I See London. Chanel Cleeton
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