Page 108 of Filthy Rich Boys (Rich Boys Of Burberry Prep 1)
“You dyed your hair for me,” I whisper, and he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But then his grin spreads from one side of his face to the other.
“Yeah, well.” He notices the loose laces hanging off my dress and spins me around by the shoulders, yanking them tight and breathing sensually across the back of my neck. When he pulls the laces taut, I get a jittery feeling inside my chest. It actually feels good, having him bind me into the outfit. “Green and red is too, I dunno, Christmas-y. And I knew as soon as I saw that dress that it was yours. Therefore, it only made sense to change my hair.”
“You have an interesting way of looking at the world, you know that?” I tell him as he turns me back around and tugs me into his arms. I let him pull me close, enjoying the sensation of his tattooed body pressed up against mine. If I’m going to lose Tristan and Creed, I have to enjoy Zayd to the fullest extent. “Shall we go?”
He nods, brushing some hair back from my forehead, and then takes my arm to lead me into the hall. We make our way past the chapel, and into the ballroom on the second floor, the one with a balcony that overlooks the woods.
It’s already packed with people, girls in glittering dresses, guys in tuxedos, as well as parents and chaperones galore.
The moment I walk in, the room goes quiet. Zayd pretends not to notice, taking my hand and leading me down the steps like I’m Cinderella or something. As I descend them in the red dress, I spot both Creed and Tristan, standing on opposite sides of the room.
Their stares are so intense, I swear, I can feel them.
Creed’s blue eyes flash with pain and frustration before he turns away and stalks off into the crowd, heading straight for the balcony. He doesn’t even wait to talk to me or hear me try to explain. He’s just … gone. Tristan, on the other hand, waits at the bottom of the steps for us.
When we get close to him, the room comes back to life, and everyone starts talking again.
“Well, well,” he says, voice tight and clipped. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a groupie, Zayd.” I purse my lips and lean into my date. He howls with laughter, but I don’t think Tristan’s statement is particularly funny.
“What, now I’m not the Working Girl? I’m a groupie this time?” Tristan’s eyes are the color of storms as he stares me down, lips pursed, hands white-knuckled and curled into fists. He doesn’t like to lose, this man. That scares me a little. When he doesn’t answer, I sigh. “We’re still friends, right?”
He cocks a brow at that.
“Friends?” There’s a long pause as Tristan lifts his gaze to Zayd, and the two of them share a silent exchange that I can’t quite interpret. “Sure.” He takes a sudden step back, turns, and then heads in Harper’s direction. My stomach tightens as I think he’s going to her, relaxing only when he sweeps past and follows Creed to the balcony.
“Hey,” Zayd whispers, leaning down and nibbling my ear, “you want to grab something to eat?”
I nod, and he leads us through the throng toward the refreshments. It doesn’t matter if there’s one Idol or all three of them together, the crowd parts just as easily. He gets us each a drink and a plate of food, clearing a space at one of the high tables nearby and pulling out a stool for me.
Miranda is dancing with Andrew not too far from us, but she never looks at me, not even a cursory glance. My hands tighten in the folds of my skirt, but I don’t even consider going over to talk to her, not tonight. I don’t want to ruin her fun or make a scene. Instead, I focus my attention on Zayd. Once I’ve got him talking about his summer tour with Afterglow, he doesn’t want to stop, even hints at possibly inviting me.
I can’t even imagine that, going on tour with a rock band.
After we’re done eating, Zayd holds his hand out to me and raises one, dark brow. His freshly dyed hair shimmers red in the flickering light. The chandeliers in here are all original to the building, refitted to burn gas, so that they retain some of their true character.
“Dance with me, Working Girl,” he purrs, and then he sweeps me out onto the dance floor, using that magic of his to turn my awkward, fumbling dance moves into something beautiful. As we sway, Zayd reaches out and cups the side of my face with his hand. There’s a bit of regret in his eyes that I can’t figure out, but after a few songs, it resolves itself, and I forget all about it.
