“I happen to think British people are ridiculous,” Miranda quips right back, and Windsor grins, lifting his tea cup up and then taking a long, slow sip. “Are you seriously over there, sippin’ tea?” she asks, throwing a pillow at him. Just to clarify: Miranda learned the phrase sipping tea from watching RuPaul’s Drag Race. It means, like, to tell the truth in a sort of shady way or to listen to other people gossip.
Andrew is grinning, enjoying the exchange, but I see the way his eyes take in Windsor. He totally has a crush on the prince. Hell, so does Miranda, and she’s gay. Pretty sure the whole of Burberry Prep Academy is in love with the prince.
“Why don’t you have bodyguards?” I ask him as he stands up and starts to clean up the empty tea cups. “I feel like there are probably a lot of people that would want to kill you: foreign governments, criminals looking for someone to ransom, dads of girls you’ve slept with.”
Windsor shrugs and washes the dishes, stacking them neatly in the box he used to carry them over. It’s kind of cool to see a billionaire prince doing domestic work. I shift and accidentally end up pressing against Zack. More specifically, pressing between his legs. My back is to his front, and when I wiggle again, I hear him exhale sharply.
“Don’t like to be followed around all the time. Bloody annoying. I figure if I get shot, I probably deserve it.” He uses his wet palm to push red hair from his forehead, and it stays right where it is: sticking straight up.
Zack’s arms slide around me, and I shiver, putting my hands over his as he clasps them over my stomach. I’m totally aware that Jessie, Miranda, and Andrew are all staring at us, but I can barely hear anything over the pounding of my heart.
“I should’ve been there to help,” he whispers, sounding pained. I close my eyes, but I have no idea what to say. This whole day’s just been … fucked. I don’t curse much, but there’s not many other words in the English language that could encompass what I just went through. “I’m sorry, Marnye.”
There’s a brief moment of silence before Windsor starts rinsing out the teapot.
My friends start making their way off my bed, stretching and yawning. Soon, I’ll be in here all alone, staring at the wall and reimagining that scenario over and over again. Oh god. No, thank you. I wet my lips, desperate to ask someone to stay with me.
The obvious choice is Zack, but … I lean back into him, and I like the way he feels so much that it’s scary. If he stayed in here tonight, then I—
A knock sounds at the door, and we all jump.
Miranda and I exchange a look, but Windsor’s already swept over to answer it, flinging the door wide and giving us yet another taste of his eccentric personality. I think that’s a real world metaphor right there: he isn’t afraid, isn’t tentative, and so unashamed that he’s willing to open the door on everything without a second thought.
My mouth drops open when I see who’s waiting outside.
The Idol boys are on my doorstep.Tristan Vanderbilt. Zayd Kaiser. Creed Cabot.
The three of them are standing there, dressed in their matching but oh-so-differently-worn uniforms. Tristan’s is spic and span, creased to the heavens; Zayd’s is wrinkled, mussy, and unbuttoned from neck to navel; Creed’s is clean and fresh, but gently tousled like he’s just woken from a nap.
My throat goes dry as Tristan crosses his arms over his chest.
“What happened today? We can’t get a straight answer from the girls. I want it from the horse’s mouth.”
“This horse was almost killed by your fiancée and her besties today,” I snap, starting to shake. Something about seeing all three of them together like that … I feel both rage and melancholy. Rage because I feel like no amount of revenge will ever be enough. I want more. I want to tear them down and break them until they come to me on their hands and knees, begging for release. And yet … I miss them, too. Terribly.
Life is confusing, and it sucks.
Tristan strides forward, but Windsor puts out his boot, blocking him. That’s another thing I’ve noticed: Windsor York is the only guy at this school who wears boots instead of loafers with his uniform.
“You can’t come in without the lady’s permission,” Windsor says, his voice coloring with a threat. “This is her space, not yours.”
The King of the School bristles, and sneers, but there’s something else going on with him that I can’t place. He’s practically shaking.
“We want to talk to Marnye—alone.” Tristan stares Windsor down, but instead of buckling like most people do, the prince just smiles.
