Filthy Foreign Exchange Book 2

by S. E. Hall

  My entire body blushes. “Yeah, I know her. She’s, um…well…me.”

  “Wow.” His eyes widen, then slowly peruse over my entirety, as if seeing me in a whole new light. “Well, consider me fully impressed—and really disappointed now that you’re not interested in seeing what I may have to offer.

  “Oh,” he adds with a laugh, “and we’re even on the embarrassment from earlier, about your snoring. ’Cause I’m pretty sure I just admitted I think about you occasionally.”

  When I lower my head, no clue how to respond, he rubs my knee.

  “I’m kidding—well, not really, but seriously, we’re good. And enough about my fantasies. What was your essay to get you here about? I wrote about my scholarship falling through because my GPA took a hit when my dad got sick. He’s fine now, and was actually the one who found out about the Miranda Hawthorne Foundation. Figured spending a few weeks in Europe was exactly what I needed before getting a job to save up for college.”

  “I’m sorry about your dad. I’m glad he’s okay.”

  “Yeah, me too. So, your essay,” he presses. “You gonna spill, or is it private?”

  I squirm, uneasy about how to answer. I never had to write an essay, and didn’t even know one was required.

  But before I can find an excuse—or the nerve to admit the truth—the door opens, and in climb two girls and one guy, all around my age. I hope it’s the rest of our party, because five bodies back here is more than enough for my comfort level.

  “Hi!” a perky blonde exclaims shrilly before proceeding to introduce the members of her group, who seem to have made fast friends on their flight.

  I offer a friendly smile—one that is returned with a brushed-over “Hello.” And much like the cliques at my high school, I suddenly feel completely out of place.

  Soon, we’re moving and on our way to the Hawthorne Estate, my entire body even more on edge. With a nervous but unwavering smile on my anxious face, I strain to see through the darkened windows and take in what I can of the sites passing by rather than participate in the giggle-filled conversation around me.

  Doesn’t mean I don’t listen, though. Turns out everyone had to write an essay to land a spot here, but so far, I haven’t been asked about mine again.

  I’m only half paying attention…until his name is mentioned.

  “I was telling Bridget on the flight that I was a part of this last year, but only for the first week,” the bouncy blonde leader, Jackie, explains. “My aunt died, so I had to go home, but they let me come back this year…and I’m hoping I’ll get to see Kingston again.”

  “I heard he’s a hottie,” Bridget pipes up.

  “Oh my God, he’s gorgeous!” Jackie replies. “Last year he was only around the first couple of days, but that was enough for all the girls to be after him. I still talk to him on social media once in a while, but he gets busy.”

  “So, what does this Kingston guy do?” Patton asks.

  “Everything that makes a girl happy.” Did she seriously just say that? Eye roll. “He’s so charming. And I found out too late that he was in the States last year. Wish I could’ve seen him—I’d have met him anywhere—but something happened, and he cut his stay short. From what I gather, he didn’t enjoy it too much, and wasn’t planning on coming back anytime soon.”

  He didn’t enjoy his stay?

  I’d say it stings, but it’s more a sharp, murderous stab in the gut. Honestly, I’m not surprised…but is still hurts like hell to hear.

  Chapter 2

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Kelly,” I’m greeted the instant I step through the stunning double-door entrance.

  “Hello,” I reply to the man holding out his hand.

  I’m not sure how he knows my name, or who I am on sight alone, but he doesn’t look friendly enough to ask. I’d assume he wants to shake or kiss my hand, but the way he’s all but glaring at me nixes both those options. I glance back and forth between his unsettling expression and awaiting hand, unsure what he expects.

  “Your bag,” he instructs.

  “Oh! Of course.”

  I hand it over and watch him walk to another girl, where he does the same, collecting her belongings with every bit the lack of hospitality I’d received.

  I’m not sure he makes the best greeter, but I dare speaking to him anyway.

  “Excuse me, do you know where we’ll be staying tonight? There was no hotel information listed on the schedule.”

