Read the book: «I See London»
Maggie Carpenter is ready for a change—and to leave her ordinary life in South Carolina behind. But when she accepts a scholarship to the International School in London, a university attended by the privileged offspring of diplomats and world leaders, Maggie might get more than she bargained for.
When Maggie meets Hugh, a twentysomething British guy, she finds herself living the life she has always wanted. Suddenly she’s riding around the city in a Ferrari, wearing borrowed designer clothes and going to the hottest clubs. The only problem? Another guy, the one she can’t seem to keep her hands off of.
Half French, half Lebanese and ridiculously wealthy, Samir Khouri has made it clear he doesn’t do relationships. He’s the opposite of everything Maggie thought she wanted…and he’s everything she can’t resist. Torn between her dream guy and the boy haunting her dreams, Maggie has to fight for her own happy ending. In a city like London, you never know where you stand, and everything can change in the blink of an eye.
This is a New Adult romance recommended for readers 17 and up.
I See London
Chanel Cleeton
www.miraink.co.uk
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
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
About the Author
Chapter 1
I couldn’t find my underwear.
Knickers, as the British called them.
It should have been easy; there wasn’t much to them. They were black, lacy…and shit, I was going to miss my flight home if I kept looking.
“Start by thinking of the last place you had them,” my grandmother would always tell me when I lost something. The bed seemed like the best place to start. Or had it been on top of the dresser? Or against the wall by the window?
I’d been a busy girl.
“You leaving?”
I stared down at the boy lying in bed. His voice was heavy with sleep, the sheets tangled around his naked body. The sight of all that skin sent a flash of heat through me.
I wasn’t ready to handle the morning after. Screw my underwear.
“Don’t worry about it.” I leaned down, pressing a swift kiss to his lips, barely resisting the urge to climb back into bed with him. “See you next year,” I whispered, grabbing my shoes and heading for the door.
I paused in the doorway, wondering how the hell I’d gone from spending my Friday nights studying to doing the walk of shame sans underwear.
I blamed the Harvard admissions committee.
Ten months earlier
I was going to die and I wasn’t even wearing my best underwear.
My Southern grandmother loved to tell me a girl should always look like a lady—even down to her “unmentionables,” as she liked to call them.
“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 failed 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.”
Chapter 2
George dropped my bags off at the front of a long hallway marked by a number of heavy doors.
“This is as far as I go.”
“Do you turn into a pumpkin past this point or something?”
He laughed. “No. But your roommate is number one on Residence Life’s hit list.”
Oh, god. “She can’t be that bad. Please tell me she’s not that bad.”
“Oh, she’s worse. We were in the same class last year. Trust me, I know.”
I never considered they would put me with someone older. “Worse, how?”
George grinned. “We call her the Ice Queen.”
I groaned.
“Apparently she used to model before coming to school. She was in a French rap video or something. Thinks she’s better than everyone else and isn’t afraid to let them know it.”
“Awesome. What about Noora?”
“I don’t know her. She must be a freshman.”
“Why don’t they put all the sophomores together?”
“Because none of the sophomores would have Fleur as a roommate. She was supposed to have a single but something fell through. She’ll probably be even more pissed off now.”
Fabulous.
“Look, if you want to apply for a roommate change, come by our office. We’re on the ground floor.”
I smiled weakly, mentally already racing to the office. “Thanks.”
I walked down the hall, dread filling me as I searched for room 301. I stopped in front of a door with three name tags on it. I looked down at the room code on the piece of paper, struggling to punch in the numbers on the little metal keypad. I turned the knob. Nothing. I stared back at the numbers.
Three tries later I was in.
I swung open the door, dragging my first bag over the threshold, stopping short at the sight of the room that was to be my home for the next year. It was small. Ridiculously small. Everything was pretty basic, three small beds, three wardrobes, three desks…and two big windows. I walked over, peering out at the view of Hyde Park. The lush green trees, the expanse of grass, the heavy iron gates—the magic of it all—made up for everything else.
I spent the next hour unpacking my suitcases, hanging clothes up in the tiny wooden wardrobe the school provided. Thankfully I was the first one to arrive. I set a few things out—my favorite books, a few mementos from home, pictures with friends.
The sound of the door opening startled me.
“Hi.”
A girl stood in the doorway, bags on her shoulders. Her hair was covered by a gorgeous purple silk scarf.
