Filthy Foreign Exchange(14)
Jesus. I don’t have anything else to put on! So my only choice is to face him once again, my breasts now somewhat concealed and therefore the lesser of two evils.
My eyes close momentarily on my deep sigh. “Okay. I’m sorry I was rude at school today and didn’t offer you a ride home. Now can you just stop being so mean?” I despise the vulnerability tinging every syllable, but I’ve never felt more exposed—literally and figuratively.
He steps farther into my space, his brows dipping as his smile is instantly replaced by a perplexed frown. “You, my darling Echo, are truly an enigma. I tell you how exceptional you are—your body, your movements—and you think I’m being cruel? I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand anything, except that I’d like for you to stop doing it. Your vulgar remarks and observations about my body make me…uncomfortable. And any attention at my school, and especially the college, makes my skin crawl.”
He doesn’t speak, so I continue, the tautness in my shoulders subsiding more with each word of release. “Look, this is the one spot where I feel at ease. And whether you meant to or not, you invaded it.”
I snag my towel off the ground and turn toward the trail that leads back through the woods, even more flustered now than when I got here.
“Wait.”
He catches me by the arm and spins me to face him. “My apologies. I won’t come out here again, and I’ll try to keep my compliments to myself. It’s just so bloody hard. I know I’m making a shambles of trying to get to know you, Echo, but that’s all I want to do: get to know the breath of fresh air that lives but a room away. How about we call a truce?”
His plea is accompanied by a pouting lip and big, sad eyes—which, on any other guy, would look pathetic. But on Kingston Hawthorne? Not so much—not even in the realm of pathetic, unless I’m mistaken on the definition of ‘pathetic’…and ‘intoxicating.’
I try to imagine how it must feel to be in a new country, with no friends or family as security, and finally surrender a smile.
“All right. Truce.”
I stick out my hand. But rather than shake it, he takes it gently in his own and dips his head. I’m expecting for him to kiss my knuckles, like all the other “tarts,” at which time I fully intend to knee him in the groin and never forgive him.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns my hand over and softly lays his lips on my wrist—right over the pulse he no doubt feels fluttering. “Thank you.”
“Y-you’re welcome,” I stammer. “If you promise to keep your entourage away from me, and resist the urge to pilfer through my panty drawer, I promise to be nicer. Deal?”
“Deal. Now,” he says, lifting his head and offering me a vivid smile, “would you be so kind as to show me to this truck your father told me to unload?”
I can’t contain the excitement in my response. “The equipment truck’s here? Yes, come on!” I start dragging him by the hand. “That’s our new bars, nets, and silks. Oh, I can’t wait to see! Hurry up!”
~~~~~
“I think I’m supposed to be doing that,” Kingston says, watching me unload the truck like a chubby kid at Cake Camp.
“You’re helping.”
I smile and turn to hand him another box, promptly using every ounce of strength I possess not to drop it. Kingston chooses that moment to reach behind his neck to pull off his T-shirt with one hand, and I’d swear the rest of the scene unfolds in slow motion.
I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it—the lone bead of sweat that trickles down his breastbone, between two very pronounced pecs, is spellbinding. I don’t dare let my eyes wander lower, for fear I might choke on my own tongue—or worse, air my approval aloud and humiliate myself. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head, clearing away both the real vision and the ones I’m elaborating on in my mind.
When I open them, Kingston’s wearing a knowing smirk as big as his biceps. “You were saying?” he asks, unapologetic flirtation in his tone.
“Oh, um…be careful with this one,” I utter, blindly handing it to him since my gaze is cast at my feet. “It’s my crystal hoop. Very fragile.”
“Echo, get out of that truck!”
I cringe at the sound of Clay’s voice.
“I’m here now. I’ll do the heavy lifting, baby girl.”
I grab another box in response.
Kingston chuckles. “Good luck, mate. She wouldn’t let me do it either.” There’s a pause before he adds, in that debonair timbre I’m becoming familiar with (and a little too addicted to), “Savannah. Lovely to see you again.”
I turn and nearly trip over a bundle of ropes, shocked that Savannah’s here. I’ve seen more of her since Kingston’s arrival than when my brother, her actual boyfriend, was home. Really going to need her to lose that newly developed, nasally giggle she lets out every time Kingston talks, too. And he’s going to need to stop kissing her hand, along with the hands of every single female he crosses. Who knows what germs he’s picking up and bringing home.
“Ah, Echo here can be a stubborn one,” Clay says. “With new folks, anyway.” He grabs the rope at my feet and glances up with a creepy grin. My return smile couldn’t be more forced.