  “Here. You’ll be shown to your rooms after dinner.”

  Another man appears and opens a second set of doors that everyone quickly walks through, eager and excited to see what’s next. And get the hell away from scary guy, I’m sure.

  But despite my shared fear of “Mr. Personality,” I’m the polar opposite of the group. I stop to look around, wondering if Kingston grew up here—if he ran through this foyer as a child. And more than anything, I’m nervously pondering whether he’ll appear at some point.

  My steps are rigid and palms sweaty as I enter a large formal living room. The ceilings are high and boast multiple chandeliers, while grand sculptures and a high-end art collection decorate the rest of the room. I’m quickly realizing “living room” is the wrong phrase for this breathtaking setting. This is a shrine of “Look, but don’t touch…or move too suddenly.”

  But it’s the portrait of a young woman with a sweet and gentle smile, sitting on a wooden swing with her bare feet in the air, that snares my attention and doesn’t let go. I’m drawn toward the spirited look in her familiar gray eyes.

  I’m still standing in front of the picture, captivated, when I hear my name.

  “Miss Echo. I’m glad to see you arrived safely.”

  I turn to find an older yet equally handsome version of a face I could never forget, no matter how hard I tried.

  “Mr. Hawthorne.”

  “Gerard, please,” he corrects, taking my hand and squeezing it softly before letting go. “How was your flight?”

  “It was great, thank you. Not as scary as I’d built it up to be.” I release a nervous laugh.

  “Your father will be relieved to hear it.”

  “Yes, I need to call him soon.”

  “I’ve already let him know the car picked you up safely—though I’m sure he’d appreciate a ring from you tonight.”

  I nod, smiling. “Thank you.” I look back at the portrait, which is by far the most lighthearted piece of art in the room. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yes, she was exquisite,” Gerard remarks, his tone somber. “She was an explorer—always getting up to something, never able to simply sit and be. I believe it’s what I adored most about her.”

  I don’t need clarification on who she is. “How did the two of you meet?” I ask, instantly comfortable with the man. Another thing about him that’s familiar.

  “She was backpacking through the countryside, near Bath, when she misplaced her shoes. I was there—young, and far too serious for my own good. I watched her, and thought, ‘What type of girl loses her shoes? She had to have been wearing them not long before, so how could she have forgotten their whereabouts so quickly?’”

  He looks to me as though actually still confused by the story, but I notice his lip twitch slightly.

  “Shouldn’t one have thought her foolish?”

  I smile, but don’t answer. I know the question is rhetorical, and the twinkle in his eyes says he’s dying to tell me the rest.

  “Well, not my Miranda. The last thing that could ever have been said of her was that she was foolish. Delightful, intoxicating, mesmerizing, but never foolish. She’d kicked them off for a nap by the river, and when she woke, they were mysteriously gone. I didn’t know her at all, and was due back at my unit, but there was something intriguing about her. Watching her stumble through the bushes—babbling about an animal wandering off with her shoes, and her absolute belief in the bizarre possibility—did something unexplainable to me. I couldn’t leave her.”

  He pauses, dropping h
is gaze to the floor for a moment before lifting it again, a tender smile now on his lips.

  “I gave her a ride on my back, and walked for three miles until we met up with her group at a café. After that day, I never let her go again. And I bought her a new pair of shoes, seeing as how hers were obviously stolen. We were married a year later.”

  I turn my head quickly and wipe a tear from my cheek, hoping he hadn’t seen it. “That’s incredibly romantic.”

  Before I can comment further, a waiter stops next to us, holding a tray of champagne flutes. I may be of legal drinking age here, but I’ve never even had a sip of alcohol, so I hesitate.

  Gerard takes a flute and holds it out to me. “Sparkling cider.”

  “Thanks.” I let out a breathy laugh and take it, enjoying a taste. “So, is that why the foundation does the backpacking trips—because you met her that way?”