“Please tell me this is the right place.”
“I’m Maggie. Are you Noora?”
She waved with her free hand. “Nice to meet you.”
I grinned. “Nice to meet you, too.”
She dropped her bags down on the empty bed. “Is this it?”
“Yeah. Hard to believe they mean for three of us to live here, isn’t it?”
“Have you met the other girl?”
“I haven’t. I heard she’s a sophomore, though.” I didn’t mention the rest.
“Are you a freshman?” Noora asked.
“Yep.”
“Me, too.”
“Nice. Where are you from?”
“Oman.”
Way more glamorous than South Carolina. We chatted for a few more minutes, talking about our backgrounds. I liked her immediately; she was so friendly and outgoing, it was impossible not to. If Fleur was the Ice Queen, Noora was her polar opposite. I spent an hour helping Noora unpack before she left the room to go visit with a friend from home. Still no sign of my third roommate. Maybe she wouldn’t ever show up.
A girl could dream.
As soon as Noora left, I called my grandmother. It was early morning in the U.S., but she’d always been an early riser.
“How are you settling in?”
A wave of homesickness rushed over me at the sound of her voice. I even missed the Southern accent I’d worked so hard to erase from my own. I leaned back against my bed, tucking my knees against my chest.
“It’s going. It’s still early, though.”
“Have you made any friends?”
“The people seem nice so far.” I didn’t mention Fleur. My grandmother worried enough as it was.
“Have you been getting enough to eat?” She was always trying to fatten me up.
I grinned. “I promise I’m going to go get lunch soon. Although I bet the food won’t be anywhere near as good as yours.”
Ever since my mom left, my grandparents had raised me. They were my parents more than my biological ones were. And still—
Not quite the same.
“Have you heard from Dad?”
“Sorry, honey. I haven’t.”
I pushed down the familiar hurt that rose in my throat, forcing the words out. “Do you know where he is now?”
“Somewhere in the Middle East, I think. You know how these things are, honey. He can’t say where.”
“When do you think he’ll be back?”
“Hopefully by Christmas. He said he might be able to come home this year. We could spend Christmas together again.”
I hadn’t spent a Christmas with my dad in at least three years. But I didn’t want to disappoint her. He did enough of that.
“That sounds great, Grandma.”
We talked for a few more minutes before I hung up the call, tears welling up in my eyes. We’d never been apart for more than a day or two. I wiped at my face, surprised by the emotion filling me.
For a moment I just sat there, wallowing. I felt disgusting. I’d been traveling for fifteen hours and jet lag was creeping up on me. I needed a shower. I grabbed a towel and my bath stuff, heading for the door. The school had communal bathrooms on each floor—thankfully divided by gender. It was one of the things I had been dreading about dorm life. I wasn’t exactly a get naked in front of everyone kind of girl.
The bathroom, like my dorm room, was a bit of a disappointment. Definitely keeping my flip-flops on for this one.
I settled into the shower just as the first tears began to fall.
* * *
It felt weird walking back to my room in just a towel, but the only places to change in the bathroom were fairly public. This seemed like the lesser of two evils. I clutched the top of the terry cloth with a tight fist. At least I felt a little more human after my shower.
Luckily the floor was still pretty empty as I padded down the hall. This was the first day students could move into the dorms but school didn’t start for a few days. I’d come early to get the lay of the land and learn my way around London. I stopped in front of my door, shifting my bath caddy to the other hand so I could punch in the code. This time I got in on the first try.
Shutting the door behind me, I set down my bath stuff and grabbed the clothes I’d left on the bed. Then I unwrapped the towel from my body, letting it drop to the floor.
“I was wrong. You’re definitely my type.”
I whirled around in shock at the sound of that voice, smooth and teasing, my gaze colliding with the boy from the steps—
And then his gaze traveled lower, and he wasn’t looking at my eyes anymore.
Chapter 3
For a moment I couldn’t move. I just stood there, gaping at him, convinced this was some sort of nightmare I would eventually wake from.
I blinked.
Still there.
Samir lay sprawled on the empty bed—Fleur’s bed—his hands behind his head, his ankles crossed. He looked perfectly comfortable, lazy even—except for his eyes. His eyes blazed as they explored my naked body—starting at my breasts, roaming lower…
His gaze lingered like a caress over my bare skin, leaving a flash of heat in its wake.
I shrieked.
