French Kissed

by Chanel Cleeton

  “But no one’s going to see them,” I would insist.

  “It doesn’t matter. You could be in a car accident and then what? Would you want people to see you in those?” (Cotton, black, perfect for fat days.)

  I wasn’t sure if the underwear rule applied to plane crashes. But if it did? I was about to die in the world’s ugliest pair of black cotton underwear.

  “Are you okay, dear?”

  I loosened my grip on the armrest, turning slightly to face the woman in the seat next to me. My head jerked.

  “It’s just a little bit of turbulence. Perfectly normal.” She looked to be about my grandmother’s age; unlike my grandmother’s smooth Southern drawl, though, her voice had a clipped British accent. “Is this your first flight?”

  I cleared the massive, boulder-sized knot of tension from my throat. “It’s been awhile.”

  “It can be scary at times. But we’re only about an hour away.”

  The plane hit another bump. I gripped the armrests, my knuckles turning nearly white.

  “What takes you to London?”

  “I’m starting college.”

  “How exciting! Where?”

  I loosened my grip on the armrest, struggling to focus on her questions rather than the plane plummeting from the sky. The irony of my fear of flying wasn’t lost on me.

  “The International School. It’s an American university in London.”

  According to the glossy brochure I’d conveniently received the day my dreaded thin-envelope rejection letter from Harvard arrived in our mailbox, the International School boasted a total of one thousand undergraduate students from all over the world.

  “Do you know anyone in London?”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m surprised your parents let you move over there by yourself. You can’t be more than what, eighteen?”

  “I’m nineteen.”

  I was a little surprised, too. My dad hadn’t been a big fan of the whole London idea. He could travel the world, heading to exotic locations. I just couldn’t go with him. I’d heard all the reasons before. He couldn’t be a fighter pilot and a single parent. It was too difficult for him to predict when he would be sent away on another mission. If my mom were still around— It hung between us, the rest of the words unspoken.

  I could fill in the blanks. If my mom were still around, we would be a family. But she wasn’t. When she left my dad, she took our family with her, dooming me to life in a small town in South Carolina, my dad’s elderly parents assuming the role of my legal guardians. I loved my grandparents and they tried the best they could.

  But it wasn’t the same.

  “You must be awfully brave to come to London by yourself. Especially at such a young age.”

  Brave? I wasn’t sure if it had been bravery or desperation spurring my sole act of teenage rebellion. But ever since I’d received that rejection letter in the mail, my thoughts had been less than rational.

  It was all I’d ever wanted—Harvard. It was the best. I’d imagined my dad beaming with pride at my high school graduation, the one he’d ended up missing anyway. Harvard had been my chance to change everything. It was the reason I didn’t date and skipped parties in favor of doing SAT prep on Friday nights, the motivation behind me joining every student organization known to man. In the end, none of it was enough.

  She nudged me. “We’re nearly there.”

  I turned toward the window, peering through the glass. Fog filled the sky, the air thick and heavy with it. I pulled back, disappointed.

  “It’s hard to see anything.”

  “Just wait for it. Keep looking.”

  I turned back to the window, my eyes trained downward, waiting for the exact moment when—

  Lights. Scattered throughout the fog were lights. Hundreds, thousands of lights. Like a Christmas tree. Beneath us was a carpet of lights.

  “Welcome to London.”

  ###

  I peered out the taxi window, watching as the city passed me by.

  The ride from the airport took a little under an hour. As we drove, we crossed into more urban areas where the landscape of little houses disappeared, replaced by large blocks of multistory apartment buildings and small shops on street corners. Little by little the traffic increased, the driver laying on the horn several times and shouting out the window. BBC Radio blared through the car speakers. The announcers spoke of things like “cricket” and I felt the weight of being in a foreign land. At least I understood the language—for the most part.

  The sidewalks were filled with people, their strides long and confident. Everyone looked as if they were in a hurry, as though wherever they were going was the most important place in the world. And it was noisy. Even over the radio, I heard the sounds of the city, so different from anything I’d ever experienced.

