Filthy Foreign Exchange(38)

“Bollocks,” he growls. “You have no idea what guys are really like. I do!” He slaps his chest. “I’m a guy. I won’t have it, Echo. No way in bloody hell.” He shakes his head, his accent thick with rage.

“Why not?” I ask softly, waiting for his answer with bated breath, foolishly begging for the words I long to hear but can do nothing about. I’m not sure which would be worse: torturously knowing the true source of his adamant disapproval and not being able to act upon it, or not knowing for sure. But I’m positive which situation I’d prefer.

He looks me dead in the eyes, acute awareness therein. And slowly, his brows dip with his frown. He’s not going to say it…and something deep within me starts to ache.

He reaches up, and his knuckles skim my cheek. “You’re magnificent, Echo—a rare, flawless treasure. Don’t waste such exception on any man who doesn’t realize your value.”

I lean my cheek into his touch and let my eyes fall closed, soaking up the warmth of his words. I don’t want to resist this pull toward Kingston anymore. It’d be pointless, anyway, considering it’s far more powerful than I could ever hope to be.

“Kingston…” His name releases on a quiet breath and my eyes open, expressing what the next words that tremble on my lips are about to admit. “I—”

He stands abruptly and clears his throat, taking his gentle touch with him. “Promise me,” he says. “Stay away from that bloke. Surely there are some decent boys in your school. Keep looking.”

I can only nod, holding back my tears of rejection.

He sighs heavily, then smiles slowly. “Thank you. Sleep well, Love.”

I watch every muscle in his back flex as he walks away and disappears through the bathroom.

Suddenly, I’m angry with myself. I’d been a fool to actually believe there was something between us—that he was fighting the temptation of overwhelming feelings, just like me.

Stupid, Echo. You’re a plain, high-school girl who has zero experience with the opposite sex. He’s a gorgeous, debonair college guy with a sexy accent, and can have his pick of any girl in this town.

I punch my pillow and toss and turn, but nothing helps. I can’t get comfortable—neither in my bed, nor my own skin.

Life may have been simpler before Kingston arrived, but what aggravates me most is that I’m still glad he’s here.

~~~~~

The next morning, I’m sure of one thing from the moment my eyes open: My mood is already past the point of prickly.

And the quote he leaves on the mirror? Well, let’s just say it stokes the fire that simmered inside me all night to fully aflame, hazardous levels.

No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good.

I wipe it away instantly, growling to myself. To hell with his “nobility” and mixed messages, storming into my life and dangling his charm and everything else I can’t have right in front of my face!

He texts me several times throughout the day; no girl pictures this time, just completely random stuff, like a bird bathing in a puddle, a tree whose leaves are caught between summer green and fall yellow, and even one of his untied boot. I don’t respond to any of them.

Finally, in last period, he uses words.

Kingston: You’re angry.

I am, along with a heavy mixture of upset and bewildered, though I’ll never admit that to him. But I also won’t act like the immature schoolgirl he already seems to think I am.

So to prove that—and because he used words this time—I respond.

Me: No, I’m not. Why would you think that?

Not entirely a lie. I’m not just angry.

Kingston: Because you’re glaring at your phone, blemishing your beautiful face with that scowl I fear I caused.

My head pops up, eyes scanning frantically until they land on his, which are watching me through the glass pane in the classroom door.

What are you doing here? I mouth.

Waiting for you, he mouths back with an irresistible smirk and wink.

It’s a double-whammy reminder of all I can’t have. But he’s here, because he knows I’m upset. Who could stay mad after that?

Not this girl.

Of course, I have to wait for the swarm around him to scatter before I can get close enough to speak to him after class.

He’s wearing his combat boots, dark jeans, and a gray shirt, which is wrinkled from all the pawing. His nearly black hair sticks out in many delicious directions…and those smoky eyes are anchored to mine.

“You spend more time in this high school than half the guys who actually go here,” I say with a laugh as I approach him.

“I don’t enjoy being ignored,” he states.

“I imagine you don’t. Droves of attention seem more your thing,” I tease, now walking to my locker to put my stuff away.

He follows and leans one shoulder against the locker beside mine, his arms crossed over his chest. “Jealous?”

“No more than you were about Craig.”

I can’t believe I just said that! I don’t actually think he was jealous anymore—in fact, I’ve spent all day in a grumpy shame spiral, because his very specific advice and abrupt departure last night made it perfectly clear he wasn’t. And yet, I’d put it out there anyway.

No wonder he mystifies me. I can’t even figure myself out.