Lunging to grab the towel from the floor, I wrapped it hastily around my body, as if its mere presence was enough to erase my nakedness from his memory. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer me. Instead his eyes lifted back to mine, slowly, his lips quirking.
“What is wrong with you?” I snapped. My cheeks reddened. Hell, I blushed everywhere. “Are you some kind of perv or something?”
He laughed, the sound rich, filling the dorm room. It should be illegal to laugh like that. “That’s one I haven’t been called before.”
“Well, maybe you should be. Why the hell are you spying on me?”
He grinned. “I wasn’t spying. I was waiting for someone. The show was just an added bonus. One I thoroughly enjoyed, by the way”
I crossed my arms over my chest. I wanted to die. More accurately, I wanted him to die.
Samir laughed again, the sound sending a flutter through my body.
I needed to put on clothes—sweatpants, preferably, and a parka.
“I’m pretty sure I’m going to be enjoying this little memory for a while.” He rose from the bed, his body uncoiling, the move graceful and unhurried. He had style, I’d give him that.
I expected him to walk out the door, but instead he moved toward me, each step bringing a new set of nerves and anticipation.
“What are you doing?” I stumbled over the words, my voice coming out as a squeak.
This had to be a dream.
His gaze never left mine. I wanted to look away, wanted to turn around. I wanted to bolt, but something kept me in place.
My feet were rooted to the floor.
“What are you doing?” I repeated when he stopped inches away from me, close enough that the scent of his cologne teased me. He was taller than I’d originally thought, forcing me to tilt my head up to meet his gaze.
He reached out, his finger grazing my collarbone. The touch of his hand against my bare skin sent a shiver through me. No one had ever touched me like this. I sighed, the sound filling the room. He froze, his finger hovering over my flesh. I opened my mouth to say something—to push him away—but I came up blank. All of my thoughts were focused on the point where his finger hovered over me, mesmerized by the sight of his skin against mine, of the possibility of that hand dipping lower…
“Samir!”
The voice broke me out of my stupor. I whirled around, staring at the door.
A girl stared back at me through narrowed eyes and a pissed-off expression. She was tall. Way taller than me. Her thin body was encased in an outfit that looked like it belonged in a magazine. Shiny brown hair and boxy bangs framed a slender face with high cheekbones. One perfectly shaped eyebrow arched at the sight of me. There was only one person it could be—
I’d never seen a French rap video, but I could definitely imagine her in one.
She brushed past me, her eyes only for Samir. He didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. They hugged in a tangle of limbs, my presence forgotten.
This time I did bolt. I grabbed my clothes, heading for the door. Hell, at this point changing in the middle of the hall was preferable to spending another minute in their presence.
My roommate’s boyfriend was the hottest guy I had ever seen.
And he’d just seen me naked.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later I was fully dressed but no less flustered. I hovered outside the room, hoping I’d given them enough time to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. I would have stayed out longer, but I was starving and my wallet was sitting on top of my desk. I punched in the code, my hand getting ready to turn the knob when the door swung open.
I stared up into Fleur’s perfect face.
“Let me guess, you’re one of my roommates.” Her voice had a heavy French accent; her hand fisted on her hip. The words escaped in a bored drawl, hinting at some irony in us being roommates.
“I’m Maggie. Maggie Carpenter.”
She turned her back to me.
“American. Of course.”
So much for a warm welcome. At least I’d been forewarned.
“The rooms suck,” Fleur called out. I could hear a note of satisfaction in her voice. “The American kids always have a hard time adjusting. Especially if they haven’t been to Europe before. They say everything in the U.S. is bigger.”
I stiffened, the insult unmistakable.
A burst of French came from the other side of the room.
He was still there.
“Don’t poke the new girl, Fleur.” Samir’s voice filled the room, speaking English now. He winked at me.
Of course they were a couple. They were both so beautiful and exotic-looking, like something out of a magazine. All I could do was stand there with my stupid deer-in-the-headlights expression, staring back at them.
It was official. I had the worst roommate ever.
* * *
For a school as expensive as the International School, the dining hall was a bit of a disappointment. Like the dorm rooms, it was small. One wall boasted a bunch of silver tubs full of food, heated under fluorescent lights. A stack of plastic trays sat in front of the line of food.
“Go with the curry. Trust me, it’s the only thing remotely edible.”
