After flying overseas to enroll in a prestigious boarding school, Blake Graham assumes that she can finally catch a break.
Instead, she encounters the boy who she fought with almost every day as a child.
After moving back to England, then over to...
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After the ridiculously short drive, due to Dakota's fast driving, we arrived at the small airfield. The airfield was stretched across miles and miles of tarmac. Large hangars stood on various ends of the field, one which had the words 'Graham' printed on it. As we parked near my Hangar, an attendant approached the car.
"Mademoiselle Graham? Ah oui! L'avion est presque prêt! Pouvons-nous vous aider avec les sacs? Monsieur?" The flurry of fast French flew through his mouth, after informing me of the status of the plane, the attendant turned to Nico.
"Avez-vous des sacs? Voudtais- tu de l'aide?" The attendant asked Nico if he needed help, and when Nico helplessly shrugged giving us a panicked look the attendant soon realized Nico's issue. "Oh! Désolée! Parlez-vous?" He apologetically smiled. Nico, once again shook his head, signaling his lack of knowledge regarding French.
I felt a little bad due to the boys struggle, while he and the attendant kept trying to communicate, resulting in confusion. Just as I was about to step in, a slight scoff sounded, interrupting the French man and British boy.
"Il ne comprend pas le français. Nos sacs sont dans le coffre. Voir, facile?" Clark dryly informed the attendant as to where our bags were. He then sarcastically smiled at Nico saying the last words. There, Easy?
The attendant called another man to come help get our bags from the trunk. As they picked our bags up and placed them onto a trolley, I walked towards Clark.
"Vous pouvez parler français?" I slightly murmured towards him. I had no idea he was fluent or at least somewhat fluent in French.
"Bien, que puis-je dire? Je ne suis pas aussi ignorant que vous le pensez. Je vis dans le monde des affaires et le français est important" He murmured back, his voice slightly laced with venom. He thinks I presume him as an idiot. But he was right for why he knew French. In our world, making connections are easier by knowing more languages.
"And anyways," his low voice interrupted my thoughts, "les femmes aiment aussi quand je leur parle en français," a smirk appeared on his face at his words. He was saying that women like when he talks to them in French, but there's no reason to smirk at tha--
"You are disgusting!" I shrieked at his gross reference to his sex life, which made his smirk widen by a fraction. Soon I calmed down, and right as the other boys started approaching us I quietly whispered to him. "I don't think you're stupid."
"What?"
He didn't hear me. I could easily walk away and make him think that I think that he's an idiot. But I didn't do that. "Je ne pense pas que tu es ignorant," I raised my voice slightly so he could hear. Before he could respond, the attendant let us know that the jet was ready.
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