The Pool Boy_BWWM Romance Series Read online

  The Pool Boy

  BWWM Romance Series

  Jamila Jasper

  Jamila Jasper Romance

  Contents

  Complete Series

  1. The Pool Boy

  2. FREE SAMPLE: The Plumber

  Afterword

  More Jamila Jasper Romance

  Patreon

  Social Media

  Acknowledgments

  Complete Series

  The Pool Boy

  The Plumber

  The Gardener

  The Fireman

  The Builder

  1

  The Pool Boy

  At least I got the house in the divorce. I mean, it made sense. Quincy’s job paid less than mine did and I’d end up paying him alimony checks for the rest of our lives. Yes, that can happen to you ladies. While you’re all up to your eyeballs in “love”, don’t forget to watch your back. Men happen to be particularly good at pulling a fast one on you like that.

  At fifty, I was five years away from early retirement. I told you that I had a good job, didn’t I?

  All I had to do was maintain my house, maintain Quincy and coast.

  Managing a house like mine was an awful lot of stress. While I was happy to see Quincy leave, there were more than a few things I missed him doing around the house.

  I had to deal with creepy crawlies, taking out the trash, fixing my pipes and changing my own tires. I hated it, I really did.

  One afternoon over margaritas with the girls, I asked Tasha and Shontal what they thought.

  We sat around at Dave’s Bar & Grill with our margaritas and buffalo wings in the middle of the table.

  “Shontal, what the hell is that?” Tasha asked, already cackling.

  “What do they look like? It’s gloves.”

  “For what?”

  “For keeping my hands clean while I eat wings.”

  She sharp Alabama twang in her voice belied a rougher past. When you’re black, over 45 and successful, you most likely had a more humble past. That’s why I loved my girlfriends. They understood who I was and where I came from.

  “Take those damn things off…” Tasha mumbled, reaching for Shontals gloves.

  Shontal clawed her fingers like a cat and lunged for Tosha’s shirt.

  “Can you two behave?” I asked, my stern voice belying the smile on my face.

  They stopped and Tasha mumbled a polite but insincere apology. Shontal kept her gloves on.

  “So,” Shontal changed the subject, “How are things going with Quincy?”

  I snorted.

  “Terribly.”

  “We need details, Kishawn,” Tasha pressed.

  “Fine,” I sighed, “He promised me he would come to clean out the pool in time for summer, but he hasn’t been over.”

  “Quincy still does stuff for you? Around the house?”

  I rolled my eyes, “Do you know how much I pay his sorry ass in alimony?”

  My girls laughed. They’d been through the divorce with me and knew all too well how badly I had been screwed.

  “Well fuck Quincy,” Tasha said.

  Shontal glared at first in disapproval at Tasha cussing like that but then a smirk inched its way across her face.

  “You right,” she said, “She don’t need Quincy. Girl, there are people you can hire to do stuff for you.”

  “I know that,” I shrugged, “But I’m not some rich white lady who needs waiting on hand and foot.”

  Tasha kissed her teeth.

  “Kishawn, why you always gotta be like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Blocking your blessings.”

  “I do not block my blessings,” I protested.

  “Yes,” Shontal agreed, “You do.”

  “You don’t have to be white to outsource. That’s just stupid. You got money, now get a pool boy and get Quincy the hell out of your life.”

  I snorted, “I wish. I still owe him on the 1st.”

  Tasha held up her steak knife in a mock-threat.

  “You want me to cut him?” She teased.

  I laughed, “No thank you. That young gold digger he’s got on his arm will do all the damage.”

  Our table laughed again and we clinked glasses, refilling the chicken wings and the rosé. By the end of the night, I was tipsy and my girlfriends got me thinking.

  The last thing I wrote on my notepad before stumbling up to my King sized bed alone was this:

  CALL POOLBOY.

  In the morning I had the most delightful cocktail:

  A hangover & a 9 a.m. meeting.

  Joy. The only plus was that I was the boss so I could afford to stroll in late with a latté as big as my head.

  The meeting inched by. After I’d heard the employee pitches, I sent them off and beckoned my assistant, Gail, to my office.

  Gail was a pretty girl, a sorority girl like me, with hazelnut colored skin, giant brown eyes and a killer smile. She was also the only person in the office I would trust with something so personal.

  “Gail, do you have a minute?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Morris, what is it.”