  “Yes. She believed we’d have met no matter what, much like she held fast to her furry-shoe-thief theory, but I was always thankful for her trip. The foundation is my way of remembering and honoring her—keeping her spirit alive, and sharing it with others. It’s been over twenty years since we lost her, but to this day, she’s the love of my life. And she left me an incredible gift.”

  I wait, unsure what it is exactly and conjuring up huge, romantic gestures in my head.

  His face brightens. “A son as free-spirited and headstrong as her.” He chuckles. “Kingston has a good heart, you know. I see her every time I look at him. She’d have loved to have met you, Echo.”

  “Why?” I blurt out, then quickly slam my lips together in embarrassment.

  “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean any disrespect, and I would’ve loved to have met her too. I…” I lower my voice, feeling like I may have crossed a line. “I appreciate this whole trip, I really do. I’m just not really sure why you offered it to me. I barely know your son.”

  He tilts his head thoughtfully. “Life is peculiar, and in complete control. Often, it takes but a split second for an unbreakable connection to be made. Kingston makes very few of them. Trust me when I say I’m honored to have you as a part of this summer’s trip, and my wife would be doting on you if she were here. That’s all you need to know.”

  Gerard gives me no chance to reply, turning on his heel and moving with ease through the crowd of waiters and other guests.

  “I take it you have a personal relationship with the family?”

  I jolt as Patton asks the question, sliding up beside me. “Is that why you didn’t have to write an essay?”

  “I never said I didn’t write…”

  His raised brows tell me he won’t be buying any excuse I’m about to create, so instead I sigh and offer my own version of the truth.

  “My brother was a foreign exchange student with Mr. Hawthorne’s son.”

  “I see.”

  Luckily, our attention is suddenly pulled to the front of the room. Gerard holds a microphone, greeting everyone and explaining how we’ll spend the next two days exploring London and Bath before traveling to our next stop.

  “We have a brilliant tour guide, who will be with you along every step of this journey. Any issues that arise, or questions you may have, should be directed his way.” Gerard turns toward the opening doors. “Please say hello to my son, Kingston Hawthorne.”

  Of course his name is announced at the precise moment I take a drink. I’m not exactly shocked to see him step into the room, but I’m certainly startled.

  And accordingly, I do the worst thing possible—spray a mouthful of cider onto the back of Bridget’s blouse.

  “Oh my God!” She whips around, glaring at me. “Did you…?”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I mutter, wiping my mouth like the uncivilized country girl I now very much feel I am.

  It’s not until I’m handing my glass off to a passing waiter that I realize the room is not only deadly silent, but all eyes are on me—including a steely gray pair that still penetrate directly into my very center.

  The longer our gazes mingle, the more Kingston must sense my unease, as he chooses that moment to break our connection and regain everyone’s attention by announcing dinner is being served in another room.

  I use the distraction to make my escape—where to, I don’t know, but I do know I’m suddenly in desperate need of some fresh air.

  “Echo!” I hear him calling after me the moment I hit the foyer, stopping my body cold. I can’t think past the thunderous pounding of my heart.

  And then I feel him at my back, his breath ghosting across my skin.

  “You must be hungry. Come eat, Love.”

  It’s that simple word, a term of endearment that’s anything but simple when it’s him saying it to me, that’s my undoing.

  I spin around to face him and take a deliberate step back.

  “Don’t call me that. Do not ever call me that again.”

  I pivot again, not willing to give up my quest for the freedom of outside, when he grabs both my arms.

  “It’s raining out. Please, come to dinner.”

  “I’m not hungry.” I can’t look at him, a new anger unleashing within me. Why is he bothering to talk to me after all this time? I’d almost convinced myself he’d forgotten my name.

