the street opens. Before I can get a word out, a tiny blonde figure barrels across the street and throws herself at me. I stagger back from the impact, wrapping my arms around Hunter in a hug as I chuckle sardonically.

  “Didn’t we say no more goodbyes?”

  “Yeah, we did.” She releases me just as quickly as she grabbed me. Hunter always moves like she’s over the legal limit of caffeine in her bloodstream. “But I lied, so there.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I huff another laugh as I see my mom give a small wave and hop into the truck. She knows I’ll be right behind her, and I think she wants to let me say goodbye to my best friend in private.

  I may be shorter than my mom, but I’m a fucking giant compared to Hunter. On the surface, the two of us shouldn’t even be friends at all. She’s four-foot-ten of exuberant energy, talkative and outgoing. I’m… not. But then again, maybe that’s why we’re friends. On the day her family moved in five years ago, she marched over and introduced herself, and we’ve been close ever since.

  She’s the only real reason I’m sad to leave Bayard behind. Everything else, I could pretty much take or leave.

  We watch my mom pull the truck away and head down the street, and I twirl the key ring around one finger. When the large U-Haul disappears around a corner, Hunter turns to face me.

  “So when do you start at your new richy-rich school?”

  I shrug. “I dunno. About a week, I think?”

  “I can’t believe she got you enrolled in some private school as part of her contract. These people must be richer than fucking God.”

&nbs
p; “Yeah, I think they are.” I scrunch up my nose. “But I’ll have to work for it too. I’m basically gonna be my mom’s assistant. I won’t work full-time because of classes, but it’s not like I’ll be lounging around eating bon-bons or anything.”

  We’re just making lame conversation at this point, delaying the inevitable. I only found out I was leaving two weeks ago, and everything has moved so fast since then it almost gives me whiplash. Hunter and I did our tearful goodbye early, the day I told her I was leaving. Every day since then, it’s started to seem a little more real, and now we both just feel resigned.

  “Oh, hey!” She perks up suddenly, digging into her back pocket. “I almost forgot. This is for you.” She grabs my hand and presses a worn poker chip into my palm, then folds my fingers around it. “For good luck.”

  Fuck. I thought I was done crying, but tears prick at the corners of my eyes as my fist closes around the chip. It just reminds me how well Hunter knows me, which reminds me how damn much I’m going to miss her.

  I don’t say anything, just wrap my arms around her in another hug, still clutching the poker chip in my hand. She hugs me back, and I hear her voice whisper from somewhere near my armpit, “Gonna miss the fuck out of you, Low.”

  “You too, Dummy.”

  She finally pulls away, pursing her lips and blinking hard. Then she punches me lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t fall in love with any rich boys. They’re trouble.”

  A grin tilts my lips, and it feels way better than crying. “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”

  “You never know. They’re sneaky.”

  I laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  If I don’t hurry up, Mom’s probably going to circle back around the block to make sure she didn’t lose me, so I head to the car. Hunter remains on the sidewalk, hands on her hips and eyes squinted against the Arizona sun.

  “And don’t accept rides from strangers!”

  “Thanks, Mother.”

  “Look both ways before crossing the street!”

  I climb into the car and roll down the passenger window, ducking my head to peer out at her. “Get it all out while you still can.”

  She grins at me, her pixie face lighting up. “Don’t eat yellow snow!”

  I’m laughing as I pull the rust-red Nissan away from the curb, and Hunter keeps shouting life advice at me as I roll away down the street. She really is such a dummy.

  God, I miss her already.

  It’s a thirty-eight hour drive from Bayard, Arizona to Fox Hill, Connecticut. We break the trip up into four extremely long, extremely boring days. I’ve listened to every song on my playlist several dozen times when we finally drive past a sign welcoming us to Connecticut, but the nerves don’t really kick in until we hit the Fox Hill city limits. It’s a smallish city—population 140,000, according to a road sign we pass—but big enough to have a real downtown and a little bit of sprawl.

  The houses range from huge to massive, and I almost rear-end the moving truck twice as I crane my neck to peer at the buildings we pass by. A lot of them are brick and covered in creeping ivy.

  “Holy fuck,” I mutter, even though there’s no one to hear me. This shit is bonkers, and I have a feeling the biggest, fanciest houses are tucked away from the road, so I haven’t even seen those ones.

  My suspicion turns out to be correct. A few miles later, Mom veers right onto a wide, gated driveway. After a short wait, the gate slides open, and I follow her through. Tall trees and a perfectly manicured lawn spread on either side of us, and the long driveway curves slightly before looping in a tight circle in front of a sweeping, two story house.

  There’s a huge garage attached to the west side of the house, but we just stop in the driveway. We need to unpack the truck, and I have no idea what the protocol is for where the housekeepers should park their car.

  Mom hops out of the truck ahead of me, stretching her back. I haul my stiff body out from behind the wheel too, and when I walk over to her, she grabs my hands, her eyes wide.