  She’d slipped again. In our moment of awkward eye contact, she caught herself, but it was already too late.

  “Uh— sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” I brushed her off, “I want to ask you something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I need to hire someone to uh… work on my pool. Can you find somebody? Look on Google or something.”

  Gail grinned.

  “Finally getting Quincy to stop coming around?”

  “Yes,” I replied, shifting in my seat, “I need to find anyone who can do pools.”

  Gail nodded.

  “Someone cheap,” I added.

  “Ms. Morris, I may not have to look that far.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I got this guy I went to school with, he’s a high school dropout but he works for a landscaping and pool services company. He’s always looking for work.”

  “Does he do good work?”

  She shrugged.

  “Doesn’t matter. Hire him.”

  Gail obliged and I hired my first pool boy. Our appointment fell on a Saturday — the one day I knew Quincy wouldn’t even try to come by. He would be out all night impressing his new squeeze with my money at the nightclub.

  At 7 a.m I wandered downstairs to make coffee. A noise outside my glass sliding doors startled me. I gasped and nearly dropped my empty mug.

  A stranger moved across my backyard.

  Times like this were the only times I missed Quincy.

  I reached for my largest butcher knife and I stormed outside.

  “HEY! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  The man stopped in his tracks and stared at me, a big silly grin on his face.

  “Good morning. Are you Kishawn Morris?”

  “Who the hell wants to know?” I snapped, keeping my butcher knife brandished.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “I’m Tom Jackson. I’m here to work on your pool.”

  My mouth hung open and I stammered as heat rushed to my face.

  “I-I-I- You weren’t supposed to be here until noon!”

  He shrugged, “Yeah. Is it cool if I get started though?”

  “It’s far too early!” I retorted.

  “Listen, lady, I’m here to do your pool.”

  “You watch your tone young man?”

  “Or what?”

  I scowled as he eyed my butcher knife bemused. Embarrassed I allowed it to clatter to the ground. Ignoring the growing grin on his face grew more difficult.

  I sniffed, “You can get started I guess.
The sooner you’re off my property the better.”

  I turned around and walked away without waiting for a response. Back in the kitchen, I watched as he unpacked his tool bag and then, he took his shirt off.

  I gasped and set my coffee mug on the counter, rushing to my window to get a closer look.

  I couldn’t help myself! I’m a normal woman with needs and it didn’t hurt to look once in a while. Of course, Tom was far too young for me. If he was Gail’s age that made him 32 at the oldest.

  My heart raced as he bent down to reach for my garden hose. His abs flexed and glistened in the sunlight, his tanned skin glowing like a brick of amber from all his time in the sun. His sun-bleached hair was the color of wheat and freshly-reaped corn.

  He adjusted his jeans and for a split second, I imagined what was inside them.

  Pull yourself together, Kishawn, I thought to myself.

  Ain’t nothing cute about being too thirsty.

  He didn’t notice me ogling, so I cleared my throat and went back to my morning ritual: coffee and the New York Times crossword. I used to do the puzzle with Quincy.

  I came close to the end of the puzzle. The last clue was 40 across, “Bodak Yellow singer” and I didn’t know the answer.

  As I got up to return to the kitchen, I heard my sliding door open and boots clomping across my hardwood floors. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

  Was Tom wearing his boots in my house?!

  I rushed into the kitchen, my mouth agape.

  “Tom, what are you doing?”

  “Lookin’ for you.”

  “You tracked mud into the house,” I snapped, “I have a doorbell you know! How could you do this —“

  I continued berating him until he interrupted me.

  “What the heck is your problem?”

  “My problem? You’re arrogant with no respect for my time or my floors! Are you even working on my pool properly?”

  “That’s what I came to tell you,” he replied, “It’s done.”

  Heat rushed to my cheeks. He had finished the work in record time and here I stood yelling at him like an asshole.

  “I-I’m sorry.” I replied, clearing my throat, “Why don’t we take a look at it.”

  “You’re the boss,” he answered, holding open the kitchen door.

  He added, “Sorry about the mud. I’ll clean it up when I’m through.”

  I nodded and mumbled agreement under my breath before following him out front to the pool. I gasped when I saw our 8ft deep pool sparkling in the early morning sun.

  He hadn’t only removed the leaves and critters, but he removed moss from the grout that had been there since we bought the house.

