The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3)(82)
“And you? Another pair of panties?”
“If you bring them, I won’t wear them,” I quip, and then when he’s silent, I realize how that sounded.
“Good. I’ll bring several pairs, and maybe you can go knicker-free for days.” Windsor hangs up before I get a chance to retaliate with some (probably not so) witty banter of my own.
Windsor York shows up with a giant wooden box full of fancy non-alcoholic ciders from all over California that my dad practically drools over.
“He’s my favorite friend of yours,” he whispers as he opens in the kitchen and runs his fingers over the labels on the bottles. I stand there for a moment, looking at Charlie’s back, and then—because Windsor has that magical honesty-gathering quality—I just blurt it out.
“I’m dating him.”
Dad pauses and then glances over his shoulder, blinking away his surprise before he turns around to face me.
“You are?” he asks, and I nod. Dad reaches up to adjust his hat and whistles. “Okay, wow. I mean, I wasn’t expecting that, but he seems polite and well-groomed, and at least he’s not a bully.” Oh, Dad, if you only knew: Windsor York is a bully of bullies. He enjoys hurting people who enjoy hurting people. I mean, it’s not as bad as what the Harpies do, but still …
“You’re not … mad?” I ask, and Dad gives me this soft, sweet sort of smile that scares me. I don’t want to see smiles like that, smiles that say one day I won’t be here, so you need to learn from me while you can. I hate it.
“Marnye-bear, you’ll be eighteen in less than half a year. You’ve got excellent grades, ambition a guy like your old man could only dream of, and a bright future. If you like this boy, I trust your judgment. Besides, you’re far past the point in your life where I can micromanage every little thing you do.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back. When we hug, I almost blurt the rest of it out, about the other four boys. But then the bathroom door opens and Windsor’s footsteps pause in the entryway to the kitchen.
“Is there anything I can do to help with dinner?” he asks, rolling up the sleeves of his white and blue pinstripe shirt. His red hair is a little longer on top now, and he’s got it all tousled and sexy looking. “Perhaps I could pour you a glass of cider, and you could sit outside and relax?” Windsor raises his red brows, and my dad gives him an I’m impressed, son sort of a look.
“That’d be … amazing actually,” Charlie says, chuckling gruffly at gesturing at all the food laid out on the counter. We went shopping for our favorite vegetable stew stuff today, and there’s a lot of chopping that needs to be done. “I had a long day at work, and I’d love to kick up my feet.”
“Consider your meal cooked,” Windsor says, and Dad gives me a little wink as he moves over to the sliding glass door, opens it, and steps out into the warm spring sunshine.
“Do you know how to make vegetable stew?” I ask, and Windsor turns his hazel eyes on me, moving over to stand in front of me as I lean back against the counter. He puts his hands on either side of me and grabs the loose ties of my apron, turning them into a pretty little bow before a cavalier little smile lights up his face and he puts his lips against my cheek.
“I figured you’d be the head chef, and I’d be your sous chef. After all, I don’t mind a little power play. Tame me, mistress.” He kisses me so softly that I almost wonder if I imagine it, pulling back, and then digging into the pocket of his white shorts for a pair of new panties that he cucks my way. These one says Princess on the cheeks. My eyes narrow to slits. “Now, you promised you’d go commando if I brought these along. And remember, those were your rules: no lies.”
“Hah.” I flip him off and put the panties in my room, coming back to the kitchen to find Wind in Dad’s apron, pouring a generous glass of cider and taking a sip. He sighs, and then pours a second glass to take outside to Charlie. When he comes back in and closes the sliding door against the heat, I give him a look. “You ready to work? Because good food doesn’t make itself, despite what you may have thought growing up. People actually work behind the scenes in those kitchens.”
“No, you don’t say,” Windsor says, narrowing his eyes on me in challenge. “You know I never back down from a fight. Direct me, milady.”
We work together to chop all the good stuff—potatoes, mushrooms, celery, onions, carrots, garlic, rosemary, thyme, and tomatoes—and then work on getting it all in a pot to simmer. After that, we have a little while to relax, and Dad’s now on the phone with his friend, Mack, from college, so we head into my room and Windsor immediately makes himself comfortable on my bed.
He pats the spot next to him, and even though I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea, I sit down.
He sweeps an arm around my waist, and nuzzle up against my back.
“Thank you for having me over all the time, crashing your personal time with Dad.” He says the words against my bare skin, his lips moving sensually against that little bare stripe of flesh between the top of my sweatpants and the bottom of my tank top.
“Is there a reason you like coming over here?” I ask, wondering if he’s like Tristan, escaping an abusive parent or something.
Windsor sits up, propping himself on an elbow, and looking at me from irises flecked with gold, green, silver, brown, and amber. It’s like all the colors in the world are contained in those eyes.