“Whatever you say, milady,” he says, sweeping a dramatic bow just before the door closes.
With a sigh, I head inside and try to focus on keeping my own ankle un-twisted. Having a head too full of boy thoughts is distracting.
At least by the time Friday rolls around, Tristan has started showing up at my orchestra rehearsals again. The first time he does, our eyes meet from across the room, and it’s like this connection between us that was pinched and shriveled opens up, and blood begins to flow all over again.
He smiles at me from the back row, and even though it’s far away and hard to see, I almost think it might be genuine.
Maybe.
Of course, the rest of the time, he’s still very much an asshole.“Windsor York has no business on this trip,” he snaps as Ms. Felton raises an eyebrow and hands us both our passports back. I wouldn’t even have a passport at all if Burberry Prep didn’t require one for admission. I got it last year, tucked it away in a drawer, and assumed I wouldn’t be using until I was thirty.
Looks like I was wrong about that one.
“No business on this trip?” Windsor pouts with a little moue. “Why, Mr. Vanderbilt, I’m bloody hurt. Don’t you know I lived in Paris for years?” Tristan looks irritated, but he says nothing, instead keeping his attention on our teacher. She’s seated behind the desk in her office on the top floor of Tower One, looking between the two boys and sighing.
“You know there’s a student guide every year, Mr. Vanderbilt, and this year, it is Burberry Prep’s turn to provide that student. There’s no one here besides yourself who has his level of experience. I’m sorry you two seem to be having a problem with each other, but as your actions at the end of last year were less than savory, I think you should just count your lucky stars you’re even a student at the academy at all.”
Tristan’s jaw clenches in frustration, and he flicks a glance my way before leveling his glare back on Windsor. The prince is just smiling away, happy as a clam. He’s loving this moment way too much.
“Now, Miss Reed, I’ve asked you this in private, and I’m going to ask you again: are you sure you’re comfortable attending this trip with Mr. Vanderbilt. If not, he will be replaced with the third-ranked student in your grade, and given alternate trip arrangements.” There’s a long, tense moment where Tristan, Windsor, and Ms. Felton are all staring at me.
If I were on my regular revenge track, I’d probably take that opportunity to boot Tristan out of the travel group. The thing is, he’s been to Paris before, and he can afford to go whenever he wants. It wouldn’t be such a big hit to him. But seeing his face at the graduation gala when I reveal my bet with Harper? That sounds so much better.
My heart aches and throbs, but I ignore it. My emotions for the Idol boys are confusing as hell, but I can’t let them derail me. Last year, I paid too much attention to my heart and hormones, and it didn’t end well.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, and she nods, rising from her desk and showing us out the door.
Windsor quickly makes himself scarce, but Tristan surprises me by following me to The Mess. He even sits down at my usual table, taking Miranda’s spot and staring at me.
“Do you still have the watch?” he asks, and I nod. “The necklace?”
“Why?” I whisper, and he sighs, looking tired all of a sudden.
“Can I have them back? I’ll pay you for them. I just … don’t think it’s a good idea if either Harper or my dad sees them again.” He looks right at me, and there’s this stark truthfulness in his gray eyes that I’ve never seen before. My mind immediately goes back to that moment in the library where he could’ve gone further, done more, touched me in more intimate places … and didn’t. Did he know we were being filmed? It’s hard to say, but I imagine yes. “Actually, I shouldn’t be sitting here with you at all.”
“Because the Plebs might put your head in a guillotine if they see you with the Working Girl?” I query. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Tristan doesn’t seem to find it funny. He just sits there and stares at me, his raven-dark hair falling across his forehead, his tongue tracing his lower lip as he glances away.
“Could you bring the watch and the necklace on Monday? I’ve got cash.”
“I don’t want your cash, Tristan,” I whisper, but I’ve still got that debit card he set up for me, so I suppose that’s not entirely true. “But yes, you can have them back.”