I turned to the girl next to me—a tall black girl with long black hair. Gorgeous blue beaded earrings hung from her ears, a matching silver-and-blue scarf wrapped around her neck.
“Thanks for the advice.”
“No problem. I’m Mya. Are you new?”
“I’m Maggie. I’m a freshman.”
“Welcome. American?”
I grimaced. It had to be the accent giving me away. “Yeah.” Or my outfit. I stared down at my jeans and flip-flops, wishing I’d put something more glamorous on.
“Don’t worry. There are lots of Americans here.” She gave me a friendly smile, one of the first genuine ones I’d received since I arrived. “This is probably a bit of a culture shock.”
“It’s different,” I hedged. “Where are you from?”
“Nigeria.”
Wow.
“That’s pretty cool.”
She shrugged. “It’s nice. London’s better, though. We spend most of the year here. My dad works at the Nigerian embassy.” She gestured toward one of the empty tables. “Do you want to sit together?”
I had been courting visions of having to sit by myself at lunch, with only a book for company. “That would be great, thanks.”
I followed Mya to one of the tables, sliding into the chair across from hers. “Have most students arrived yet? It seems kind of empty.”
“Most probably have, but there are always the ones who push it right up to the last minute. Not everyone lives on campus or eats in the dining hall, either. A lot of students have their own flats and do their own things. It kind of adds up to a weird mix. We’re a small school, but there are still a bunch of different cliques.”
Great, it was high school all over again.
From the other side of the partition, I heard the sound of French. I turned in my seat, a groan escaping my lips. Fleur walked in, Samir trailing behind her.
“Fabulous.”
Mya followed my gaze until she settled on Fleur. Her lips quirked. “Ahh, I see you’ve met the reigning queen.”
“She’s my roommate.” I skewered a piece of chicken with my fork. And her boyfriend knows what I look like without my clothes on.
Mya’s eyes widened. “You’re going to have your hands full.”
“Believe me, I’m starting to figure that out.”
I had to ask. I ducked my head, hoping I wasn’t turning bright red. “What’s the deal with that guy? Samir, right? He was in our room earlier.”
“You have had a busy morning. That’s Samir Khouri. He’s Lebanese. At least his dad is. He’s a politician back in Lebanon. His mom’s French or something.”
“He seems like an asshole,” I muttered.
She laughed. “Yeah, you’re not far off the mark with that one.”
“Hi, Mya.”
My head jerked up at the sound of Fleur’s voice.
“Hi.”
“Are you going to the party tomorrow night?” Fleur asked, completely ignoring me.
Mya grinned. “I never miss a boat party.”
Fleur tossed her light brown hair back over her shoulder. “A bunch of us are going out after if you want to come.”
“I might. Thanks.”
Fleur nodded, not even bothering to glance my way, her heels clipping on the wood floor as she walked away.
“Are you guys friends or something?”
Mya shrugged, tearing off a piece of bread from her plate. “Not really. I would call us acquaintances that occasionally hang out. We went to boarding school together in Switzerland for a few years.”
Of course they did.
“So about that party Fleur mentioned. You’re going, right?” Mya asked.
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, really.”
“You have to go. The boat party is the start of the semester. Everyone will be there. The school rents a boat on the Thames. You can’t miss it—it’s a great way to get to know people and an excuse to look fabulous.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have anything to wear.” Not to mention the fact that I wasn’t exactly the party type. In high school I hadn’t been a big partier. Still—this was college and I was living in one of the most glamorous cities in the world.
“You’re coming. I can’t allow you to miss your first boat party. Besides, if you need an outfit, you definitely came to the right place. We’re going shopping.”
* * *
She hadn’t been kidding about the shopping. Thanks to Mya, I was now the proud owner of the world’s skimpiest dress. It was hot-pink and made of some sort of stretchy fabric. It barely covered my now highly enhanced boobs, courtesy of Mya’s padded bra suggestion. The hemline fell just below my butt. High heels completed the look.
I ran a brush through my long brown hair, wishing it did more than just lie flat and straight over my shoulders. I had wanted to wear my hair up, but Mya said the neckline of the dress looked better with it down. I figured her advice was worth following.
In high school, my clothes had been cute. My grandparents didn’t believe in spending a ton of money, but we had a decent selection at some of the discount stores. I had always been able to make do.
Here I was totally out of my element.
Tonight Fleur had left for the party dressed in a skintight white minidress I could have fit maybe one thigh in. The dress looked like something out of a magazine. So did Fleur, for that matter.
