Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(79)

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 à 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 bet may very well be the death of me.





The rest of my spring break is spent decorating my new room, luxuriating in the bath (we never had a bath at the Train Car), and exploring the fancy Grenadine Heights neighborhood that our new rental just barely borders. But, technically, we are in the boundaries of Grenadine Heights; it’s pretty freaking cool.

Dad can only afford this though because he got those welding jobs from Robin’s friends at Christmas. They liked his work so much that their friends have hired him, and their friend’s friends. I just hope the jobs don’t run out one day and we end up back at the Train Car. Technically, we own that free and clear, and rent the plot for some nominal amount. For now, it still belongs to the Reed family.

I’m so irritated with Windsor that I ignore his texts for three days before I respond.

The cocaine thing was over the top, I tell him, and he sends back an emoji shrugging its shoulders. When I don’t find that particularly funny, he writes to me again.