A/N: Hi everybody! First fanfic, so please be nice. If you read, please review and I'm not sure how frequent my updates are going to be, so please bear with me! Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Teen Wolf, only Esther. Similar content and dialogue probably originated from the show

ONE

Well, here I am. Beacon Hills, California. It is nothing like France, I can tell you that. You know why? I know my way around France. However, in California, I am totally lost. My aunt and cousin told me to meet them at this coffee shop at 12:30 in the afternoon on August 15; the day my flight gets in.

They aren't here.

So, here I am, sitting at a small table with my art pad, iPod and earphones, an acoustic guitar and an old, dark leather shoulder bag with no clue how to get where I'm meant to go. There's charcoal all over my hands, because I draw messy when I'm nervous. They are fifteen minutes late, and I'm starting to freak out. Someone set a cup of coffee down in front of me. Looking up, I saw a boy about my age, maybe a bit older. He had light brown hair and green-blue eyes that I would love to draw. He stood at maybe six-feet and was obviously and athlete.

"What's this?" I asked.

I could tell that my light French accent surprised him. His eyes widened ever so slightly.

"You look a little lost," he recovered quickly. "Thought this might help."

Quirking an eyebrow, I gave a small smile. I pointed to the seat across from me; an invitation that he took. It was silent for a few minutes, both of us trying to look at each other without the other noticing.

"So, who are you?" he asked, breaking the silence.

"Esther Leroux," I told him.

"Well Esther, it's nice to meet you," he introduced. "I'm Jackson Whittemore."

I gave a small 'hm' and took a sip of the drink he'd brought me. It was very good. A little bit spicy, but sweet.

"What is this?" I asked him, pointing at the drink.

He scratched behind his neck.

"It's chai," Jackson told me. "A friend of mine likes them."

Nodding, I got the impression he didn't want to talk about it.

Coughing, Jackson asked, "So, what brings you to Beacon Hills?"

I opened my mouth to respond but quickly closed it. I was not about to tell a complete stranger why I'd really been sent here. There was no way. Opening my mouth again, I shrugged.

"Just needed a change," I said.

Jackson seemed to accept the answer and nodded.

"Where'd you move from?"

"What is this," I giggled. "Twenty questions?"

"Yeah, pretty much," he grinned, matter of factly.

Oh my Lord, his smile is just too perfect. Honestly, he must've hit the genetic lottery.

"France," I told him.

"Why'd you live in France?"

"My mom is American and my dad is French. They met, fell in love, blah, blah, blah. When they got married, they decided to move permanently to Paris, instead of splitting time between France and here," I explained.

My phone beeped. "Sorry", I mumbled fishing it from my bag. Looking at the text, I sighed in aggravation.

"What's wrong?" Jackson questioned.

"My cousin was supposed to pick me up, but he forgot, so now I am stranded," I mumbled, my face buried in my hands.

"I could give you a ride, if you want," he offered, almost shyly. That surprised me. Jackson did not seem like the shy type.

"Oh, no! I couldn't let you do that!" I exclaimed. "Especially not after the coffee and everything."

He stood up, grabbing my guitar along the way. "I insist."

Well, he obviously wasn't taking no for an answer.

I grinned. I enjoyed the fact that the first person I met here, besides the cab driver, was sweet, male, and really, really hot.

Now came the difficult, not to mention embarrassing, part; trying to stand up without too much pain. Bracing my arms on the table and back of the chair, I pushed myself up, grimaced and stumbled forwards.

"Whoa," Jackson threw his arms out to steady me. "You okay?"

"I'll live," I told him, stooping to pick up my bag.

He shot me a look that clearly said If you say so and walked out the door, me trailing behind.

"So, who's your cousin?" Jackson asked from the driver's seat of his Porsche.

Seriously. He drove a freaking Porsche. What else was there to learn about this guy?

"Scott McCall," I told him.

"Are you serious?" he chocked.

Shooting him a look, I asked what the problem was.

"McCall and I may or may not hate each other," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Brilliant," I muttered, rolling my eyes.

"Hey, it's nothing personal," he said. "We've just never really gotten along."

"Alright," I shrugged, a little skeptically. Scott is such a sweetheart and Jackson was super nice. I totally thought they'd be friends.

We pulled up in front of Scott's house a couple minutes later. I thanked him but before I got out of the car, he grabbed my wrist and wrote his number on the back of my hand.

"You'll be needing a tour guide," he smirked, before pulling away from the curb.

Could he get any more attractive?

Knocking on the door of the McCall house, I realized no one was home. Sighing, I opened the front door with the key my aunt had sent me. Stepping in, I saw random pink post-it notes on the floor, with arrows drawn on them. They led around the corner to a bedroom on the first floor. It was perfect. All the things that I needed were there; my easel and paints, music books, art supplies. Everything.

For the first time since I'd landed, I finally felt at home.