A knock sounded at the door.
I stumbled over in my high heels. Mya greeted me on the other side in a gorgeous red dress.
She whistled. “Girl, you look hot. My friend Michael’s going to give us a ride. You’ll like him. He’s American, too.”
Despite the school’s advertisement that a large part of the student body was from the U.S., I hadn’t actually met any other Americans. “Sounds good to me.”
I followed Mya out, stumbling slightly on the stairs. “Shit.”
“You okay?”
“It’s the heels.”
We walked out to the front of the building, where a guy leaning casually against a black SUV waved to Mya. He walked up to her, pressing a swift kiss on each cheek before turning to me.
“I’m Michael.”
“Maggie.”
He grinned. “Where are you from, Maggie?”
“South Carolina.”
“A Southern girl. Nice. I’m from Connecticut.”
He was cute—sandy blond hair and green eyes. He was dressed in a collared shirt and dark jeans. He was exactly the kind of guy I would have liked back home.
“You girls look great tonight.”
I fought off the blush. “Thanks.”
We followed him to the SUV.
Mya grabbed my arm before we slid into the backseat. “He’s gay,” she whispered. “I didn’t want you to get a crush on him or something. But he’s a great guy and I thought you guys might get along. You’ll learn early on, there are a lot of fake people here. Michael’s as real as they come.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Inside the car was even nicer-looking, the interior a combination of leather and wood. Techno music played from the speakers.
I couldn’t help but feel like Cinderella on my way to the ball.
Chapter 4
The boat was packed, students crowding around the bar area and filling the dance floor. The DJ played some song I’d never heard before. The kids on the dance floor were going crazy, moving their bodies to the beat of the music. Tables lined the walls of the main part of the boat. In one corner a guy climbed on top of the table, spraying the dancing crowd with a bottle of champagne.
Mya nudged me. “Those are the guys from the Gulf.” I stared blankly back at her. “The Middle East,” she explained. “There are a ton of them here and they party like crazy. They drink Cristal and drive Ferraris and make little effort to go to class. Piece of advice? Avoid them like the plague. They come to London and screw around with girls they’ll never take seriously. They like to show off, and for the most part they aren’t bad guys—they just aren’t boyfriend material.”
I studied the kid spraying the champagne. Got it, no Arabs. They hardly seemed like my type anyway. Their cars probably cost more than the house I had grown up in.
“So who is datable here?”
Mya’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Good question. And a tough one to answer. Most of the guys at school you can rule out straightaway. At a school this small, everyone talks. Besides, with such a small dating pool things can get a bit incestuous.”
“Ladies, anyone care to join me for a drink?” Michael stood behind us, a bottle of champagne in hand.
Mya grinned. “You got the good stuff. Nice.” She turned to me. “Do you like champagne?”
I had no idea. Being able to drink legally as a college freshman had never seemed like an option. But here I was. “Sure.”
Michael handed the bottle off to one of the girls serving drinks at the tables. She wore black shorts so short I doubted she could bend over and a skimpy black tank top barely constraining her boobs. Compared to her I looked like I should be going to church.
Michael guided us over to a little table pushed up against the wall with a small reserved sign.
“Michael always buys tables,” Mya explained, sinking down next to me.
“What do you mean he buys tables?”
“See, this way we have bottle service and don’t have to go to the bar. Instead you can sit at the table all night if you want and the waitresses serve you from here.”
I nodded as though it made sense, even though I totally didn’t get it. What was such a big deal about having to walk over to the bar?
The waitress opened the bottle of champagne, filling up three glasses. The frothy golden liquid bubbled over the top.
“A toast!” Michael announced, grabbing the first glass and raising it high in the air. Mya and I followed suit. “To the start of another fabulous year!”
Our glasses clinked together. I took a sip of my drink, the bubbles exploding in my mouth. The DJ switched songs and loud hip-hop music came over the speakers.
“I love this song!” Mya grabbed my hand. “Come on, we have to go dance.”
I wanted to tell her no because the truth was, I wasn’t even sure I could dance. I had tried a few times at family weddings, but that kind of dancing looked nothing like this—bodies gyrating to the music in a seductive beat. I followed Mya out to the dance floor, looking around, trying to figure out what to do. Finally I began moving my hips, wishing desperately that I’d had more of a social life in high school to prepare me for all of this.
