French Kissed Read online

  He started at my feet of all places, at my shoes, his gaze traveling up one article of clothing at a time. He didn’t look hungry, didn’t look interested, he just looked as if I were a puzzle he was trying to figure out, and I stood there as if presenting myself for his approval. And I wasn’t. I totally wasn’t. I didn’t want him to like me, didn’t want him to want me, certainly didn’t want him, and yet, even as I repeated the words to myself over and over again in my head like a song on repeat, my body heard a different tune.

  So while I stood there telling myself I didn’t care, that it didn’t matter that I’d spent an hour trying for perfect, for sexy, for irresistible and he was looking at me like he’d already passed, my nipples were tightening, a familiar heat settling low in my stomach. The pull of arousal at the sight of him shocked my system to the core. It felt like my body had been stuck in freaking winter for years and, all of a sudden, spring was coming.

  Max’s shoulders were overwhelming today, barely constrained by a green shirt with sleeves pushed up to expose tanned forearms and a very male sprinkling of hair. The color only made his eyes more noticeable, and for a moment, I just stared, getting a little bit lost, until something flickered in those eyes, something that pushed me out and back into my own body. I stayed there until my gaze drifted down to his hands and the pen he held. I watched, fascinated, as he threaded the pen through his fingers, playing with it idly, stroking it—a nervous tic, maybe—until I was so mesmerized by his motions that I couldn’t look away, and I was jealous of a freaking pen.

  His hands were big like his body, and I wanted them on me, in me, wanted him to take me back into the library stacks and push me up against one of the shelves. Heat rose in my cheeks as I blushed for the second time in as many days. I imagined what it would feel like with his strength against me, his touch holding me in place. I wondered how he would be in bed—if he was a virgin or if he knew what he was doing. I wondered.

  And then I realized I’d been standing there, staring at him, for at least a minute. Did he know he had this effect on me? Did he care?

  Was that it? Had I become so screwed up that I now only wanted men who didn’t want me back? Or was it just him?

  ###

  Max

  I forgot my words. All of them. Or I swallowed my tongue. Or maybe both.

  I couldn’t work with her. It wasn’t even that I didn’t like her, or that she didn’t like me, or that I had a strong suspicion that she was lazy, or even that I was pretty sure she knew nothing about project finance. I literally couldn’t function around her. I turned into a complete idiot in her presence, incapable of stringing together a sentence. It was embarrassing and pathetic, and I didn’t know how I was supposed to concentrate or do anything but stare at her and wish I could look away.

  I might not have gotten a ton of action, but I was far from a virgin, and yet something about her made me feel like one.

  We faced off for a minute, and then she slid into the seat across from me and her knee brushed against mine. We both jumped. Pain shot through my leg as my knee hit the table.

  Fuck.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, that French purr sliding over me, the look of concern in her eyes a surprise.

  “I’m fine.”

  My American accent sounded so gruff around her. There was no lilting, no easy sway to my voice. It reminded me just how different we really were, beyond even the obvious, surface differences. She was so out of my league it wasn’t even funny.

  I looked over at her, trying not to imagine those heels of hers teasing my leg. Those sexy straps were imprinted in my brain. If she were mine . . . If she were mine, I’d have her naked in nothing but those heels.

  For the five months she’d dated George, I’d been plagued with guilt over the things I’d fantasized about doing with my best friend’s girlfriend. I still felt a little guilty now, but more than anything, I was worried I was being an idiot. I’d seen the way she’d discarded George, and she’d liked him in the beginning, even though I’d never anticipated that pairing. It was impossible to not feel like a masochist, especially considering how much she’d already made her disdain for me clear. And then I remembered what George had said . . . and our “hate truce” . . .

  “I’m sorry about the Ice Queen thing.”

  Like a Band-Aid, it seemed best to just rip it off.

  Fleur’s eyes widened, and for a moment, her entire body stilled. She wasn’t a calm person by nature; her body was never at rest. She gestured with her hands when she spoke, her eyelashes fluttering, her fingers toying with her hair, flipping the ends over her tanned shoulders as if she knew that the motion guaranteed all eyes would be on her.

  And then her gaze narrowed, and something clenched in my gut as I wondered if she was going to flay me alive or forgive me.

  “Why?”

  I struggled to come up with the right answer, because suddenly it mattered.

  “It was a stupid, careless thing to say, and I definitely would never have said it if I’d known it would take off the way it did.” I’d had the nerd thing thrown my way enough to not want to humiliate anyone else, even Fleur. “Honestly, I didn’t even know I was responsible for its popularity until George told me. I’m sorry. Really sorry. If I could take it back, I would.”

  “Why did you say it?” Her eyes fixed on mine, emotion lingering beneath the surface. It hit me then that she cared, that my answer mattered, and while it didn’t mean much, it was something.

  And because I’d had a thing for her for forever, I suddenly wanted to give her everything, all the answers she sought, anything to make her see me. And not just as George’s annoying friend or the asshole who gave her a nickname that had plagued her, but as someone who mattered, someone who mattered to her.

