Page 100 of The Envy Of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep 3)
Bornstead University Application Checklist.
That’s the title.
My breath hitches, and I flick my eyes over to Zayd again.
This the rock star here, the lead singer of Afterglow, son to rock royal Billy Kaiser.
And yet … he’s studying his ass off and trying to get into one of the most prestigious universities in the country.
Why?
Because of me?
I finish my tea, sip it slowly as I watch Zayd sleep, and then turn the lights before I climb into bed. I curl my body around him and cover us both up with the blankets. Before I know it, I’m asleep too, the hard, warm shape of his body bringing me more comfort than the chamomile tea ever could.Next week is finals week.
I barely see my friends. I hardly kiss my boyfriends (that’s a serious crime in and of itself), and I get my ass kicked so hard by the exams that when the last day of school comes, I stumble over to the roster on the wall and find Tristan’s name above mine.
“You son of a bitch!” I choke as he grins and grabs me around the waist, pulling me close and kissing me on the side of the neck.
“It only took three years for me to beat you,” he whispers, but I’m not mad. Second place is still good enough to get into Bornstead, and I only lost by a fraction of a percent. Besides, I always have next year to redeem myself.
“Third years get to skip the ceremony,” Zayd says, catching up to us. Creed, Wind, and Zack aren’t far behind. Really, the whole school is here to see the roster, but they don’t crowd forward. They know better: when Tristan Vanderbilt is front and center, pushing and shoving is not acceptable. “Should we head to the lake now?”
“Let’s do it,” I say as Miranda and Lizzie join us. We’ve got other plans for the next few days, but we’re going to at least stop by the beach house, and make an appearance. I just hope I don’t have to see the Harpies or the Company boys anywhere near me.
It feels like Harper’s spirit’s been broken, but I know she’s just biding her time.
Eventually, she’s going to strike back, and it’s not going to be pretty.
For now though, I’m just excited to have survived third year with my life, my grades, and my heart intact.“I can’t believe you beat me,” I groan, sitting in the driver’s seat of my rose-gold Maserati with Windsor in the passenger seat, Creed behind me, and an empty spot where Miranda would be if she weren’t making out with Jessie Maker in the back of Brianna Chow’s yellow Mustang.
Tristan leans on the driver’s side door of the car with the most self-satisfied smirk I’ve ever seen. Just looking at it makes me want to either punch him … or grab his face and kiss him until we both can’t breathe.
“You’re second in the class, still a major accomplishment,” he drawls, standing up straight and stretching his arms above his head. “For a Working Girl, I mean.”
“Haha, very funny,” I say as I turn the key in the ignition and start up the engine. As third-years, it’s our right to use the beach house at the Royal Pointe Lakeside Lodge. We’re going to make an appearance, and then get the hell out of there. Tristan’s family’s main house—the Vanderbilt Manor—isn’t too far from there, and his dad’s overseas on business.
He’s invited us all to hang out there for a few days instead.
Considering I almost died at Royal Pointe last year, I’m okay with skipping out after a few hours.
Charlie’s already okayed the trip, so I don’t worry about that. What I do worry about is the fact that Lizzie’s going to be there, too. As the last few weeks of the year rolled around, she started hanging out with him more and more, to the point that I struggled to find a moment of alone time.
He leans in and brushes a smoldering kiss to my lips.
“Oh bloody hell, can we go already?” Windsor asks as Tristan steps back. Zayd’s waiting next to his own car which is parked beside Zack’s, waving at us as I grin and pull out of the parking spot, trying my best to avoid getting killed by the dozens of other students eager for their summer break. “Finally. Thought you two might get hitched right on the spot.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, push my sunglasses down, and head for the winding road that I remember from last year. The Maserati hugs the curves just as well as Andrew’s Lambo, and in just a few hours, we’re pulling into the same parking lot where I was assaulted by the Company/Harpies. In my head, I’ve started calling the boys the Company, and the girls the Harpies. Is that sexist? It’s not meant to be.