Mya jerked her head in my direction. “Your roommate’s here,” she yelled over the pumping beat.
I turned.
Fleur strolled into the party, a group of guys in tow. Samir walked next to her, the perfect counterpart to her beauty. She made her way through the crowd like Moses parting the proverbial Red Sea, all eyes on her. Well, except for mine.
Tonight he wore dark jeans, an expensive-looking black jacket and a gray collared shirt. I hadn’t thought it possible for him to look even better than the day on the steps.
I was wrong.
He exchanged handshakes with a few guys before heading over to the table next to Michael’s. He moved confidently, as if he owned the room. Suddenly Samir’s head turned, his gaze meeting mine. My heart began to pound.
His stare pierced me.
Was he imagining me naked right now?
I reddened instantly.
Samir’s eyes widened, his lips twitching. The look he gave me was long and languid, surprise flickering in his deep brown eyes. Surprise, followed by clear male appreciation. With each second that passed it felt as though he was stripping away my clothes, layer by layer, baring my body before him. I felt the full weight of his stare, each glance leaving a trail of heat in its wake. It was as if his hands were running over my skin—molding, shaping my curves, caressing my skin.
No one had ever looked at me like that before.
Fleur tugged on Samir’s arm. He ignored her. She tugged again—saying something to him now—and he turned his attention away from me.
“They’ll probably go out later if you want to come.”
I forced my gaze back to Mya. She shot me a curious look.
“That whole group is pretty big on the club scene,” she explained. “They’re going to this club called Babel tonight. It’s in Mayfair and it’s amazing.”
I struggled to calm the nerves exploding inside me. “Mayfair?”
“It’s one of the nicest neighborhoods in London.” She grinned. “In that dress you’ll fit right in.”
* * *
If not for the massive throng of people standing on the sidewalk, dressed in an assortment of skimpy dresses and expensive jackets, I would never have pegged this as one of London’s hottest nightclubs. Sure, it was just around the corner from the Ritz, a hotel so glitzy from the outside I was fairly sure it was for the superrich. But still, in comparison to the Ritz, which was lit up like a Christmas tree, the exterior of Babel was nothing like I expected.
You couldn’t even get into the club from the street. Instead, the street level led down a flight of concrete stairs that looked hazardous to my health, especially given my ridiculous high heels. A gray door remained firmly shut at the bottom of the stairs, while a burly guy in a black dress shirt and trousers stood guard in front. Another guy dressed in a similar black outfit and a skinny blonde girl with a clipboard in her hand stood at the top of the stairs. Thirty or so people stood in line behind a red velvet rope blocking the entry to the steps. The girl with the clipboard stood next to the rope.
“How long is it going to take to get in?”
Mya grinned. “Watch this.”
Samir brushed past us, walking to the front of our group.
There were ten of us. Best case, some people would get in before others. I didn’t have to guess where I would be in the line.
But instead of heading toward the back of the line, Samir walked up to the girl with the clipboard. He gave her the same air kiss on both cheeks everyone seemed to use in this city. She smiled back at him before reaching down and unclipping the velvet rope. Samir turned back, waving everyone through. One by one, we started filing behind him, descending the stairs without a second glance for the people standing on the pavement.
“What just happened?”
“Samir’s a member at all the best clubs in London. He can always get people in.” Mya nudged me forward. “That’s why everyone puts up with the fact that he’s also a bit of an ass.”
“But what about all those people? How long have they been waiting in line?”
Mya shrugged. “Probably an hour or so.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.” I shuffled forward, grabbing the metal railing as I made my way down the steps.
“Welcome to London.”
* * *
I felt as though I was entering a secret world—one open only to the wealthy and glamorous.
The club wasn’t big; the compact space was littered with tables, most already full. There wasn’t really a designated dance floor. Rather, people grouped together, dancing in any and all empty spaces. A DJ stood in the corner mixing while a giant video screen played strange patterns of swirling bright colors. I figured it was the kind of thing you enjoyed if you were on something. Otherwise it just looked strange. The main focal point, though, was the bar. It covered nearly the entire back wall, its surface lit up in crazy light patterns, matching the colors on the video screen. Girls danced on top of it.
I had felt out of place at the boat party. Here I felt as if I had walked into Oz.
