Stuck With The Four Hotties

The wind teases my skirt, making it billow around my thighs just enough that my garters show. I ignore it, leaning against the wall of Tower Two with my shoulder. My pulse is racing with nerves, but I’m excited to do this, to be the new student’s guide. And I guarantee I’ll do a hell of a lot better at my job than Tristan Vanderbilt did for me. I hadn’t expected to get called into Principal Collins’ office so bright and early, but that’s the life of a student mentor. Guess they’re going to actually make me earn those credits. And hey, maybe the new kid won’t be as big of a dick as all the others?

First day back at Burberry Prep Academy, and I’ve already had a note shoved in my locker telling me to kill myself (so original, been there, done that, asshole). There was a dildo on the floor in my room, but I’ve now got footage from my cameras showing Sai Patel and some of his own personal cronies putting it in there, and then taking turns snapping photos with my panties.

It’s fine though. I don’t even need those pictures to destroy him. Miranda was right: I’ve got pictures of Sai and Abigail making out at the lodge. All I have to do is show those to Greg, and it’s game over.

I watch the horizon, waiting for the shiny black academy car to crest the hill. Standing up straight, I approach the front steps and wait as it rolls around the circular drive, and comes to a slow stop, wheels crunching over the gravel. It feels like forever before the driver finally gets out and moves around to open the back door.

My breath stops in my chest.

One long leg extends from the back, cloaked in perfectly creased white slacks. A long, lithe form follows, tall and handsome and wearing a bright, white grin.

I’d almost forgotten all those news articles Miranda shoved in my face. If she hadn’t sent me the link to yet another expose on the guy, I would’ve forgotten about him completely. The world’s youngest billionaire. Tenth in line to the throne. Great-grandson to the Queen of freaking England.

Windsor York.

A freaking prince.

“Well, hello there,” he says, tilting his head to one side, his hazel eyes glimmering with color. There are specks of gold, green, and brown swimming in a blue-gray gaze. I’m immediately mesmerized by the color. His red hair is short, but playfully mussy, tousled and dark, almost crimson. And that smile … it’s impossible to look away from. “Windsor York, at your service. You must be Marnye Reed?”

I nod, but my throat is suddenly dry, and there are no words.

The prince adjusts the lapels of his second-year jacket and looks around, taking in the courtyard and the fountain with mild interest. He then adjusts his gaze to me, and mild interest turns to piqued curiosity. Windsor’s eyes take me in, inch by inch, absorbing my appearance from head to toe. He seems to like what he sees, too, which makes my cheeks flush pink, and sends my heart racing.

The new student I’ve been asked to mentor is … a prinFe. A prinFe. A freaking prinFe?!

“You’re quite the pretty little thing, aren’t you?” he asks, his voice crisp with an English accent. If I said I wasn’t into it, I’d be lying. His grin sharpens up and he extends an elbow for me to take. “I assumed they’d be sending some crusty old school marm to give me a tour. This is much, muFh better.” He holds out his arm for me to take, and I just stand there like an idiot, staring. After a moment, he cocks his head to one side and makes this cute little moue with his mouth that sends my hormones into a frenzy. “You don’t want to escort me, milady?” he asks, milking his accent for everything it’s work. Swallowing hard, I take the prince’s arm, and shivers crawl up and down my spine-good ones, too. Oh no. I feel like I crush far too easily on hot guys. It’s a habit I really need to break. Who’s to say this guy isn’t as snooty, self-absorbed, and cruel as the rest of them?

Bet he’s worse.

“Do I …” I start and then my throat gets so dry that I have to pause and swallow before continuing. “I mean, should I call you prince?” I ask, and Windsor pauses for a moment before chuckling, this happy little sound that’s pretty much the antithesis of all the other guys at this school-even Zayd. It’s pretty refreshing actually.Property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

“You know who I am? That’s bloody fantastic. But prince? God no. Call me Windsor. Or Wind. Or even Windy, but preferably not if you’re interested in dating me as that’s what my grandmother calls me.” He pauses and flashes another grin, whistling as we make our way through the courtyard. I’m not quite sure how to respond to that, so I say nothing. After a minute, Windsor glances down at me with a slight frown and a single cocked brow. “You don’t then, I take it?”

“Don’t what?” I ask and he laughs at me again, but not like he’s teasing, more like he finds me amusing.

“Don’t want to date me?” he clarifies, and my flush intensifies. I look straight ahead, down the corridor toward the stained glass doors.

“I’m not about dating anyone at this moment,” I say, and the words come out so cryptic and full of meaning that both of Windsor’s brows go up this time. Crap. He looks intrigued now, and I don’t particularly want to be intriguing to anyone, not even to a gloriously handsome prince.

“Shame,” Windsor says, but at least he says it with a smile.

We push through the doors to the chapel building … and come to a grinding halt.

The Bluebloods are standing just inside the door, with Tristan and Harper at the front, Zayd, Becky, Creed, and the new girl, Ileana, just behind them. The rest of the Inner Circle is fanned out behind them. When Tristan sees me with Windsor, something dark lights up his eyes, and his frown pulls down the edges of his mouth.

“Are you Windsor York?” Ileana Taittinger asks, twisting her dark hair around a finger. The way she looks at the prince is terrifying, like she very well might eat him for breakfast. Her uniform top is unbuttoned, all the way to the scalloped black edges of her lacy bra. I glance at Windsor, expecting his eyes to drop right to her cleavage. Instead, he focuses on Tristan and smiles brightly.

“Windsor York, at your service. Please, call me Wind. And you are?” He tugs me forward with his hold on my arm, bringing me in close proximity to

the Bluebloods. The way Becky glares at me, I can almost feel her hatred burning holes in my skin. Her hair is pulled up into a bun, and hair-sprayed to high hell, but there’s no missing the giant chunk I cut off, not today. A smirk teases the edges of my mouth, and she notices.

“Have you introduced yourself to the prince properly yet,” she schmoozes, miming a blow job with her hand, her tongue poking

at the inside of her cheek.