I See London. Chanel Cleeton

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      I mock shuddered. “I feel like I need to take a shower.”

      He tossed me a wolfish grin. “I might be able to help you with that. After all, I know what you look like without a towel on. All that creamy white skin…”

      My cheeks flamed. Please tell me we didn’t have a seating chart. No way could I handle this proximity to him for the rest of the semester.

      “Okay, it looks like it’s time to start.” My head jerked up at the sound of our teacher’s voice. He stood at the front of the room—somehow I had completely missed his presence. “If you’re in here, then you’re supposed to be enrolled in Introduction to International Relations.” The professor, Dr. Abbott, a tall man with a British accent, paused for a moment. No one got up and left. “Good. Let’s begin.”

      I spent the hour furiously scribbling down everything he said. International Relations—as the professor explained it—studied the relationships between countries. He walked us through introductory concepts, handing out the syllabus and going over his expectations for the class. For an hour he talked about some of the world’s major conflicts; it all sounded like a giant soap opera to me. Even Samir’s presence couldn’t distract me.

      I was hooked.

      Few people spoke in the first class; instead the professor just lectured while we all took notes. Well, some of us took notes. It was easy to tell the students who were really into the subject and the ones who wished they were anywhere else.

      Samir didn’t bother picking up his pen.

      “Good class,” Samir commented as class came to an end.

      I tossed him a skeptical look. “Were you even paying attention?”

      He grinned. “Can I help it if I was distracted by the great pen shortage? The suspense of whether you would run out of ink was way more compelling than anything Abbott had to say.”

      I stared down at my desk. Four pens stared back at me.

      Was that unusual? It seemed prudent to have back-ups. For my back-ups to have back-ups.

      “There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.”

      He grinned at me, an almost goofy grin that seemed totally at odds with his cocky persona. I waited for him to say something, waited for a joke that never came. Instead he just stared at me. Not the stare that made me feel like he’d seen me naked, but another stare. One that made me feel like he saw through me, one that felt impossibly more intimate.

      We hovered in the doorway for a moment. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Fleur leaving one of the other rooms. Guilt and nerves filled me. Time to move on.

      “See you around,” I offered lamely before heading toward my next class.

      Samir stood in the doorway for a moment and then he turned and walked off with Fleur.

      * * *

      By Friday I had somewhat settled into academic life at the International School. My Intro to IR class did have a seating chart, so I ended up stuck sitting next to Samir. Surprisingly, after the first day, he wasn’t so bad. He backed off and I kept repeating the same mantra over and over in my head—

      He’s your roommate’s boyfriend.

      My class schedule was full—fifteen credit hours—but for the most part, the classes were interesting. My professors were nice enough. Just like the student body, the faculty was a diverse group. I had five professors total, each from a different country.

      I also had a ton of reading to do for the weekend.

      After classes got out on Friday afternoon, I took the Tube down to Westminster. I was still learning the way the complicated system worked, trying to feel like a real Londoner. Luckily the color-coded lines helped a bit. I took the green line down a few stops from High Street Ken. When I left the station, I turned my head, struggling to get my bearings. Then I saw it.

      The Houses of Parliament were one of the most awe-inspiring things I’d ever seen. They dominated the landscape, proud and strong. I crossed the street, standing in a grassy square opposite the buildings. I basked in the moment. This was the epicenter of history and politics. Greatness happened here. And somehow I was a part of it.

      I hadn’t totally chosen the International School on a whim. When I received that horrid letter from Harvard, I panicked. I didn’t have a backup plan—not a good one, anyway. I had no desire to stay in the same town where I’d lived my whole life, feeling like I never quite fit in. I wanted a chance to do something different. If I couldn’t make one of my dreams happen, I wanted a chance at another one.

      Ever since I was a kid I’d been fascinated by England. I couldn’t say for sure when the love affair started. Maybe it was all the pomp and majesty that came with the monarchy, so different from my quiet life in South Carolina. Or maybe it was the history or my romanticism, the love of books filled with dukes and earls. Whatever it was, London had been a dream, one I promised I would indulge when I graduated university and made something of myself.

      Now, standing in front of Parliament, I felt the sense of accomplishment that had eluded me since my Harvard rejection. I was living my dream now.

      Chapter 7

      “So how is it? Are you homesick?”

      I leaned back against my pillow, shifting the phone in my hand. My roommates were out for the day and it was the first time I had really had any privacy to call home. I talked to my grandparents before calling my best friend, Jo.

      “It’s amazing. Even better than I thought it would be.”

      “I’m so jealous.”

      I grinned. “Whatever. You’re probably hanging out with all the frat guys at Carolina.”

      “Okay, yeah, maybe I’ve been to a few parties.”

      Jo was my oldest and closest friend. We met in the fifth grade when her mom forgot to pack her a lunch and I shared my pretzels with her. From that lunch we hit it off, despite the fact that we were an odd pairing. While I spent most of high school studying and focusing on Harvard, Jo spent her high school years partying with the football team.

      “So how are the guys? Any hot British guys?”

      I grinned. Trust Jo to get to the good stuff. “I did meet one.”

      “Spill.”

      I filled Jo in on the Hugh story, not in the least surprised by her excited squeals.

      “Are you going to go to his bar?”

      I hadn’t really thought about it. After everything that happened that night, Hugh hadn’t exactly been at the forefront of my mind.

      “I don’t know.”

      “Have you met anyone else? Have you kissed anyone yet?”

      I blushed, grateful she couldn’t see my face. “Sort of.”

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