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.