  “It looks amazing!” I gasped, feeling foolish for how I may have compromised a business relationship with one of the best handymen I had ever met.

  He folded his arms, his biceps swollen like balloons about to burst.

  “I had a feeling you’d like it.”

  I snapped out of my enchantment at my pristine new pool.

  “Now you’re done, feel free to put a shirt on.”

  He chuckled, “What? Don’t like what you see?”

  I glowered.

  “Let’s keep this professional.”

  He chuckled.

  “I joke, I joke. I’m not ready to get outta here yet. You hired me to clean your pool and it’s still empty.”

  “Oh, I’ll get Quincy to do that.”

  His face fell.

  “That your husband?”

  I shook my head, embarrassed again.

  “No, my ex.”

  He snorted.

  “You’d prefer that your ex come by and do this when I’m right here and ready to work?”

  He spread his arms in disbelief, and to let me know just how ready he was to keep going. He was so tall that when he spread his arms, he cast a shadow over my lawn and blocked out the sun.

  I stared up at him, standing in his shadow and desperate to ignore the sweat glistening as it dropped down his rock hard abs, his powerful bearlike arms and his cornflower blue eyes that glimmered in the early morning light.

  I was desperate to appear noncommittal.

  “Fine,” I replied, “Fill the pool. The chlorine is in the shed. But I won’t be paying you extra.”

  He chuckled.

  “Fine by me. A beautiful woman like you deserves a beautiful pool.”

  I glanced away from him, suddenly feeling shy. Beautiful? Me?

  Kishawn Morris might have been cute at one point, she might have even been considered a dime piece. Once I hit my fortieth birthday, that was around the last time I had ever heard the word “beautiful” to describe me.

  “I already told you I’m not paying more,” I retorted, “Compliments won’t help.”

  He grinned and proceeded to return to work. I returned inside to splash cool water on my face and take a shower. From my bathroom window, I took another glance at Tom, my new pool boy.

  He started filling the pool and mixing all the chemicals in the frothy cerulean water. I pulled the curtain shut and stepped into the shower. As I stepped beneath the hot water, I allowed my mind to wander.

  If it had been Quincy here, hiring some hot young thing to pick up after him, he would have flirted. Quincy always flirted. Here I was with an Adonis of a man cleaning out my pool and working for free, but I could barely bring myself to be kind to him.

  If I were a man… I wouldn’t think twice.

  I immersed myself in a fantasy of how far I could allow this to go. Maybe I would try flirting with him and see what happened. He called me beautiful, I thought. Remembering his words, I felt foolish.

  He was only being polite, I told myself, don’t read into it.

  I changed into a dress after my shower. I never wore dresses, but today it felt right.

  The floral sundress hugged my curves and slid between my buttcheeks as I walked down the stairs. I had booty for days in that dress and the fabric hugged my hips at just the right point to slim down three decades of good eating.

  I sauntered over to the kitchen, glancing over my shoulder out the glass to see Tom working away. The pool was ¾ full.

  I puttered around the kitchen making work for myself. Yes, my La Creuset pots need organizing. Of course, it’s time to clean out old spices from the pantry. I even got into my oven, cleaning it out nice and slow.

  Tom knocked on the glass this time when he was finished.

  “Come to take a look!” He called.

  I shimmied out of my cleaning gloves and followed him.

  “Nice dress,” he commented as I pulled the door open.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, grateful that my chestnut skin would make the color rushing to my face less obvious.

  Chlorine singed my nostrils before I reached the pool. Ah. I loved that fresh scent of summer. That smell took me back to my sorority days, back to the late 1980s when I had my box braids and tie-dyed shirts at Spelman.

  The pool was immaculate. Tom exhaled, his abs flexing in the sun.

  “What do you think?” He asked.

  “Amazing!” I nearly squealed, “It looks amazing!”

  “Ready for a dip, right?”

  He laughed and I did too.

  “This looks great. I didn’t even know it could get this clean.”

  “Yeah, now it looks inviting.”

  He’d done a good job and a pang of guilt surged through me. He had done a good job but I hadn’t been the kindest to him.

  I made an impulsive decision.

  “Would you like a glass of lemonade to cool down?” I offered, flashing Tom a wide smile.

  Tom’s eyebrows raised.

  “Are ya sure? Kinda worried you might clobber me in there.”