  “Because I was an idiot.” The words tumbled from my mouth, too much and not enough at the same time.

  “Was?” she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

  She would make me work for it. Then again, she was the kind of girl you didn’t entirely mind working for.

  “Was. Am. Whatever.”

  Her lips curved. “So that’s your apology?”

  Yeah, I guessed it was. Was it enough? Who knew with her. I’d liked girls for years, been friends with them, had several girlfriends, and yet, none of them were like her. She was a mystery shrouded in a puzzle, hidden in a challenge that seemed impossible to win. She was the ultimate gamble, and it was difficult to not feel like the deck was stacked against me.

  “What else do you want?”

  There was exasperation in my voice but also a hidden plea. I wanted to give her what she wanted, if only she would tell me what it was.

  “Do you really think I’m an ice queen?”

  The question caught me off guard because the take-no-prisoners Fleur I’d thought I’d figured out wouldn’t have given a shit about my answer. For the first time, I looked at her, really looked at her, and realized that she might not be the Fleur I remembered from freshman year. That maybe she’d changed, and if she had, I wanted to see if we could be more than just two people who couldn’t stand each other. After all, wasn’t that what the hate truce was about?

  Did I think she was an ice queen?

  No.

  How could I think she was cold when all it took was me sitting across from her for my body to feel like it was on fire?

  “I think you’re a little terrifying and you know it. I think you like it. You wield your beauty like a weapon and wear your swagger like a crown that makes everyone else bow down.” I paused for a beat. “But no, I don’t think you’re an ice queen.”

  Silence filled the space between us, and then she spoke.

  “You think I’m beautiful?”

  Trust Fleur to focus on that one.

  “You know you’re beautiful,” I answered wryly, refusing to elaborate and feed her ego. I was as close to humiliating myself as I was willing to get. I couldn’t make it too easy for her. I’d seen how George had let her walk
all over him, and I didn’t want to just be another guy she managed.

  Her lips curved again, and this time she flashed a genuine smile. “I do,” she teased. “But somehow I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

  Didn’t think I’d noticed? I’d spent most of the last year terrified that she’d see the way I looked at her and say something to George.

  “I noticed.”

  I wasn’t sure who was more surprised by my candor. Maybe it was the fact that we were in the library, my home turf and a place out of her comfort zone, but I felt more confident, slightly less awkward. And Fleur looked at me differently. And suddenly the hope I’d had freshman year, the first time I’d seen her, came rushing back to me.

  The hope that she’d see me, smile at me. The hope that I had a chance.

  I waited for the joke or the cutting remark, waited for her to dismiss me the way I’d watched her dismiss others. But she didn’t. Instead she nodded, like I’d told her something particularly important that she’d file away for future use. I waited to see if she would say anything, to see where this was going, but it didn’t go anywhere. We sat in silence for a minute, and then she gestured toward the paper in front of us.

  “So, project finance.”

  Right. It was the topic we should discuss, and the one I was least interested in.

  “I had some ideas for the project. Maybe a tech company,” I suggested. “We could finance an app.”

  Fleur made a face. “No.”

  “It’s easy,” I argued.

  “And boring.”

  “Then what kind of project do you want to do?”

  She looked unsure of herself again, much like she had during our first library study session, and it was so unexpected, so human, it made me want to listen, whereas before I might have made a dig.

  “I was thinking we could do a fashion app.”

  I struggled to keep from groaning. I should have known getting her to agree to something wouldn’t be easy.

  She held up a hand, and like magic, my protest died in my throat.

  “Just hear me out. It’s a billion-dollar industry. There’s a huge market for it, and with your business skills and my fashion sense, we could come up with something fun and profitable. And it wouldn’t make me die of boredom.”

  She flashed me another blinding smile that I was pretty sure was intended to make sure she got her way. She was way too good at it. But of course, she knew that and likely had known it her entire life.

  I grinned, unable to resist Fleur trying to charm me. “How would this fashion app work?”

  “Well . . .”

  For the next hour, I somehow managed to focus on the project. It was hard, especially with the way her teeth would sink into her lower lip when she was pensive and how, when she leaned forward, I was treated to the slightest hint of her lacy bra. But somehow my willpower lasted long enough to hold a conversation with her without getting distracted by sex—too much.

  And by the end of it, we’d come up with an idea that wasn’t half-bad. It was a fashion app but also a game where players could create outfits for different events. Fleur had some pretty interesting ideas about using designers as sponsors to help raise revenue. It wasn’t something I would have ever considered doing on my own, but it was definitely unique and a chance for both of us to play up our strengths.

  “So when should we meet next?” Fleur asked, gathering up her books.

  “In a couple weeks?” The first piece of the project was due in mid-October.

  She nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

  Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, and curiosity got the best of me. “Are you going out later?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Your outfit.”

  She almost looked embarrassed . . . and then she looked intrigued.

