Stuck With The Four Hotties

That weekend, gossip about a party in the woods has spread like wildfire. It’s not a club party, but it is being sponsored by the Idols. Surprisingly, I open my door to a knock on Saturday morning and find Windsor York waiting for me. He’s dressed in a loose blue shirt with a V-neck, jeans, and what look like brown riding boots.

“Good morning, ma Fhere,” he says, but I’m not impressed. I’ve heard him call, like, six other girls ma Fhere. Although I have to say, his French is impeccable. “Did you get my texts last night?” I nod, and do my best not to smile. Windsor’s been sending me all sorts of amazing articles with prank ideas that I could use on the Idols. They’re a bit extreme for my tastes- remember: let them hang themselves with their own rope-but I appreciate the effort. The prince seems to have taken this whole revenge thing on with a gusto. “And did you get my voice message this morning? It’s rude to ask a lady out via text, so I’ve improvised and simply texted a recording of my voice.”

“How … debonair of you,” I choke, but I’m smiling anyway. “No, I haven’t checked my texts. Where, exactly, are you inviting me?” His eyes sparkle as he stands up straight and raises an eyebrow at my cracked bedroom door. With a sigh, I step back and let him in. He takes in the room with a single sweep of his eyes before spinning back to me. His red hair is nice and clean, and sticking straight up in the front. I’m not sure how though because I don’t see any gel. Guess it’s just a random quirk of his.

“Whenever I transfer schools-and I transfer schools a lot-I always make sure to hit the first party of the year running. I hear there’s one in the woods? Not quite my usual scene, but I’ll take it.” I smile as I head into the kitchenette area to make some tea. Windsor watches me plop a Lipton tea bag into a cup of lukewarm water and toss it into the microwave.

He looks like he might puke.

“Most of the Bluebloods are banned from going off campus for the remainder of the year,” I explain as I press the buttons on the microwave. Without skipping a beat, Windsor reaches over my shoulder and grabs my hand, gently pulling me back. He then goes about pulling out a kettle from one of the cabinets, filling it with water, and putting it on the single burner stove. “What are you doing?”

“Making you a proper cup of tea.” He crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be a proper English bloke if I allowed that”-he points at the microwave and sneers-“to be consumed in my presence. Don’t you stupid Americans know how to make tea the right way?”

“There’s a right way?” I ask, and he groans, putting his face into his hands. He’s like a caricature of a prince, all over-the-top, sweeping bows, speaking in French. It’s almost too much. And yet, I kinda like it anyway. “Well, excuse me. I grew up in an abandoned Train Car on instant ramen noodles and pb&j sandwiches. My mom abandoned me and my dad when I was a kid, and we did the best we could.” Windsor slowly parts his hands to peer out at me, and I realize I’ve just done it again: showed him all my damn cards.

Crap.

“Welllllll,” he drawls, dragging out the L in that word far past it’s usual point, “even if you’ve committed an atrocity against crown and kingdom with your god-awful tea, you seem to have turned out alright. Most people suck on the dick of money like it’ll come cash in their mouths and make them rich. You seem … beyond despondent, more disgusted. I quite enjoy that.”

“The dick of money?” I ask as the kettle starts to steam and Windsor pulls it off the stove with a pot holder I never use. He looks through my cabinets and finds the loose leaf English breakfast tea that Dad gave me for Christmas. It even came with a metal strainer and a special mug that I haven’t used yet. I watch as Windsor prepares a cup for me. “That’s … a very creative metaphor.”

“Simile: I used the word like.” He grins and waves his hand dismissively. He’s not quite as tall as Zack, but he’s well-built, and he’s got an air of confidence that’s infectious. His hair is almost crimson, but I’m pretty sure it’s natural, and there’s a curve to his upper lip that draws my attention. “Marnye Reed, will you please do me the honor of escorting me to tonight’s party?” He holds up his palms toward me. “Not as a date: you were very clear about your ideas on dating. Besides, I’ve already found three or four girls that I fancy. I was just hoping we could go as friends.” He hands me the mug and our fingers tangle together. My breath catches, but Windsor doesn’t seem to notice, not the way Zayd or Creed or Zack would. Tristan just … screw Tristan.Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” I reply, taking a sip of the tea. My brows go up and Windsor chuckles, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I tell myself it’s just a European thing, but the place his lips touched tingles like crazy.

“See you at five, love.” And then he disappears, letting my door swing shut behind him.

Zack is not pleased to see Windsor in my room when he shows up later, a cluster of wild winter flowers in his hand. When he gives them to me, I flush a dark red color and stumble three times trying to say the word thanks.

“Are you two an item?” Windsor asks, now dressed in a loose, silky cream shirt that’s unbuttoned nearly to his navel. He tucks his fingers in the front pockets of his black slacks and looks between me and Zack with narrowed eyes. “You sure you’re a virgin? I could swear the two of you have shagged.”

“Yeah, well, maybe your intuition isn’t as amazing as you claim,” I retort, but now that Windsor’s brought up sex and Zack in the same conversation I can’t stop thinking about our make-out session. Gah. I was not supposed to fall for my tormentor. There’s nothing cool or feminist or progressive about that. If I think too hard about it, it makes me feel sick.

And yet … Zack’s been nothing but nice to me. People can make mistakes, as long as they acknowledge them and learn from their

experiences, right? Right? I so want Zack Brooks to be redeemable.

We head out the east door of the chapel, meet up with Miranda, Jessie, and Andrew then start off toward the lake. About halfway there, we find the bonfire, the beer, and the fighting.

Oh, that’s right.

I’d almost forgotten about that email I sent last night. Or all the changes I made to my list.

Revenge On The Bluebloods of Burberry Prep A list by Miranda Cabot Marnye Reed

The Idols (guys): Tristan Vanderbilt (year one two), Zayd Kaiser (year one two), and Creed Cabot (year one two)

The Idols (girls): Harper du Pont (year one two), BeFky Platter (year one two), and Gena Whitley (year four) (graduated), Ileana Taittinger (year one)

The Inner CirFle: Andrew Payson, Anna KirkpatriFk, Myron Talbot, Ebony Peterson, Gregory Van Horn, Abigail Fanning, John Hannibal, Valentina Pitt, 3ai Patel, Mayleen Zhang, Jalen Donner … and, I guess, me! Kiara Xiao, Ben Thresher

Plebs: everyone else, so

rry. XOXO

Zack Brooks Lizzie :alton