Copyright © 2023 by Abby Knox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is coincidental.

  Edited by Aquila Editing

  Cover Designer: Ember Davis

  Hello from Abby!

  Thanks for picking up my book! If you want to check out more of my titles, please visit my author page at www.authorabbyknox.com.

  To keep up with all my latest news, subscribe to my newsletter here.

  Happy reading!

  Foreign Exchange

  BACK IN THE DAY

  ABBY KNOX

  Contents

  Foreign Exchange

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Catch the whole series!

  If you loved Cian and Serenity’s story…

  Also by Abby Knox

  About the Author

  Foreign Exchange

  Cian

  For a shy lad from Dublin, my year as a foreign exchange student at an American high school was strange and exciting.

  What sticks out most in my mind is one person: Serenity. She was my first crush, and my only friend at that school. To everyone else in the class, she was a geeky drama student with shabby clothes. For me, Serenity was the strongest person I've ever met. So imagine my surprise when I receive an invitation to a class reunion across the pond. And I have it on good information that Serenity will be there. I was too shy to tell her how I felt when I was a teenager, but now, not even the Atlantic Ocean can hold me back.

  Serenity

  As a rule, I don't keep up with anyone from high school. In fact, I'd prefer never to see any of those people again. My classmates bullied me for my off-brand clothes, tragic hair, and my dreams of making it in Hollywood one day. Yeah, they were all pretty much jerks -- all except for Cian. The foreign exchange student from Ireland was the sweetest. There's probably no chance he'll be there, but wouldn't that be fun if he was? Plus, as I gaze at the Golden Globes on my mantle, I feel tempted to be a tiny bit petty toward my former bullies. Am I actually going to shock everyone and attend? Yes...yes I am.

  Chapter One

  Cian

  The overseas letter in my grease-smudged hands has been to hell and back.

  I stare at it, imagining what this piece of post has endured to get to me.

  Scratching my head, I try to remember the last time I received air mail.

  “You going to read it or sing it a lullaby?”

  And now I’ve got axle grease in my hair.

  The mild ribbing comes from Freddy the postman. He adjusts his bag and tilts his head at me in curiosity. Freddy’s a nosy fucker.

  “Are you waiting on a tip? Because you’ll be waiting until you’re in the grave,” I say.

  He juts his chin to the letter. “Someone deserves a raise for making sure that letter found you.”

  He’s not wrong.

  I glance back down at the envelope with the striped border.

  My old address in Dublin is crossed out, and the words, “No longer resides at this address. See reverse,” are scrawled next to it. Flipping it over, there’s more. My former landlady’s turned into James Fucking Joyce. “Last seen fixing cars in Ballygassan. Pale bearded fella with glasses.”

  I wipe the perspiration from my forehead with the back of my hand, and examine the return address: some post office box in the middle of America. “Gold Hill, Ohio.”

  Dread rushes through me as I finally tear it open. Who in the world would be reaching out to me from that American suburban hellscape?

  Okay, it wasn’t complete hell. The drama geeks were friendly enough. Especially Serenity, my host sister with the unfortunate last name. Her father, too, was extremely kind to me. And that’s the complete list of positives about the place.

  Oh, the locals weren’t monsters to me…but they were to Serenity. Jackasses, most of them.

  Did I forget something in my locker? Do they need someone to come to career day and can’t find two remaining brain cells to rub together? “Your presence is requested at the reunion of the Class of 2013.”

  I would toss this note aside and let it rot on my kitchen counter for months until I remembered to recycle it.

  And yet…and yet.

  Something pulls at me.

  Will Serenity be there?

  I doubt that very much.

  But then, the hopeful side of me that miraculously has not been beaten out of me by ten years of singlehood says there’s a chance.

  If I knew Serenity would be there, there’s no question. I would go in a heartbeat.

  “Cian!”

  I turn and jut my chin out to my sister Maggie, who’s paused her work to give me the death stare.

  “Be right back,” I tell her.

  “I’m in the middle of a rush job and you’re fucking around reading love notes.”

  “You got this, sister,” I say absently, wiping the worst of the grease off my hands on the front of my coveralls before I dig around in my pockets for my phone.

  Ignoring Maggie’s grumbling, I pull up Instagram and spy on Serenity’s account for clues.

  Serenity Jackson (formerly Hyman) has 1.2 million followers, and one of them is me. I’m not a doom scroller by any stretch, but I do like to keep up with my old friend.

  Today, there’s a new post of her on the red carpet at a fancy film festival in one of those American mountain ski resort towns. Her skin glows in a green dress, and her hair is pulled up in a loose bun with tendrils brushing her shoulders. She’s stunning. And out of my league. She was out of my league in high school and times a thousand today.

