This Boy

by Jenna Scott

  Copyright © 2020 by Jenna Scott

  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.

  Paige Press

  Leander, TX 78641

  Ebook:

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-06-7

  Print:

  ISBN: 978-1-953520-07-4

  Contents

  Also by Jenna Scott

  Prologue

  1. Camilla

  2. Camilla

  3. Camilla

  4. Camilla

  5. Camilla

  6. Camilla

  7. Camilla

  8. Camilla

  9. Camilla

  10. Camilla

  11. Camilla

  12. Camilla

  13. Camilla

  14. Camilla

  15. Camilla

  16. Camilla

  17. Camilla

  18. Camilla

  19. Camilla

  20. Hunter

  21. Camilla

  22. Camilla

  23. Hunter

  24. Camilla

  25. Camilla

  26. Camilla

  27. Camilla

  28. Camilla

  29. Hunter

  30. Camilla

  31. Camilla

  32. Camilla

  33. Camilla

  34. Camilla

  35. Camilla

  36. Hunter

  37. Camilla

  38. Camilla

  39. Camilla

  40. Camilla

  41. Camilla

  42. Hunter

  43. Camilla

  Also by Jenna Scott

  About the Author

  Also by Jenna Scott

  This Boy

  This Hurt

  This Love

  Prologue

  As far back as I can remember, my life has been a series of moves. From Long Beach to Seattle to Medford, from Petaluma to Sacramento to Fresno. Up and down the West Coast, one cramped, tiny apartment after another. No place ever seemed permanent or solid enough for me to really put down roots or make true friends.

  I guess that’s why I ended up so obsessed with reading. Mom never lets me forget that when I was a toddler, I insisted on carting around my entire collection of Dr. Seuss books to each new city, begging her to read me one every night before bed (until I learned to read on my own when I was five). The characters and stories I soaked up formed a found family for me, giving me the stability I craved. Places and people I could always return to, no matter how many miles we put behind us.

  It seemed like every time I started to get comfortable in a place, my mom would be telling me it was time to pack up our stuff and go somewhere else. So when the days in La Jolla slowly added up to months, then a year, then four years, I thought that we’d found the place. That nothing would convince her to leave.

  Then, a few months ago, the Incident happened.

  Afterward, my public high school kicked me out halfway through my senior year, and with my plans to attend the college suddenly looking shaky, I started wishing my mom’s drunken antics would force us out of here as they’d done so many times before. It didn’t matter that I’d been on track to be valedictorian, or that—thanks to my Advanced Placement classes—my GPA was over a 4.0. Unless I graduated, no crap college would take me, let alone a great one like Stanford, my absolute dream institution of higher learning. The only place I could transfer to was Oak Academy, the ritzy private school where tuition would cover our rent for half a year.

  It seemed like a long shot, but my mom stepped up and made a few calls to OA anyway, then met with a few administrators. I still have no idea what she told them, but soon after that, I got a letter on fancy embossed Oak Academy stationery saying they’d reviewed my case and were willing to offer me admission thanks to my good grades and otherwise clean record. That if I wanted to finish my senior year with them, I could—and that they had need-based scholarships available for students just like me.

  Luckily, I was able to keep my job babysitting for the Becks, a family of real-estate magnates. Either Mr. Beck doesn’t know what happened at my school, or he doesn’t care. Or maybe he just kept me on because I’m great with his kid. Either way, it means my salary is safe, and I can keep socking away the majority of my paychecks into my secret college fund.

  My job is practically perfect in every way, a light to hold on to during these trying times, and Harrison is the sweetest kid a part-time nanny could hope for. I took to calling him Harry from day one since he looks like a six-year-old Harry Potter.

  But there’s one challenge at the Becks’ that I still haven’t triumphed over.

  Hunter Beck.

  He’s a senior like me, six-feet-and-change of blond, blue-eyed, homegrown SoCal hotness, and he’s got an actual six-pack—which I can’t help ogling every time he’s shirtless, which is far too often—to boot.

  The way Harry talks about his older brother, you’d think Hunter could walk on water. I know he doesn’t. Every week, it’s a different girl I catch doing the shimmy of shame through that big house, and every week, I have to find new ways to keep Harry from finding out what his brother is really doing to them. Sorry, Harry; it’s not tickling.

  Besides being a total manwhore, Hunter also happens to be exactly the kind of spoiled, arrogant asshole cliché that you’d expect an entitled rich boy to be. He has this way of watching me out of the corner of his eye whenever we’re in the same room together, yet he rarely deigns to speak to me. As if I’m so far below him, he can’t even muster up a simple hello every now and again.

  Obviously, there’s no point in pursuing anything with Hunter myself for about a million really good reasons, but even knowing full well how horrible and narcissistic he is, sometimes I still feel like he’s my kryptonite. Every time he walks by in his swim trunks, slung low over his hips and tight, tanned abs, his hair slicked back and damp from his nightly laps in the Becks’ pool, I have to practically wipe the drool off my chin.

