Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(77)

Me, I flee into my dorm room, lock it behind me, and sit on the floor for almost an hour, lost in thought.

Life at Burberry Prep is never boring, now is it?



The trip to the airport is tense. Windsor and Tristan are like oil and water, with me stuck in the middle. I do my best to ignore it and stay neutral between the two, but they don’t make it easy.

Fortunately, we’re flying business class. I guess this means that I get an entire miniature palace to myself. My seat turns into a bed, I’ve got a huge screen to watch movies, and the flight attendant even stops off to give me a warm towel to clean my hands. It’s pretty … luxe.

“Never sat in business class before?” Windsor guesses, leaning over the back of my seat. “Me neither. Of course, that’s because when I fly, I usually go in my family’s private jet. But I suppose this will do.”

“You’re an arrogant asshole,” I grumble, still enchanted by the set up. He laughs at me, but I’m just thrilled to be going on a trip at all, private jet or no. I’d happily sit on the toilet for the entire duration, just for the honor of being able to travel. I’ve only been on a plane once, and that was just to fly down to see my grandfather before he passed away. It was nothing like this.

After we take off, Windsor undoes his seat belt and spends half the flight picking out movies with me and providing his unusual commentary. When I head to the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of Tristan’s face, drawn taut with irritation. His eyes find mine, but we haven’t talked since he kissed me, so I’m not really sure what to say.

Instead, I use the bathroom as fast as I can and flee back to my seat, putting on my headphones to shut the prince out for the rest of the ride.

Once we land, clear customs, and finally get to our hotel, I’m exhausted. Ms. Felton gives us each the keys to our own rooms—spoiled rich kid privileges, I suppose—and I flop down on the bed only to pass out right after. In the morning, we all have breakfast in the upstairs lounge with sweeping views of the city and the Eiffel Tower.

Both boys watch me like they’ve never seen me before, as fascinated with my reactions to landmarks as I am with the landmarks themselves.

“It’s like seeing it for the first time all over again, isn’t it?” Windsor whispers at one point, but then we’re being swept up into a larger group, slapped with name tags, and taken out to the see the city. The one rule we have is that we cannot for any reason, leave our partner’s side.

And by partner, of course, our guide is referring to Tristan. Each prep school has sent their top two students to dress in uniform and represent their academy as we tour the city. As the student guide, Windsor is all over the place, and I don’t see much of him.

Several years back, the Notre Dame cathedral caught fire, but it’s been restored to—from what I read online—much of its former glory.

That’s where we start our tour of the city in the early morning.

As we’re weaving our way through the crowd inside Notre Dame, the priests chanting their ghostly hymns, I feel this wild excitement burst open in my chest. Not only am I in Paris, freaking Paris, but I’m in a building that dates back almost a thousand years. The history buff in me takes over and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m wrapping my arm around Tristan’s and squeezing.

He stiffens up for a second, but it doesn’t last, and then he’s relaxing and letting me cling to the crisp white sleeve of his academy jacket.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I whisper, trying to be respectful of the service taking place. I’m in no way religious, but I’d rather not be rude. I look up at Tristan, and he raises his eyebrows. A little flutter starts up in my belly, but I tamp down on it. The last thing I need to be feeling for this guy is … flutters. But we’re paired up together for the remainder of the trip, and I’m determined to have a good time. Besides, if I don’t hold onto his arm, I’ll get swept away in the crowd. It’s happened a few times already.

“I’ve seen it before,” he says, like he’s bored out of his mind. His gray gaze sweeps over me and then flicks away, toward a wall of carvings with a sign explaining their origin. Apparently, the entire church used to be covered in them, but this is the only surviving segment. I’m practically salivating. “But you look like you’re about to have an orgasm.”

He says that last word so loudly that several people turn to look at us, and I flush.

“Don’t say orgasm so loudly in a church,” I choke out, and Tristan laughs. It may very well be the most genuine sound I’ve ever heard pass by his full, sensuous lips. Oh no. No. No. You’re doing it again, Marnye, you’re forgetting what he did to you. My mind conjures up the image of Tristan’s face from last year, the cruel sound of his words. “And you know what? The only prize … was that trophy. We did it for fun.” My tummy butterflies land and refuse to take flight again.

“You know,” Tristan continues, his voice much more pleasant than the echoes in my head, “that orgasm isn’t a bad word.” He turns to me, our arms still linked. Somehow it’s more intimate like that, to be face to face with him with our arms woven together.

“I never said it was,” I whisper as the priests stop singing, and the sermon begins. It’s in French, so I can’t understand a word of it. It sounds pretty enough though.