  “You think I look like I should be going out?”

  Sort of. I mean, what did I know about fashion? Every time George had dragged me to one of Fleur’s parties last year I’d stuck out like a sore thumb. I’d learned the hard way that sneakers should not be worn to London nightclubs and that my wardrobe was seriously lacking.

  “Yeah, I guess. You look nice.” I mumbled, wondering if I sounded as dumb as I felt.

  Fleur smiled, flashing me a cat-that-ate-the-canary expression.

  “Nice, huh?” she teased. “Care to elaborate?”

  I groaned. I should have known better. “I’m not doing this.” I grabbed my books and stood up. “You don’t need me inflating your ego.”

  Her smiled deepened as her eyes danced, and my heart lurched. “Maybe I like it.”

  I froze as if her words were a hand that had reached out and held me in place.

  What the fuck?

  We’d never done this before. Yesterday, she’d been flirty in the cafeteria but I’d sort of figured that was an accidental thing. Like she’d just been her natural self and I’d accidentally gotten caught in the crossfire. But now that this had happened twice?

  Part of me wanted to stay and talk with her, wanted to flirt with her. But another part of me, the sensible part, told me to get out now while I had a chance.

  The problem with girls like Fleur was that while they toyed with you, and made you like it, that was all there was. You couldn’t keep a girl like Fleur, just enjoy her for a bit and then she’d leave, and all you would have to hold on to was the feeling that you’d just lost everything.

  Better to walk away first than be left behind.

  But she didn’t just let me walk away. That wasn’t her style. So as I tried to put some distance between us, tried to convince myself that the flirtatiousness I’d heard in her words had been in my imagination, she called me back.

  “I’m not going out later.” There was a pause that had me stopping in my tracks, and an invitation in her voice that had me falling. “I dressed this way for studying.”

  And even though she didn’t say it out loud, the words lingered between us anyway—the possibility of them, at least.

  I dressed this way for you.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fleur

  It came an hour before I was supposed to go out on Friday night.

  One line that both pissed me off, and made me want to throw up:

  Did you really think you could stay on top forever? Can’t wait to watch your fall . . .

  I hated the chill that spread down my limbs, loathed the dread I had to push out. A torrent of blistering French escaped.

  I’d had the e-mails traced last year, only to discover they each came from a different cheap Internet café in a rough part of London, the kind of place that had a huge transient clientele and ensured anonymity. Nothing about the information had really been news to me. I knew this was coming from the International School, albeit indirectly.

  They weren’t blatant threats, so I doubted the London police would care. They had their hands full with much bigger problems than someone with a grudge. I’d played around with the idea of telling the school, but so far there was no actual evidence that this was coming from a student. I knew, but I didn’t have proof. And the more attention I gave my blackmailer, the more I let the bastard destroy my life.

  Whoever was behind this liked the uncertainty of it. It was unpredictable, designed to keep me on my toes. Sometimes I’d go weeks without an email. I fought the feeling of constant paranoia with everything I had. And the emails demanding money had changed into messages like this one when I hadn’t paid.

  I saved the e-mail to the folder I’d created to keep a record of all the correspondence I’d received in case I needed it in the future. I shut my laptop and went back to doing my hair and makeup.

  I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall.

  ###

  “You’re not having fun.”

  I turned to face my cousin Samir, ready to raise my voice to be heard over the beat of the music. I switched from French to English out of habit, even though the rest of the group was several feet away.

/>   “I am.”

  He pointed to where Maggie and Mya danced on one of the raised platforms in the center of the nightclub. “Since when do you pass up an opportunity to dance?”

  I shrugged. “It’s been a weird week. I have some stuff on my mind. I’m stressed about graduation.”

  And someone who wants to take me down.

  Samir drank from his whiskey and Coke. Being half French and half Lebanese, he’d unfairly gotten the best of both genetic pools. Dark hair, dark eyes, and tanned skin I envied. He wasn’t tall—we were nearly the same height—but his body was lean and muscular, and more than that, he had presence. He looked like he owned the room, and by the looks he got when he walked into the club, everyone else knew it.

  “It’s only the first week back. How are you already worried about May?”

  “I’m worried I won’t graduate if I don’t get my GPA up,” I admitted.

  I shouldn’t have agreed to go out in the first place, should have spent the night catching up on reading. There was so much of it I wasn’t exactly sure where to start. I’d spent years blowing off assignments, so the workload was kind of a shock.

  “Do you need help in some of your classes?” he asked, concern in his voice.

  I laughed, taking a sip of champagne. This was the embarrassing part. “Try all of them.”

  We might have both been partiers, but Samir at least managed to get good grades.

  “I’m fine. Really. You don’t need to worry about me or fix me.”

  “I’m not trying to fix you, but I am worried.” He was quiet, his gaze flickering to the dance floor before returning to me. “You don’t seem like yourself. I can tell you have a lot on your mind, and I want you to know that you can talk to me.” Another beat passed. “Maggie’s worried about you, too.”