  Like I said, it’s a challenge.

  And because the sandwich that’s my life isn’t covered in enough shit already, it just so happens that Hunter goes to my new school. I can only hope we won’t see each other in the halls, or God forbid, have actual classes together. That would be way too distracting for me, and I’m committed to maintaining my GPA.

  Because Hunter Beck might be pure fire, but I know better than to let myself get burned.

  Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Chapter One

  Camilla

  I wipe my hands on a dish towel and survey the Becks’ kitchen one last time, making sure I haven’t missed any stray popcorn kernels or cookie crumbs. The dishwasher has been emptied, the floor swept clean, and the granite on the island is basically a mirror. All that’s left is putting an adorable six-year-old to bed, and then I can finally go home.

  When I get to his room upstairs, I find him already in his pajamas. He’s focused on the latest Adventurers graphic novel, his lips moving as he reads and his signature cowlick sticking up on the back of his head. My heart melts a tiny bit.

  Harry still reads picture books most of the time, but I’ve been trying to get his reading level up a bit. The last time I was at the library, I checked out a few Adventurers for him, thinking he’d take a few weeks to get through the first one.

  Turns out I’d underestimated the kid. He’s been devouring volume after volume on the weekly ever since I introduced him to the world of one of my favorite series growing up. Watching him fall for those characters the same way I did makes me love the little guy even more.

 
A smile is on my lips when I ask, “Did you brush your teeth, bud?”

  “Yep.” He puts the book on the night table and slips under the covers. “I used my blue Batman mouthwash too.”

  “Wow, I’m impressed,” I say honestly.

  Kneeling by the bed, I tuck him into sheets that are so soft he must feel like he’s surrounded by cotton clouds. I can’t help envying him a little bit. The ones we have at home are worn so thin, I swear they’ve been around for five generations. My mom’s priorities have always leaned more toward her liquor cabinet than our linen closet.

  “All set?” I ask, reaching for the bedside lamp.

  “Wait!” Harrison looks under his pillow and around the room, the worry on his features intensifying every second. “Roo isn’t here,” he finally says and looks up at me in a way that guarantees I’ll come to the rescue. He knows all too well I can’t say no to that pout, just like I know he can’t sleep without that stuffed kangaroo.

  “I’ll get him,” I say, already halfway to the door. “Do you remember where you saw him last?”

  A frown crosses his face, and tentatively, he says, “Roo was watching me swim. And then you called me in for dinner, and I didn’t want to get him all wet, so…”

  “Say no more. I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks, Milla,” he says, clearly relieved.

  “You’re very welcome.”

  Downstairs, the living room is as dark as we left it after our Disney+ session. Using my cell phone as a flashlight, I carefully weave around leather couches and the big glass coffee table. The heavy drapes on the floor-to-ceiling windows are still drawn, but I slip between them and go out back through the French doors. My light reaches a few lounge chairs lined up facing the pool, a lagoon-style monstrosity that’s so big, I can’t even see the far end of it where a small waterfall pours over fake rock formations.

  I take a moment to look out over the city of La Jolla stretched out in the distance. Cozy golden lights twinkle from other hillside mansions, the shining expanse of the Pacific Ocean reflects the crescent moon above, and I catch the heady scent of night-blooming jasmine. But what would normally be a beautiful scene quickly turns all sorts of mortifying when I hear the telltale sound of splashing.

  I freeze in place, and that’s when a harsh gasp reaches my ears.

  Oh God, no.

  Other girls might worry some creep had broken into their boss’s home—babysitter home alone with a small kid is a textbook trope of horror. But other girls don’t work for Hunter Beck’s family.

  Unfortunately, I know for a fact that there’s no serial killer in that enormous pool because after three months of my mom working as the Becks’ housekeeper and me babysitting Harrison, I’ve already lost count of how many girls eighteen-year-old Hunter has brought home to hump and dump. There’s a new one every week.

  Then again, those are just the ones I see.

  In a panic, I duck behind the lounge chairs. Although it’s hard to see exactly what’s happening, the continued sound effects confirm what I already know.

  As my vision adjusts to the darkness, I can make out the moonlit figures in the water. The long, wet hair of a girl with her back pressed up against the side of the pool, facing Hunter with her arms locked around his neck. Him facing my way, his tan biceps taut and his lower arms underwater, hands probably wrapped tight around the girl’s hips or ass as she bobs up and down.

  While I’m worried at first that he can see me crouched here on the deck, the splashing and gasping keeps on going. Surely they would’ve stopped if they’d realized I was here.

  I consider making a run for it, going back upstairs, and telling Harry that I couldn’t find Roo. But the kid is stubborn, and he’ll want to come out here and look for himself. Meaning I won’t be the only one forced to witness Hunter’s sickening debauchery.

  Unacceptable. Harry is so sweet and precious. I won’t be the one responsible for shattering his world with the ugly truth about the shameless horndog of an older brother he idolizes.

  So, yeah, there’s no way I’m going back without the stuffed animal.