  My old friend looks happily single. I don’t know why I’m relieved by this inference—it’s not as if I have a chance of getting down with a famous movie star.

  What clues am I even looking for? There’s no way to know whether she’s going to a class reunion. Hollywood stars don’t advertise their travel plans.

  But just look at her. If I hadn’t been so shy and botched that kiss, I might have hitched myself to her shooting star and ended up a Hollywood house husband. Is that a thing?

  I glance around my dad’s garage and towing company where Maggie and I work. Dad pitches in when he’s up for it, but I think he’s itching to retire soon.

  “What are you doing there? Staring at your American crush again?”

  I look over at my sister, who’s wiping her hands with the oil rag and peeking over my shoulder.

  “Sending my regrets to a party.”

  Maggie swipes the invitation from my hand and looks it over, then makes a noise of interest. “You should go.”

  “Don’t like parties.”

  “How are you related to me?” Maggie shouts over her shoulder as she returns to tinkering with the car.

  I find the class president’s Instagram—per the instructions on the invite—and type a message. Then I delete and retype it.

  Should I stay or should I go?

  Before I can question it, I send the class president my response. I’m going.

  It’s better to have to cancel a reservation than beg for one after I change my mind.

  Then I click over to Serenity’s ’gram account and debate whether to DM her.

  Would that be creepy? We were friends. I lived in an apartment with her and her dad for an entire academic year.

  And she and I kissed. And what a kiss that was. Terrible—awkward and dry and not well thought out. The buildup was excruciating, delicious torture. I loved the idea of kissing the soft, pillowy lips that smiled at me every morning in homeroom. The execution of that idea was not my best work.

  Serenity and I haven’t kept in touch. I don’t know how she would interpret a random message from me.

  Or if she’d even see this message.

  Finally, I decide. No sense in not trying.

  I type out the words and hit send before my nerves get the better of me. “Hi Serenity. I don’t know if you remember me, but it looks like I’ll be stopping by the class reunion. Are you going?”

  Send.

  Breathe, Cian. Breathe.

  Maggie is about done with my lazy ass.

  “What are you doing now? Charlie just rang, asking when the car will be ready.”

  “Booking a flight to Ohio,” I say, tapping on the travel app on my phone.

  “Is that the one with the potatoes?”

  I roll my eyes because my sister knows damn well where I went on my year as an exchange student in America. She thinks she’s hilarious.

  “No, that’s Idaho. Feckin’ eejit.”

  She snorts. “Whatever the fuck gets you out of the house.”

  When I rejoin Maggie to work on the car, I sense her ey
eballing me.

  “What the hell are you smiling about?”

  “Feeling lucky,” is all I say.

  Chapter Two

  Serenity

  My assistant scribbles very loudly in her appointment book.

  Ellen loves that book, and she loves ticking off agenda items, underlining things, and scrawling notes in the margins.

  She’s like an adorable younger sister who enjoys bossing me around like a big sister. And I would be lost without her. I just wish she was a tenth less driven before my caffeine has kicked in for the day.

  “One more thing,” Ellen says, tapping the end of her pen to her lips. She’s already put on a full face of makeup at 7 a.m., fetched my dry cleaning and my Starbucks.

  I am not a morning person, as evidenced by my sitting braless in my favorite bathrobe, luxuriating in my velvet chair in my dressing room.

  I tuck my bare feet under me and smile up at her. “Yes?”

  “You asked me to give you some time to consider the invitation to your high school reunion? They need an RSVP this week. Do you want me to throw that away? I know how you are about paper lying around, so if you want me to go ahead and recycle it…”

  I glance out my dressing room window that overlooks the waves crashing against the Malibu shore. The orange puff ball in my lap wiggles, and I scratch my Pomeranian behind her ears. “Am I really doing this, Duchess?”

  My assistant received the letter months ago, and it’s been nagging at me.

  “We should go, right?” The diamond dog collar sparkles. Duchess yips and wags her tail.

  “It’s decided then.”

  I look up at the golden statue on my mantle and smile. If my tormentors could see me now. I bought this house because it came with a fireplace in a dressing room—a room bigger than the apartment I grew up in.

  From Gold Hill, Ohio, to the Golden Globes.

  All the rich bullies back home can eat shit.

  But is that a reason to attend a class reunion? Just to rub everyone’s nose in my success?

  Maybe that’s enough.

  Maybe seeing them again will be enough to stop them from living rent-free in my head. That’s what my therapist advises.

  Also…I’m not above a little bit of pettiness.

  I could swoop in and be gone in five minutes. Just to make an appearance.

