Stuck With The Four Hotties

After a moment, he steps closer and

holds out his elbow. I take it, noticing that his body tenses when I dig my fingers into his jacket.

“My dad hates you, you know. He thinks you’re the devil incarnate.” He says this casually, but with a hardness to his voice that says he wants me to know this for some reason, like it’s super important. I take note and file that away, but I refuse to let thoughts of William Vanderbilt interrupt my afternoon.

We spend the rest of the day in the Latin Quarter, walking past bars where Ernest Hemingway drank, and pausing at street vendors selling oil paintings of the city. The coffee in Paris is atrocious, the pastries fantastic, and the company … not so bad as I’d thought.

Spring break might be two weeks long, but we only have five days in Paris, so we pack them as tight as we can with activities, using our second day to tackle Disneyland.

Tristan lets me cling to his arm and gush as we make our way from one ride to another. Despite his uptight personality and generally bad attitude, he’s not a bad park buddy. He doesn’t shy away from any ride, not even something as silly as the tea cups. He takes a selfie with me in front of the pink Disney castle, and even has lunch with me at the Pirates of the Caribbean restaurant. By the end of the day, I’m sort of enjoying parading around the park in our matching white uniforms, watching girls’ eyes track our movements with unbridled jealousy.

On the train ride back to the hotel, I fall asleep with my head on Tristan’s shoulder, and some strange, quiet part of me imagines him stroking his fingers through my hair.

On our last day in Paris, we hit the Eiffel Tower, but it’s a little too crowded to be enjoyable, so we excuse ourselves to the park across the street to take pictures. Everything seems normal until Tristan stops walking abruptly.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“You okay?” I ask, blinking up at him.

“Marnye,” Tristan starts, turning to face me. The way he’s gazing down at my face, with his gray gaze softened, his mouth parted slightly, I expect something big. My heart races, and I feel my throat getting tight. No words will come. Instead, I wait for his. “There are so many things … You can’t stay at Burberry Prep. The Infinity Club is-”

“Don’t blame your actions on the Club,” I tell him, finally finding my voice again. My breath comes in short, sharp, little pants. “Don’t do it. If you

have something to say to me, then say it. But don’t stand there and hide behind the club.”

Tristan scowls, but then shakes his head, his raven-dark hair fluttering in the breeze. If I tilt my head just slightly, I can see the Eiffel Tower, standing proud in the pale blue afternoon sky. He takes another step closer to me and then raises his hands to my shoulders, laying his palms gently on them. My body tingles at the touch.

“Marnye,” he starts, sounding so different than usual, almost eager, almost

… sorry. “I’m-”

“Well, well, didn’t realize you two were so close,” Windsor’s voice calls out, and I swear, there’s a sudden flash of rage in Tristan’s gaze before a wall smashes down his emotions. I watch in desperate sadness as he locks away whatever he was going to say, and drops his arms to his sides before turning to glare at the prince. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m content to stand here and watch.” Windsor smiles, but it isn’t pleasant. He’s clearly plotting right now. As much as I like him, I always have to remember that I’m walking on a razor’s edge. He’s as dangerous as the rest of them.

“What are you even doing here?” Tristan growls, that practiced self- control of his slipping for a moment. “And I don’t mean at the Eiffel Tower: I mean on this trip, period.”

Windsor shrugs his shoulders, palms up and out, in a helpless little who me? sort of a pose. He tucks his hands in his pockets, kicks at a stray pebble, and saunters over to us, his posture screaming nonchalance. The thing is, I’ve known him for months now, and I can see a tightness around his mouth that isn’t normally there.

“Well, I live purely for the conquest of leisure and enjoyment. And what is Paris, if not the city of excess?” Windsor’s smile slips as the wind rustles his red hair. His hazel eyes are all for Tristan; he barely looks at me. A moment later, his mood snaps, and he’s smiling again. “Besides, I’m the student guide, remember? I lived in Paris for three years. That, and I’ve spent every summer here since I was three.”

The boys are on either side of me, both substantially taller, both handsome but in different ways. My gaze flicks between the two of them, and my pulse picks up speed. I feel almost lightheaded, trapped between two worlds. American royalty and British royalty. It’s a stand-off for the ages, that’s for sure.

Suddenly and without warning, both boys launch their hands at my wrists, gripping me almost too hard. Windsor is on my right and Tristan on my left. I’m left blinking stupidly and wondering why they’re gripping me for dear life.

Tristan’s gray eyes narrow to slits and Windsor smiles nice and wide, but scary. The former says something in French, words that roll off the tongue as easily in the language of love as they do in English. Windsor listens, flicks his attention my way, and then looks back at Tristan. His response is just as lovely, flowing with ease off his tongue. I catch a few words and phrases: la petite amie, belle, and elle est a moi. Or … I think that’s what I catch. But that’s about it. I don’t even know what any of it means.

“Marnye, choose,” Tristan declares, his chin held high, his dark hair obscuring his brows as its tousled in the breeze. “Pick one of us to go with. Right now.”

I gape, and my mouth parts in surprise. Choose? Between my enemy- turned-bet and my new friend? Surely Tristan isn’t egotistical enough to think I’d pick him. Besides, I already made a ‘choice’ once, and it didn’t exactly go over well for me. Before I can even process the thought, Tristan’s grip tightens, but Windsor’s loosens, and he lets go of me suddenly, leaving a cool space where his hand had rested seconds earlier.

He says something else in French, and Tristan’s eyes flash with triumph, but then Windsor tucks his hands in his pockets and leans down to put his lips near my ear. When he speaks, his mouth brushes my earlobe and I shiver.

“I won’t make you choose, love, not today.” He chuckles and I shiver. “But if you really want your vengeance, slip this in his pocket when you get the chance.” I feel a slight weight in my right jacket pocket, and I blink in surprise as Windsor backs up, nods at Tristan, and winks at me. He turns on his heel and takes off in the direction of the Eiffel Tower.

What … is all this crap about? My right hand surreptitiously dives into my pocket, and I feel a small plastic wrapped item. Glancing down, I see white powder and my face blanches. Is this … what I think it is?! Windsor’s just put cocaine in my pocket.

Oh my god.

Tristan relaxes slightly, and looks askance at me. Whatever he was going to say earlier, it’s gone, wiped clean from his face. He looks as cold and immovable as ever. His hand drops from my wrist and he takes a small step

back. We exchange a long look, and my stomach flips over with nervousness.

He made me think I cared about him. I won’t be lied to again.

But … I need him to go to the graduation gala with me. Since he’s engaged to Harper, he’s a much harder target than Zayd and Creed.

“Where to now?” I ask, and he glances away, toward the park on our left, tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks. As soon as I’ve got a moment, I dump the baggy into a trash can. Hang them with their own rope. So far as I know, Tristan doesn’t use cocaine. I’m not going to do this to him. I broke my rules once to punch Harper; I won’t do it again.

“Back to the hotel. We have to leave for the airport early in the morning.” He glances briefly in my direction again. “You know, my father owns a vineyard in Reims, and my family makes champagne. One day, I’ll take you there.” And then he turns and walks off, leaving me feeling both confused and elated.

This b

et may very well be the death of me.