Bad, Bad Bluebloods (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #2)(92)

Thank god I have the summer to figure this all out, I think, just before the doorbell rings.

In bare feet and a wrinkled party dress, I pad over to open it, expecting a boy-free summer.

When I open it, there’s not one guy standing on my porch: there are five of them.

Tristan, Zayd, Creed, Zack, and Windsor.

“We couldn’t agree on who should come over and talk to you,” Tristan begins, glancing back at the other four. “So, unfortunately, we all fucking showed up.”

“Talk to me about what?” I ask, stepping back into the barren cavern of our new living room. Okay, so I say cavern, but really, it’s a pretty small room. It’s just way bigger than the Train Car. Seeing it filled with five gorgeous men—one of whom is a prince, one of whom is a rockstar, all of whom are rich as sin—it’s a little overwhelming.

The boys definitely do not move as a unit. Actually, there’s a palpable tension between them that makes me shift uncomfortably, sloshing water across the floor.

“We wanted to invite you,” Zack says, narrowing his eyes as Windsor immediately notices an old family photo that includes my mom, picking it up and examining it in that way of his.

“Where?” I echo, feeling like I’m the last one to get the joke.

“Pack your bags,” Zayd says with a grin, and I feel this strange pang inside my chest.

I did it; I completed my task and got revenge on the guys. What happens now?

“Pack my bags … for what?” There I go, echoing questions as I sip my water and try to orient myself to the fact that there are five of the sexiest dudes alive in my living room.

“We’re taking you to the Hamptons,” Creed drawls, draping himself over our ratty old couch. I blink several times to make that statement register, and then glance at my phone as it buzzes. Miranda is texting me in a frenzy, half in excitement and half in rage that her twin’s come over here without her.

“The Hamptons,” I say slowly, and this time, it’s not a question.

The Hamptons is the summer social hot spot for the Bluebloods of Burberry Prep. No, for any blue blood living in America. Lizzie will be there with her Coventry Prep friends. Windsor will be there, too, apparently, bringing a bit of English charm to the beach.

“The Hamptons,” he repeats, slapping one of my dad’s straw summer hats over my head. “Get packed, milady, and get ready. Harper is out for blood—and not just yours. That shore is going to be bathed in crimson, either way. Let’s just make sure it’s not ours, shall we?”

I gape at him as he takes off after Zayd, the two of them exploring my house like they own the place.

Me, I’m still standing there in a short, rose-gold dress with a red plastic cup full of water and clinking ice cubes, pondering my fate.

Revenge is wicked sweet, but forgiveness is a virtue.

Too bad I’ve never been holy.