  There’s one other thing that piques my interest—the one person who made my senior year livable.

  Cian O’Connor, the exchange student from Dublin. My first crush, my first kiss, my friend.

  I close my eyes for a second and recall the memory. He’d just completed building a set for our production of Anne of Green Gables, and he was helping me go over lines. The student who played Gilbert was a buffoon who never knew his lines, and Cian was there for me.

  I had been on the verge of a nervous breakdown about the entire production, but Cian talked me through it. “It’s only high school. If he doesn’t know his lines, you’re still the sparkle and shine of this whole production. That’s what people will remember.”

  His words sank in so sweetly that I stared at him for the longest time. Maybe a creepily long time, and then he leaned in and touched my hair, dyed red for the character of Anne. I leaned in, and our lips met in the middle. It was weird and awkward, with dry lips and noses bumping and nervous laughter. But then it was soft and sweet and felt insanely exciting.

  Cian gave me nervous butterflies just by looking at me, which was a lot to deal with while living with the boy for a full senior year. At the same time, he made me feel like I could do anything.

  I pull up Instagram just to check, and catch a DM notification. My accounts are set up to filter everyone but mutuals, but sometimes odd ones get through.

  “Hi, Serenity. I don’t know if you remember me, but…”

  I instantly rush to read the rest of the message.

  “…it looks like I’ll be stopping by the class reunion. Are you going?”

  Oh my god, I think. It’s from Cian. My fingers sink into Duchess’s mass of fur.

  And then, I message him back.

  Biting my lip, I type: “Hi, Cian! Of course, I remember you, silly! You were my pretend brother!”

  I hit send, realizing that I haven’t replied to Ellen.

  “Serenity?”

  “Yes, Ellen. I think I’ll be going after all,” I tell her.

  She nods and scribbles more reminders.

  As for me, I go back to my DMs. Cian has seen my message but hasn’t responded yet.

  I bite my lip and type: “I’ll be there if you will. You better not leave me in the lurch, kid.”

  A delighted, nostalgic feeling hits me when he replies instantly: “I can’t wait to see you.”

  I can almost hear his accent, and it takes me back.

  And then I do something insanely stupid because although I am 99 percent sure that this is the real Cian—the photo looks exactly like him, plus ten years on his face and ten very nice pounds around his torso—and I shoot him my phone number.

  “Call me,” I type.

  My stomach tumbles as I wait for his reply.

  I’ve never given my direct phone number to anyone at first contact. Everyone goes through Ellen until we both know they are who they say they are. Ellen arranges my coffee dates. That boy band lead singer called my people to ask me to go out for coffee that one time. That’s how it works.

  Of course, I had thought it was only about coffee and getting to know each other. The famous singer’s people had told Ellen he spotted me at a movie premiere and thought I was “prettier in person than on screen.”

  As weird as that compliment was, how could I say no to a date with that man? As it turned out, his publicists only wanted to see how well we photographed together.

  The whole thing gave me the creeps, so I turned the singer down the next time his people called, and ever since then, Ellen’s phone and email have been blowing up with requests from different publicists who want to set me up with their clients. Because “playing hard to get” with that guy somehow makes me a hotter commodity in the celebrity dating game.

  I have one word for all of that: disgusting.

  I don’t date around. I don’t try people on for size to see if we photograph well together. I’m selective with the people around me for a reason.

  Let publicists influence who I date? I think fucking not.

  Cian phones me, making me realize my phone hasn’t rung since two weeks ago when my dad called from Ohio.

  I answer immediately.

  “Hi,” I say, smiling.

  Laughing, he replies, “Holy fuck, am I speaking to Golden Globe winner Serenity Jackson?”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. “Thank you for not using my real last name.”

  “I’d say you rose above it all, still intact.”

  “Cian!”

  I can’t pretend to be outraged by his double entendre for long. The laughter makes the negative memories fade. The mockery. The scrawled post-it notes on my locker.

  “So,” I say, my skin tingling with excitement. I can’t believe I’m saying it. “You want to try that terrible kiss again?”

  He groans, and I can almost see him squeeze his eyes tight with embarrassment to block out the memory. “It was terrible on your end, wasn’t it?”

  “It wasn’t great,” I admit. “But I’m happy to report you didn’t have bad breath, at least.”

  He laughs harder. “I feel so much better about it now.”

  “My gosh, it’s good to hear your laugh again,” I sigh. It truly is. It’s so good that my stupid heart skips a beat.

  “It’s good to be hearing your…everything.”

  I feel like I’m 18 again. Giddy and silly and excited about life.

  “You’re just as sweet as ever. I’m gonna give you the biggest hug at that reunion,” I say.