  When the cab passed by the infamous Hyde Park and then Kensington Palace, only to turn onto what the cab driver referred to as Embassy Row, the reality of my new life began to sink in. We passed rows of expensive buildings—mansions, really. Some had guards stationed out front and flew flags of various countries, no doubt how Embassy Row got its name. Others were private residences, each one large and imposing. The taxi pulled through a set of enormous gates, traveling down a long gravel driveway. The driver let out a low whistle.

  I stared out the window, barely resisting the urge to panic.

  The school was huge. The grounds were perfectly manicured; large trees dotted the landscape. Security buzzed around as students gathered in small groups, greeting each other and joking around. Ridiculously expensive cars, the like of which I had only seen in movies, passed by.

  Thank god for my scholarship.

  I stepped out of the cab on shaky legs, offering a quick smile for the driver before sliding three crisp twenty-pound notes into his hands. I rolled my two black bags up the drive, ignoring the group of boys lounging in front of the school’s wooden doors.

  “Yo, Samir, check out the new girl.”

  I turned. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist. I came face-to-face with a short boy dressed in a Gucci baseball cap, dark jeans, and a sweater. He flashed me a cocky smile.

  “American. Not my type,” an accented voice, smooth and rich, called out behind me.

  I stiffened, turning to face the speaker. And froze. For one spectacularly awkward moment, all rational thought fled my brain, save one—

  They didn’t make boys like this in South Carolina.

  A boy stared back at me, lounging against the railing leading up to the school steps like he owned the place. He was average height and lean, dressed casually in jeans and a black sweater. His hair was an inky black, curling at the ends, his skin a deep tan the likes of which I’d never seen before. His eyes were a rich chocolate color, his lashes full and thick—a girl’s dream. His lips were lush, his mouth curved in an ironic tilt.

  I couldn’t tear my gaze away.

  He was hot, but more than that, he carried himself differently than anyone I’d ever met. He looked comfortable in his skin, in a way I couldn’t help but envy.

  The boy—Samir, I guessed—flicked a cigarette butt onto the ground, a fancy black loafer rubbing it into the concrete. His gaze did a once-over, starting at my long brown hair, drifting down my body, lingering on my boobs—my eyes narrowed—before coming back to rest on my face. There was something appraising in his gaze— a flicker of interest— followed by a smile that had my heartbeat ratcheting up a notch.

  For a moment he just stared, his expression taunting me, his eyes searching.

  Something sparked in the air between us. Something electric that sent a thrill running through my body.

  All it had taken was one look. This one was pure lust and desire—sex on a stick, as my friend Jo would say.

  He flashed me another cocky smile. That smile was lethal. “Sorry.”

  He looked anything but.

  I wanted to say something clever, wanted to say something. But like always, words fa
iled me. I’d never been good with guys—in high school I was prone to what I not so lovingly referred to as deer-in-the-headlights syndrome. If a guy I liked showed any interest in me, I would freeze, standing there awkwardly, all clever thought evaporated. It was a spectacularly effective way to ensure I never had a boyfriend.

  I wasn’t shy—I could talk to adults, other girls, no problem. I was even okay with guys. But guys I liked?

  Epic fail.

  I stood there, pinned by the weight of his hot gaze and all that swagger. I literally could not push the words out of my mouth. I looked away, painfully aware of how flushed I must be. Get me out of here, now.

  His laughter, warm and smooth, filled the space behind me.

  I walked into the school on shaky legs, cursing my rocky start. But as soon as I stepped into the entryway, nerves gave way to awe. The building was incredible. The walls and ceiling were wooden, symbols and characters carved in patterns on the ceiling. The floor was some sort of stone.

  A woman at the front desk greeted me with a smile. “Welcome to the International School. We’re so glad to have you joining our family. Name, please.”

  Her accent was difficult to place, not the traditional British accent I expected but something foreign and lyrical.

  “Maggie Carpenter.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maggie. I’m Mrs. Fox. I’m in charge of Residence Life. My staff and I will be responsible for your dorm room and for getting you settled into your new home here.” She thumbed through a stack of blue folders before pulling one out of the pile. “Here you go. The dorm rooms are split up by gender. Boys are in the east wing. Girls are in the west wing. The rooms are large enough to sleep three. You’ll find the code to get into your room in this folder along with your schedule. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to come to my office. It’s on the map.”

