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being all manner of unsettled. It wasn’t until the limousine vanished around the sweeping bend a few yards away from the terminal that I finally found my brain and grabbed the photographer nearest to me.
    “Who was that?” I asked the sneering man trying to disengage my grip on his wrist.
    “In the limo?” The photographer tossed a nod over his shoulder, as if the limo and its mysterious passenger were still there.
    “Yes,” I answered, trying not to sound agitated. Who else would I be talking about?
    “You don’t know?”
    I shook my head.
    “That was Raphael Jones.” The man smirked.
    “Who—”
    But before I could finish asking who Raphael Jones was, the photographer had shaken off my hold and was hurrying away, looking at the back of his camera as he did so.
    I stood and watched the dispersing photographers and crowd, racking my brain to find any clue as to why the name should mean anything worthy of such frenzied excitement.
    Nothing.
    I shrugged. “Must be an Australian celebrity.”
    Deciding to Google the guy when I finally made it to my on-campus accommodation (my iPhone wasn’t talking to the Australian network yet, damn it), I made my way to the first available cab, climbed into the back and gave the driver the address I’d be staying at while I was a student of the University of Sydney.
    The memory of Raphael Jones’s kiss sent a delicious little thrill through me and I wriggled deeper into my seat. So I’d been kissed by an Australian celebrity not even a few hours into the country. Not bad for a college dork from Plenty, Ohio, even if I do say so myself. It kind of made up for the otherwise dismal start to my adventure. Pity I was never going to see him again or I’d show him how an American girl did things.
    Okay, maybe not, given how much of a twitchy, emotional wreck I am, but a girl can kick ass in her fantasies, can’t she? It’s not like I was going to see him again. Australia’s a big country, after all.
    Right?
     

On Campus
     
    The first surprise was I had a room to myself. I’m not sure why, but I thought I was going to be sharing. When I arrived at Mackellar House, one of the on-campus dorms at the University of Sydney and my home for the first half of my time in Australia, the very perky, chirpy and all-round friendly foreign student liaison officer, Heather Renner, met me at the bottom of the front steps. Heather was taller than me—I’m only five foot four—with long red hair that fell about her face in a mass of tight curls and made her look like a Pixar heroine. She grinned and hugged me and talked at five miles a minute. To be honest, I had trouble keeping up.
    Our conversation went something like this.
    Heather: “Are you Maci Rowling?”
    Me: (opens mouth)
    Heather: “You are, aren’t you? Welcome to Australia. What do you think so far? No, don’t tell me, you’ve only been in the country for a few hours, as if you’ve made up your mind yet. Bet it’s different from Plenty. I Googled Plenty this morning when I got the job of greeting you. It’s a small place, isn’t it?”
    Me: (mouth still open)
    Heather: “Looks lovely. You’ll find Sydney lovely as well. Well, certain parts of Sydney. The part you’ll spend most of your time at. Have you seen much of the uni yet? Oh, when I say ‘uni’, I mean the university. Did you know that? I have a friend in the States and she keeps telling me she can hardly understand a word I say. Can you understand me?”
    Me: (shuts mouth)
    Heather: “Am I talking too fast? I talk fast, I know. Can you understand my accent? Anyways, I’m going to show you to your room and let you settle in. You’ve arrived during O Week, so be ready to party. Oh shit, I should tell you what O Week is, shouldn’t I? O Week is basically a party for all the new students. O. Orientation. Get it?”
    Me: (opens mouth again)
    Heather: “Mackellar House has its own O Week party tonight so be prepared. Maybe you should get some sleep