  “As you wish. Shall I have someone show you where you’re staying tonight, then?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He starts to walk away, then stops and adds, “I won’t be far…if you need anything.”

  ~~~~~

  I won’t be far. Those parting words haunt me as I’m led up a flight of stairs and down a long hallway.

  Oh, he definitely won’t be far—not just in his home tonight, but for the next few weeks, considering he’s conveniently the tour guide. I want to be pissed, and I am, but I’m even more so a big ball of anxiety. Every emotion I’ve ever felt is now mingling with a whole set of new ones I don’t understand.

  My suited escort stops in front of one of the many doors lining the hallway, and opens it for me.

  One step in, and I freeze.

  “Are you sure this is the right room?”

  He sets my backpack on the bed. “Yes, miss.” He walks back to the door and says, “Breakfast is served at 7 a.m. You’ll be expected.”

  And with that, he leaves me alone in the space I know is anything but a typical guest room; it was clear the second I entered. If his signature scent hadn’t given it away, the sporting trophies on the shelf in the corner, all with his name engraved on them, would have.

  I’m in Kingston’s bedroom. This is not happening.

  I race to the bed to grab my belongings, and am in the middle of hightailing it out of here in search of Jeeves when I spot a sticky note on the dresser mirror.

  Your turn to snoop. Sleep well, Love.

  I can’t stop the smile that emerges on my lips and set my bag back on the bed, deciding to play along. Why not have a little look around? It doesn’t sound like he’ll be trying to join me tonight, which means I’m safe in this room…for now. And like I once said, what’s good for the Echo is good for the Kingston, so payback snoop I shall!

  The room is bare compared to Sebastian’s. The walls are empty aside from the trophy shelf and a few road signs that don’t look store-bought, but instead scuffed, bent—and stolen.

  And on the dresser sits the lone picture in the room…one of his mother holding her baby boy, who’s wearing a little racing suit.

  I pick it up and smile. Kingston can’t be more than six months old in it; guess his mother was so attuned to her son that even early on she knew he’d grow up to be an adrenaline junkie.

  I set it back down and open the top drawer. I’m not really focused on what I’ll find, still feeling the sadness of the loss he endured with his mother, when I finally realize I’m staring at a large collection of black boxer briefs.

  I’m about to slam the drawer shut, rattled, when I spot a glimpse of pink poking out of the corner. And I have to laugh when I tug out a hot-pink pair of
Calvin Klein boxer briefs, with a message stapled to the tag that’s dangling on the side.

  Tit for tat. Mine were never worn, either.

  My laughter explodes as I tuck them back away. Very nice, Kingston, I think, deciding that’s enough snooping for me.

  I head into the en-suite bathroom and take a quick shower, part of me waiting for a message to appear on the shower door. When it doesn’t, I look to the bathroom mirror. Still nothing…but I know it’s for the best. No sense in rehashing the past any more tonight.

  I climb into his bed, instantly hit with his overwhelming, masculine scent. He slept here last night—I can sense it. His head rested on this same pillow that I’m now squeezing tightly, and his body was wrapped in this same quilt covering my own.

  And just when I think there’s a chance I can be civil, I hear giggling coming from the hallway, followed by a high-pitched voice speaking his name.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I sneak over like the snoop he suggested I be and crack open the door just enough to get a peek.

  There, standing in the hall, is Jackie. Her arms are around Kingston, her lips…closing in on his.

  I slam the door, not caring if the whole damn mansion hears, and lock it before rushing to my bag and popping a sleeping pill. I ignore the knock that comes seconds later, my head already buried under the pillow that no longer has a pillowcase since I’d ripped that scented fucking thing right off and thrown it across the room.

  I knew Kingston last year—watched him prance around town kissing the knuckles of every tart with a pulse, saw him open the door while classless, panty-less girls crawled into his car. I know the guy he is, and the guy he’ll always be. And just because he’s being nice and a little funny with the pink-underwear throwback doesn’t mean anything more…and certainly not what my heart apparently wanted to hope it would mean.

  I feel my walls go right back up, taller and stronger than ever, as the knocking stops and sleep consumes me.

  Chapter 3

  Anger. That’s all I feel the next morning, and not even at him. The shameful rage boiling inside me is directed solely at myself.