  “Holy crap!” she whispers.

  “Is this place for fucking real?” The truck is between us and the mansion, but I can still see it looming on the other side.

  “I know! I don’t know how I’m supposed to clean it if I’m afraid to touch anything.”

  “Well, I hope it won’t come to that,” a smooth, deep voice says, and we both jump.

  A man walks around the front of the U-Haul. He’s dressed in a suit that probably cost more than the Nissan, and his dark, almost black hair is trimmed short and carefully styled. Tiny streaks of silver rest at his temples, one of the only signs of age on him. He’s gotta be in his late forties or early fifties, but he’s lean and muscular, with broad shoulders and a trim waist.

  He sticks his hand out, and Mom composes herself quickly and shakes it, smoothing down her rumpled skirt with her other hand. It’s really not fucking fair to have to meet your new employer after ten hours in a moving truck, but she looks great.

  “You must be Samuel,” she says. “Penelope Thomas. And this is my daughter, Harlow.”

  He pumps her hand vigorously before turning his attention to me. I don’t think I survived the drive as un-rumpled as my mom did—my hair feels limp and gross, and I opted for comfort instead of style, so I’m just wearing a thin white t-shirt and a pair of jeans with holes in the knees. But Samuel Black doesn’t seem to mind any of that. He steps forward and takes my hand in both of his, a broad smile curving his lips.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Harlow. Welcome to Connecticut.”

  “Thanks.”

  He’s not squeezing my hand hard, but his grip still feels constricting somehow. I pull it back as soon as he releases it, hoping the movement wasn’t too obvious. He rests a hand on Mom’s shoulder as he guides her around the truck toward the house, and I trail along in their wake.

  “We’ll give you time to get settled in and unpack, but let me show you around and introduce you quickly.”

  He keeps talking as he leads us up the steps to the front door, asking Mom about the drive, the weather in Arizona, and how she likes the East Coast so far. I tune out their conversation as we step inside the house, blinking at the grand, high-ceilinged foyer. Arched doorways on all sides lead to other parts of the house, and a curved staircase on the right side of the room connects to the upper level. A balcony overlooks the entryway from the second floor, and it’s while I’m staring up at it that a body collides with mine.

  I yelp, my heart kickstarting in my chest. Strong arms wrap around me from behind, keeping us both from toppling over, and a warm, spicy scent hits my nostrils as the guy lets out a soft, surprised grunt.

  “Fuck,” he mutters.

  “Language, Lincoln.” Samuel and my mom both turn around at the commotion, and the older man cocks a disapproving eyebrow. The thick arms encasing me fall away as the guy steps back, and I scramble to compose myself, smoothing down my hair as I turn to look at who plowed into me.

  Oh, damn.

  This is Samuel Black’s son, I’m sure of that.

  He’s got the same almost-black hair as his father, although it’s longer and a little more wild. His eyes are an amber honey color, a vivid contrast to his dark hair, and he’s got a long, straight nose, high cheekbones, and angular features. They’re incredibly symmetrical, so much so that he almost doesn’t seem human. More like he came out of some “hot rich boy” mold or something.

  His father’s got the look of someone who was stunningly handsome in his youth and is aging well. But this guy? He probably hasn’t even hit the peak of his good looks yet.

  And I can see why he ran into me. I stopped to gawk right in front of a doorway that leads to what looks like a den or something.

  “Lincoln, this is our new Executive Housekeeper, Penelope Thomas, and her daughter, Harlow. She’ll be going to school with you.”

  Samuel beams as he makes the introduction, ushering my mom forward with a hand at her lower back. She smiles and ste
ps up to shake Lincoln’s hand, but in the two seconds it takes her to reach him, I see something change in his eyes. His gaze was curious and vaguely neutral when he looked at me before, but now his brows draw together slightly, and the warm amber of his eyes hardens like glass. His jaw twitches too, like he’s clenching his teeth, and when he shakes my mom’s hand, the movement is stiff.

  His dad turns to me expectantly.

  Fuck.

  The last thing I want to do is shake this boy’s hand. For one thing, given his sudden change in attitude, I’m afraid he might bite it off. And for another, his spicy, coriander scent is still clinging to me from when we collided earlier, and I don’t think I can handle another hit of it so soon.

  Not because I don’t like it, but because I really, really do.

  But he’s the son of my mom’s new employer, and both she and Samuel are watching me now. I can’t just cross my arms over my chest and refuse.

  So I swallow heavily and step forward, holding out my hand. He takes it in one of his, and unlike his father’s handshake, his grip is strong, almost bruising.

  Like he’s trying to see if I’ll break.

  I squeeze back a little harder myself, forcing a smile to my face. “Nice to meet you, Lincoln.”

  He nods, his eyes narrowing slightly as he keeps his hold on my hand. “You’re the new help?”

  Samuel lets out a quiet, disapproving noise behind me, but his son ignores him.

  “Executive Housekeeper,” I correct, bristling at the term.