“What is this?” I ask, but he just shrugs, wishes us happy holidays, and leaves.
The next day, Dad and I drive to the storage place, find the unit that Zack's written down, and unlock it with the keys. Inside, there's a golden pedal harp.
My phone drops to the ground, and I clap my hand over my mouth.
The instrument that's sitting in that unit is worth over thirty-thousand dollars.
“How are we going to get this home?” I choke out, once I've finally fought back tears and found my breath. Sitting down in the wooden chair next to it, I strum my fingers across the strings and sigh at the beautiful notes. “Where are we going to put it?”
“We'll figure it out, Marnye-bear,” Charlie says with a soft smile. And the next day, he shows me the cute little two bedroom house in Grenadine Heights that he's rented for us.
Pretty sure that's the best Christmas I've ever had.The wind teases my skirt, making it billow around my thighs just enough that my garters show. I ignore it, leaning against the wall of Tower Two with my shoulder. My pulse is racing with nerves, but I’m excited to do this, to be the new student’s guide. And I guarantee I’ll do a hell of a lot better at my job than Tristan Vanderbilt did for me. I hadn’t expected to get called into Principal Collins’ office so bright and early, but that’s the life of a student mentor. Guess they’re going to actually make me earn those credits. And hey, maybe the new kid won’t be as big of a dick as all the others?
First day back at Burberry Prep Academy, and I’ve already had a note shoved in my locker telling me to kill myself (so original, been there, done that, asshole). There was a dildo on the floor in my room, but I’ve now got footage from my cameras showing Sai Patel and some of his own personal cronies putting it in there, and then taking turns snapping photos with my panties.
It’s fine though. I don’t even need those pictures to destroy him. Miranda was right: I’ve got pictures of Sai and Abigail making out at the lodge. All I have to do is show those to Greg, and it’s game over.
I watch the horizon, waiting for the shiny black academy car to crest the hill. Standing up straight, I approach the front steps and wait as it rolls around the circular drive, and comes to a slow stop, wheels crunching over the gravel. It feels like forever before the driver finally gets out and moves around to open the back door.
My breath stops in my chest.
One long leg extends from the back, cloaked in perfectly creased white slacks. A long, lithe form follows, tall and handsome and wearing a bright, white grin.
I’d almost forgotten all those news articles Miranda shoved in my face. If she hadn’t sent me the link to yet another exposé on the guy, I would’ve forgotten about him completely. The world’s youngest billionaire. Tenth in line to the throne. Great-grandson to the Queen of freaking England.
Windsor York.
A freaking prince.
“Well, hello there,” he says, tilting his head to one side, his hazel eyes glimmering with color. There are specks of gold, green, and brown swimming in a blue-gray gaze. I’m immediately mesmerized by the color. His red hair is short, but playfully mussy, tousled and dark, almost crimson. And that smile … it’s impossible to look away from. “Windsor York, at your service. You must be Marnye Reed?”
I nod, but my throat is suddenly dry, and there are no words.
The prince adjusts the lapels of his second-year jacket and looks around, taking in the courtyard and the fountain with mild interest. He then adjusts his gaze to me, and mild interest turns to piqued curiosity. Windsor’s eyes take me in, inch by inch, absorbing my appearance from head to toe. He seems to like what he sees, too, which makes my cheeks flush pink, and sends my heart racing.
The new student I’ve been asked to mentor is … a prince. A prince. A freaking prince?!
“You’re quite the pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice crisp with an English accent. If I said I wasn’t into it, I’d be lying. His grin sharpens up and he extends an elbow for me to take. “I assumed they’d be sending some crusty old school marm to give me a tour. This is much, much better.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and I just stand there like an idiot, staring. After a moment, he cocks his head to one side and makes this cute little moue with his mouth that sends my hormones into a frenzy. “You don’t want to escort me, milady?” he asks, milking his accent for everything it’s work. Swallowing hard, I take the prince’s arm, and shivers crawl up and down my spine—good ones, too. Oh no. I feel like I crush far too easily on hot guys. It’s a habit I really need to break. Who’s to say this guy isn’t as snooty, self-absorbed, and cruel as the rest of them?