Samir led the group over to a small table, everyone cramming in together. I slid in between Michael and Mya. Immediately, a waitress came over with the biggest bottle of champagne I’d ever seen. Things that looked like sparklers exploded from the top of the bottle. No one else seemed to think there was anything unusual about the pyrotechnics or the giant-size bottle of champagne.
Right. No big deal.
“I think I’m going to head to the bar for a second,” I whispered to Mya.
I got up from the table, wondering for the millionth time what I was doing with them. Everyone acted like Samir was footing the bill, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty that he barely knew me and yet he was buying me champagne. I figured the mini fireworks display, which no one else at the club had gotten, meant something special. And by special I meant expensive.
I pushed my way through the crowd of people, making my way up to the bar. I paused for a moment, trying to find the biggest gap of space between the dancing girls. Somehow the idea of ordering a drink with some girl’s butt in my face just felt wrong. The guys probably saw it as an added bonus.
I leaned across the bar top, struggling to catch the bartender’s attention. There were at least twelve other girls trying to do the same. My gaze caught with a guy standing next to me at the bar. His arm grazed mine, his hips bumping against me as the crowd pushed us together. He grinned.
“Hi.”
Hello.
He was tall, really tall, with a gorgeous head of dark, chocolate-brown hair. He was dressed in what was clearly the standard uniform of a pair of dark jeans and a suit jacket with a collared shirt underneath.
He wore it well. Really well.
He grinned at me. “Can I buy you a drink?”
There was no way I was ordering a soda now. For a moment I felt the familiar rush of nerves and fear filling me. But whether it was the dress or the champagne, this time I didn’t freeze. Instead I managed a nervous smile and prayed the club’s darkness masked any flush that might cover my cheeks. “Sure. Thanks.”
He signaled to the bartender. “What do you want?”
I hesitated for a beat. “Cosmopolitan.”
He ordered for me, his accent somewhere between Prince William and Hugh Grant.
The guy turned his attention back to me. “I’m Hugh.”
“Maggie.”
I took his outstretched hand, fitting my palm into his.
“You’re American. Nice.” His smile widened. “Welcome to London.” He released my hand, his fingers stroking the inside of my wrist. “Are you enjoying it?”
I grinned. “I am now.”
His smile stretched even further and my heartbeat sped up.
OMG, I was flirting and it was actually working.
“How long have you been here?”
“Just a few days.”
He flashed me a grin. “So you’re fresh off the boat,” he teased.
“You could say that.” There was a rhythm to this—the flirting. I was finally catching my stride.
“What brings you to London? Work?” He leaned against the bar, propping his arm against the frosted glass, his body dominating the space around him. Colors lit up beneath the bar top, alternately flashing pink and red.
This could not possibly be my life.
“I’m doing a master’s.” The lie flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. For some reason I didn’t want to tell this guy I was only nineteen.
The bartender handed me the Cosmo. I took a sip, the tart drink exploding in my mouth. Yum. I could definitely get used to this.
“So what do you do?” I asked, leaning my elbows against the bar top, letting my body do some of the talking. I may have been inexperienced, but I wasn’t dumb.
“I own a bar in Chelsea. Cobalt.” He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to me, our fingers grazing as he slipped the card into my hand. His fingers lingered on mine for a beat. He had really nice hands—his nails were trimmed neatly; his fingers long and tapered. He grinned again, two rows of perfect white teeth flashing back at me. Whoever said the British had terrible teeth definitely hadn’t met this guy. “You should come by sometime, bring some of your friends. I’d love to take care of you.”
I blushed, the flirtation behind his words unmistakable. “Thanks.” The grin slipped out before I realized it. “I think I’d like to be taken care of.”
His eyes widened slightly.
The alcohol was definitely running my mouth tonight.
He leaned in closer. His lips grazed my cheek, hovering near my ear. A shiver ran down my spine. He smelled good. Really, really good. Like citrus and pine and something smoky I couldn’t quite identify. He leaned back, that same smile still on his face. “I have to head out, I was just settling up my tab.” The bartender walked over, handing Hugh a platinum credit card. “It was nice to meet you, Maggie from America.”
I grinned, unable to keep the silly expression off of my face. “It was nice to meet you, too.”
“Come and see me sometime.”
When he was just a dot in the sea of dancers, I stared down at the card in my hand. Hugh Mitchell. Cobalt. Owner.
I turned back to the bartender, draining the last of my drink. “Can I have another?”
The free sample has ended.
