Stuck With The Four Hotties

The first day of my third year at Burberry Preparatory Academy begins with a long car ride, as usual. What’s unusual about this time is that I’m driving myself. In the Maserati that Windsor bought me. Don’t get me wrong: I feel like an asshole riding in such an expensive vehicle, but the prince did make a generous donation to my favorite charity. Plus, it’s rude to refuse a gift made with thoughtfulness.

All of that and … I wanted to keep it. Does that make me selfish?

“You are the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” Miranda declares from the passenger seat, and the prince murmurs his agreement from behind her, most of his attention focused on his phone. Miranda sounds almost indignant about it, her white-blond hair whipping about in the wind as we take the coastal highway south toward the academy.

She and Creed-along with the others-stayed in Cruz Bay the last two days, but unlike the others, neither Windsor nor the Cabot twins has a car. After I sunk Creed’s Bentley Bentayga, he was not given a replacement. Kathleen Cabot is a harsh mistress. And Windsor … I can’t forget the way his face looked in the rear-view on the way to Royal Pointe; he either can’t or doesn’t want to drive.

Tristan has a brand-new black Aston Martin Rapide while Zayd’s in a Jaguar convertible identical to the one I dumped in the pool. Zack, of course, has his McLaren, and Andrew has his Lambo back. I have no idea what

Lizzie drives, but I’m guessing I’ll find out, considering she’s now going to Burberry with us.

My stomach turns over with anxiety, but I ignore the feeling. I’m not going to alienate a friend because I’m jealous over a boy I’m not sure either of us even wants or could reasonably have.

Creed leans forward, putting his mouth far too close to my ear. I can smell his clean soap and fresh laundry scent as he drawls out his words like he’s half-asleep.

“You truly are quite selfless, gifting your attention to idiots like Zack Brooks and Windsor York.”

“Don’t even get started,” I warn him, sensing something big coming from Creed Cabot. He’s going to ask you out. That’s what Miranda texted me last night, and then with several laughing emojis, #TeamCreed.

Gulp.

If he asks me out, what am I going to say? It’s too soon, sorry buddy? Or

… yes, please?

A groan escapes me that makes him chuckle. His warm breath teases my skin, and I accidentally press down too hard on the gas, making all four of us grunt as our bodies press back into the sumptuous white leather seats. I slow down a little, mindful of Dad’s nervousness. He didn’t want me to drive today, but I promised I’d be safe.

I intend to keep that promise.

After a few pit stops for food and bathroom breaks, we arrive in the visitors’ lot, park, and get out to change into our uniforms. The others aren’t too far behind us-we did sort of a caravan thing-and then it’s a bit like a fashion show as each boy emerges in his third year uniform.

I pretend the drool in my mouth is from the cold French fries I’m chewing on, but that’s not entirely true. I come very close to wiping grease and salt off on the fresh pleats of my brand-new black plaid skirt, and admire Zayd from the corner of my eye.

Within hours-or maybe minutes-he’ll be all wrinkled and disheveled which, of course, is part of his charm. But seeing him in a pressed, creased uniform, complete with jacket and tie, is a real treat.

Third years wear black and red plaid skirts (boys wear black slacks with a subtle red pinstripe), crisp white shirts, matching plaid ties, and red jackets. Sock choices are the same as last year-white with stripes on the top-or black plaid socks in thigh-high, knee-high, or ankle-high options. Shoes are

shiny and black, as always, but this is the first year that a very small kitten heel option is allowed for girls only (genderism is still a very common practice at Burberry, unfortunately). Miranda says anyone who doesn’t pick it is mercilessly made fun of, but that’s no surprise: the Plebs and Bluebloods alike at Burberry Prep love to pick on others, regardless of reason.

“Are we ready?” Tristan asks, straightening his already straight tie and staring at me with slate gray eyes.NôvelDrama.Org exclusive content.

“I’m, uh, neck deep in French fries,” I choke out, hopping off the trunk of my new car and wiping vigorously at my fingers with a cluster of napkins. Tristan makes a disgusted sound in his throat and sweeps across the white rock of the parking area, whipping a handkerchief from his front pocket, and clasping my hands in his.

My heart races as I look up at him, and he carefully wipes my fingers off with slow, sensual motions.

Is he … Fleaning my hands off or hitting on me? I wonder as he takes on this task with the same single-minded purpose in which he tackles his coursework. My chest feels tight, and I’m having trouble catching my breath.

“Here, keep it.” He tucks it into my palm, and steps back, sighing as he opens his leather bookbag and removes a fresh black silk handkerchief, folding it meticulously, and placing it back in his pocket.

I gape at it.

“You keep extra handkerchiefs in your schoolbag?” I ask, stifling a laugh. He gives me a dark look, and then pauses as Lizzie comes out of the bathroom, dressed in her new uniform.

She’s a fucking vision.

My eyes move from her to Tristan, but he’s as stone-faced as always and gives nothing away.

“How do I look?” Lizzie asks self-consciously, brushing her hands down the front of the red jacket. “I’m so used to the Coventry Prep uniform that I feel out of place.”

“You look great,” Zack supplies, his fingers tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He says that to her while his dark eyes are focused on me.

“We need to walk in there as a group,” Tristan says, addressing everyone like he truly believes he’s the king. Windsor leans his shoulder against the brick wall of the restroom, smirking. His expression says that for now, he’ll

let Tristan lead, but only because it’s convenient. As soon as it’s not, there’s going to be a war between those two.

“Are we on ignore mode still?” Zayd asks, cocking his pierced brow. “Because that didn’t exactly go over well last time.”

Tristan makes a sound in the back of his throat and scowls while Creed moves up to stand beside me.

“No. We’re at war. When we walk the halls, they move. When we want the elevators, they get lost. We eat at the Blueblood table. We control the school.”

“And if they don’t accept that?” Andrew asks, his voice strained. “Then what? Don’t forget: Greg and John, Harper and Becky, they’re dangerous. This is bigger than just who sits where, or who gets to use the Gallery. I’m scared. Maybe you’re not, but me, and Marny

e, and Miranda … we could be targets.”