  I took the folder from Mrs. Fox’s hands, struggling to keep the instructions straight through the haze of jet lag. I headed toward the stairs, moving through the crowd of students. At the end of the hallway, I stared up at the narrow staircase in front of me.

  “Need some help?”

  A cute, tall blond boy with a British accent smiled at me. He wore a blue polo shirt with the words Residence Life stitched on the front.

  I hesitated. “No thanks. I can manage on my own.”

  “Are you sure? Trust me, these steps are pretty intense.” He peered over at the sheet of paper in my hand. “And you’re on the third floor? That’s actually four floors up.”

  “Huh?”

  “Four floors. Not three. In London the main floor is considered the ground floor and the next floor up is the first floor. It’s different from how you do things in America.” He grinned. “Your accent sort of gave it away,” he offered by way of explanation. He reached out, grabbing the handles of my bags. “Come on. I’ll help you get to your room. I’m George.”

  I followed him up the stairs. “Thanks. I’m Maggie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Maggie. Where are you from?”

  “South Carolina.”

  His brow wrinkled for a moment. “Is that near New York? I’ve been there.”

  I grinned. “Unfortunately it’s light years away from New York. It’s in the Southern part of the U.S. There’s not exactly a lot to do there.”

  “I’m from Cornwall. Trust me, I get that.”

  I followed George up another flight of stairs, struggling to keep up with him. I couldn’t stop gawking at my surroundings. I’d seen some pictures of the school online, but I’d figured those were the best shots. I hadn’t expected it to actually live up to the advertising. The place looked like a museum.

  “So who are your roommates?”

  I stared down at the piece of paper clutched in my hand, stumbling over the names. Apparently the school wasn’t joking when they advertised a diverse student body. “Umm, Noora Bader and Fleur Marceaux.”

  George turned around, a strange expression on his face. His voice sounded like a strangled laugh. “Did you say Fleur Marceaux?”

  I nodded.

  This time he did laugh, the sound filling the narrow stairway. “Good luck with that one.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s such a strange and wonderful feeling to have wrapped up my first series. I’ve loved getting to write about Maggie, Samir, Fleur, Max, Mya, and the rest of the International School crew. Thank you SO MUCH to all of the readers and bloggers who have enjoyed this series. You’ve all made one of my greatest dreams come true. I’ve loved hearing from you and am so grateful for all of your support for these books. Fleur’s story would never have happened without you!

  Thanks to my awesome agent, Kevan Lyon, and to Sarah Hansen at Okay Creations for giving Fleur a gorgeous cover, and to Danielle Poiesz at Double Vision Editorial for the lovely edits!

  HUGE thanks to Colette Ballard, Jennifer Blackwood, Brenda St. John Brown, Sabrina Elkins, and Amy Trueblood for wonderful (and at times hilarious) beta notes. Love you all! Big love to my NA ’14 ladies who make me laugh and keep me sane. I could not have asked for a better support network. Thanks, guys!

  To my family and friends: Thank you so much for all of your love and encouragement.

  And to my husband, who probably inspired Max’s character more than I realized, thanks for always being there for me. I could not have written a better hero. Love you, babe!

  BOOKS BY CHANEL CLEETON

  International School Series

  I See London (Harlequin HQN)

  London Falling (Harlequin HQN)

  French Kissed

  Capital Confessions Series

  (From Penguin/Intermix out 2015)

  Flirting with Scandal

  Playing with Trouble

  Falling for Danger

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Originally a Florida girl, CHANEL CLEETON moved to London where she received a bachelor’s degree from Richmond, The American International University in London and a master’s degree from the London School of Economics and Political Science. Chanel fell in love with London and planned to stay there forever, until fate intervened on a Caribbean cruise and an American fighter pilot with smooth dance moves swept her off her feet. Now, a happily ever after later, Chanel is living her next adventure in South Korea.

  Law school made Chanel realize she’d rather spend her days writing sexy stories than in a courtroom, and she hasn’t looked back since. An avid reader and hopeless romantic, she’s happiest curled up with a book. She has a weakness for handbags, her three pups, and her fighter pilot husband. Chanel writes New Adult contemporary romances and thrillers.