Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(61)
“I see, I see. So why does the one still have all of her hair?”
“I haven’t been able to get close enough to her to cut it off,” I blurt, and then I kick myself because I met this guy all of two seconds ago, and I’m spilling all my secrets. Jesus. He’s dangerous as hell; I need to be careful with the prince.
“Makes sense,” he replies, and then Miranda starts to gush again. I let her while we continue the tour, making our way from the lounge to The Mess. The rest of our little group bails when the first class of the day starts, but Windsor and I have free passes to explore the academy’s campus. It’s extensive, and we end up finishing just about the time that The Mess starts serving their dinner menu.
Windsor is charming, handsome, personable … but it’s very clear to me that while some of the others, like Creed, pretend not to give a shit, Windsor York really, really doesn’t.
He smiles at me across the dinner table, and I smile back.
But that’s as far as our relationship will ever go.
Unfortunately, right after that smile, he needles me until I start spilling the truth about what happened last year. Not that it matters: he was bound to find out anyway, so at least he’s getting the story from me first.
“On the bright side,” he starts, playing with his fork in fine, delicate fingers, “when I wreck them later, I won’t have to feel an ounce of remorse.” Windsor smiles at me, winks, and then digs into his dessert.
The next day, I turn the corner in the chapel building, finding Harper and her cronies on one side. Windsor York is on the other, flirting with some third-year girls. As soon as he sees me, he lifts two fingers in a wave, bids goodbye to his giggling fan club, and starts walking my direction. As he passes Harper du Pont, he pulls something from his pocket, walks right up to her, and chops her ponytail off at the base.
Her friends shriek as she reaches up with her hands to touch the back of her head. Her pterodactyl screech echoes through the halls as Windsor saunters up to me and tosses the ponytail my way.
“Token of my friendship,” he says, winking at me as I gape and look between him and the cluster of Inner Circle girls fluttering over their now-weeping Idol. “We have the same homeroom, don’t we? Walk with me?” Windsor offers me his arm, and I decide then that he’s good people. Really fucking good people.
When Friday of that week rolls around, I spend every spare second I have—which isn’t a lot—searching for news stories about him online. The reason he’s here in America and at Burberry isn’t pleasant: Miranda was right when she mentioned him crashing a boat into a harbor and severely injuring several partygoers.
Also, no surprise: he’s a major lothario. He’s slept with dozens of famous people already, and he’s only sixteen. Apparently, he’s a major scandal to the crown. So while he technically has a fortune of his own, his mother is still legally in charge of his person until he turns eighteen. Fascinating.
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 chère,” he says, but I’m not impressed. I’ve heard him call, like, six other girls ma chère. 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?”