  Which means I have to turn on the floodlights to find this goddamn plushie.

  Which means I’m about to get a fully X-rated viewing of Hunter Beck’s latest live porn show.

  But the more I debate my options, the more a fresh emotion begins to spark in my chest, quickly burning everything else away. Anger. With a dash of dismay and a whole lot of protectiveness toward the kid waiting upstairs.

  Harry swims in that pool. Hunter knows that, and yet he’s still pounding away at some random girl in the same water his brother sometimes straight up swallows.

  When I finally get up and flip on the lights, there’s nothing but anger left in me.

  Any hope I had that they’d stop and be even remotely ashamed of themselves is dashed instantly. The girl looks over her shoulder, sees me by the French doors, and giggles. The splashing grows even more frantic, and she starts to moan. And when I stalk back toward the lounge chairs with the biggest scowl I can muster, Hunter’s eyes lock on mine, and I suddenly find myself going complete deer-in-the-headlights status.

  His gaze is intense, glazed over but still fully connected to mine. It’s impossible to look away. Common sense screams at me to run inside, but it’s as if he’s physically holding me in place. Like he wants me to watch him. Like he’s getting off on it.

  The staring contest continues, me still glaring, Hunter’s blue eyes burning with a combination of lust and what I’m guessing is self-satisfaction. He knows exactly what he’s doing, putting on a show with this girl, and how horribly uncomfortable this must be for me. A smirk plays at his lips. I think he’s actually about to say something to me when his expression changes, his eyes rolling slightly. He’s about to come, I realize with a flush of heat to my cheeks. Oh God, this can’t be happening.

  He pumps faster into the girl, driving her into the wall of the pool, bouncing her hard with his thrusts. I can’t believe I’m still standing here watching. He’s disgusting. But there’s something else going on inside me, something I don’t even fully understand. A tight feeling in my lower belly; heat radiates from it, and my pulse races hard.

  The girl starts moaning his name, sounding fake as hell, her voice pitching higher and higher. “Hunter, Hunter, Hunter,” she whimpers in that obnoxious baby voice. Give me a break. She probably picked that up watching internet porn.

  I guess it’s working though. With his eyes still on me, Hunter braces himself against the pool’s edge, groaning a little as he climaxes.

  The sound makes me shiver, and then he pulls away from the girl, and the spell on me is finally broken.

  Spotting Roo at the base of a palm tree on the other side of the pool, I bolt over, grabbing the stuffed animal and tucking it under my arm. Then I stalk back toward the house, my phone gripped tight in my hand, desperate to get away.

  In the pool Hunter says, “Looks like servant girl got a kick out of watching us.”

  If my mouth wasn’t so dry, and my job wasn’t on the line, I’d tell him to have some basic human decency and consider the fact that his little brother is right upstairs, probably within earshot. But I keep quiet. I need the money.

  Meanwhile, the girl giggles like Hunter just said the funniest thing ever.

  “This was probably very educational for her,” he goes on.

  My cheeks are burning, and I want to die.

  In some sick, twisted way, he’s kind of right. I’m not the most sexually experienced person in the world. But this isn’t the way I imagined getting educated.

  That’s not even the worst part of all of this, either.

  Because tomorrow, I’ll be starting school at the same private academy that Hunter goes to. The girl he just screwed will probably be there too. With my luck, the two of them will tell the entire senior class that new girl Camilla Hanson is a pervy voyeur, and I’ll have yet another fantastic high school experience being the resident loner who people
love to gossip about.

  I didn’t think things at my new school could start off so badly, but at this rate, I’m going to end up worse off than I was at my last school, where the Incident That Shall Not Be Named took place.

  “Should you pay her extra?” the girl asks. “Give servant girl a bonus?”

  “This was her bonus,” Hunter quips.

  The rage that was so strong a moment ago gives way to embarrassment again, only this time, it brought a friend: sheer humiliation.

  They think themselves so above me, like I’m dirt under their shoes, just because I work for the Becks. They’re not even ashamed I walked in on them. Yet I’m the one who feels like she’s about to sink into a hole of shame. Stopping with my hand on the handle of the French doors, I whirl around.

  “I’m not your servant girl,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

  Then I go inside, slamming the door behind me for effect. I know it’s childish, but it’s all I’ve got.

  I head up the stairs, trying to calm down with a few deep breaths before walking back into Harry’s room. He beams at me when he spots Roo in my hands, and I get him settled in again quickly, leaving his door open just a crack on my way out.

  My heart’s still beating madly, and before I realize it, my feet are taking me down the hall past Mrs. Beck’s office, which always reeks of floor polish and that plasticky smell of toner. The hallway light spills in just enough that I can see papers piled on every available surface. I have no idea what exactly goes into real estate development, but it seems to involve mountains of contracts and other legal documents. Paperwork which Mrs. Beck no longer keeps up with ever since she went from executive assistant to Instagram influencer, thanks to her marriage to Mr. Beck…her former boss. Not judging. Those are just the facts.