“Never sat in business class before?” Windsor guesses, leaning over the back of my seat. “Me neither. Of course, that’s because when I fly, I usually go in my family’s private jet. But I suppose this will do.”

“You’re an arrogant asshole,” I grumble, still enchanted by the set up. He laughs at me, but I’m just thrilled to be going on a trip at all, private jet or no. I’d happily sit on the toilet for the entire duration, just for the honor of being able to travel. I’ve only been on a plane once, and that was just to fly down to see my grandfather before he passed away. It was nothing like this.

After we take off, Windsor undoes his seat belt and spends half the flight picking out movies with me and providing his unusual commentary. When I head to the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of Tristan’s face, drawn taut with irritation. His eyes find mine, but we haven’t talked since he kissed me, so I’m not really sure what to say.

Instead, I use the bathroom as fast as I can and flee back to my seat, putting on my headphones to shut the prince out for the rest of the ride.

Once we land, clear customs, and finally get to our hotel, I’m exhausted. Ms. Felton gives us each the keys to our own rooms—spoiled rich kid privileges, I suppose—and I flop down on the bed only to pass out right after. In the morning, we all have breakfast in the upstairs lounge with sweeping views of the city and the Eiffel Tower.

Both boys watch me like they’ve never seen me before, as fascinated with my reactions to landmarks as I am with the landmarks themselves.

“It’s like seeing it for the first time all over again, isn’t it?” Windsor whispers at one point, but then we’re being swept up into a larger group, slapped with name tags, and taken out to the see the city. The one rule we have is that we cannot for any reason, leave our partner’s side.

And by partner, of course, our guide is referring to Tristan. Each prep school has sent their top two students to dress in uniform and represent their academy as we tour the city. As the student guide, Windsor is all over the place, and I don’t see much of him.

Several years back, the Notre Dame cathedral caught fire, but it’s been restored to—from what I read online—much of its former glory.

That’s where we start our tour of the city in the early morning.

As we’re weaving our way through the crowd inside Notre Dame, the priests chanting their ghostly hymns, I feel this wild excitement burst open in my chest. Not only am I in Paris, freaking Paris, but I’m in a building that dates back almost a thousand years. The history buff in me takes over and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m wrapping my arm around Tristan’s and squeezing.

He stiffens up for a second, but it doesn’t last, and then he’s relaxing and letting me cling to the crisp white sleeve of his academy jacket.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I whisper, trying to be respectful of the service taking place. I’m in no way religious, but I’d rather not be rude. I look up at Tristan, and he raises his eyebrows. A little flutter starts up in my belly, but I tamp down on it. The last thing I need to be feeling for this guy is … flutters. But we’re paired up together for the remainder of the trip, and I’m determined to have a good time. Besides, if I don’t hold onto his arm, I’ll get swept away in the crowd. It’s happened a few times already.

“I’ve seen it before,” he says, like he’s bored out of his mind. His gray gaze sweeps over me and then flicks away, toward a wall of carvings with a sign explaining their origin. Apparently, the entire church used to be covered in them, but this is the only surviving segment. I’m practically salivating. “But you look like you’re about to have an orgasm.”

He says that last word so loudly that several people turn to look at us, and I flush.

“Don’t say orgasm so loudly in a church,” I choke out, and Tristan laughs. It may very well be the most genuine sound I’ve ever heard pass by his full, sensuous lips. Oh no. No. No. You’re doing it again, Marnye, you’re forgetting what he did to you. My mind conjures up the image of Tristan’s face from last year, the cruel sound of his words. “And you know what? The only prize … was that trophy. We did it for fun.” My tummy butterflies land and refuse to take flight again.

“You know,” Tristan continues, his voice much more pleasant than the echoes in my head, “that orgasm isn’t a bad word.” He turns to me, our arms still linked. Somehow it’s more intimate like that, to be face to face with him with our arms woven together.

“I never said it was,” I whisper as the priests stop singing, and the sermon begins. It’s in French, so I can’t understand a word of it. It sounds pretty enough though.

Tristan leans down and puts his thumb against my lower lip. Half of me considers biting it off while the other half … doesn’t want to admit how damn good it feels.

“The passionate joining of man and woman, it’s not a sin, it’s God’s blessing in the bedroom.” He leans in closer, like he’s going to kiss me, but I pull back, yanking my arm from his. He smiles seductively, this practiced motion that I bet he’s used on dozens of girls. Don’t think about Kiara Xiao, I tell myself, but my mind goes there anyway, and I shiver. She’s been nothing but a nightmare to me, and she’s only just become a Blueblood.

“You don’t strike me as a religious person,” I say, and Tristan shrugs, digging his hands into the pockets of his white slacks. A huge group of tourists pushes past, and I get jostled and shoved. Tristan’s there in a split-second, putting himself between them and me, and putting his hands on my shoulders to steady me. He levels a glare on the crowd that instantly puts a space bubble around us, and then he stands over me with this possessive tightening of his fingers that I don’t understand. For someone that hates me as much as he claims to, he sure does like to touch me.

“I’m not religious,” Tristan replies, finally letting go of me. He turns back to the long row of carvings, kings and bishops and Jesus himself done up in fine detail. “None of this interests me.”

“But this is history,” I say, holding a hand out to indicate the church, my heart pounding wildly. This is seriously the longest conversation we’ve had the entire year. It’s making my pulse race like crazy. “We can learn so much from the past.” I step closer to the velvet rope and curl my fingers around it, wishing I could get just a little bit closer. “People make mistakes, Tristan, and if they don’t learn from them, nothing changes.” I level a look on him that he returns with unflinching ease. After a moment, he steps closer and holds out his elbow. I take it, noticing that his body tenses when I dig my fingers into his jacket.

“My dad hates you, you know. He thinks you’re the devil incarnate.” He says this casually, but with a hardness to his voice that says he wants me to know this for some reason, like it’s super important. I take note and file that away, but I refuse to let thoughts of William Vanderbilt interrupt my afternoon.

We spend the rest of the day in the Latin Quarter, walking past bars where Ernest Hemingway drank, and pausing at street vendors selling oil paintings of the city. The coffee in Paris is atrocious, the pastries fantastic, and the company … not so bad as I’d thought.

Spring break might be two weeks long, but we only have five days in Paris, so we pack them as tight as we can with activities, using our second day to tackle Disneyland.

Tristan lets me cling to his arm and gush as we make our way from one ride to another. Despite his uptight personality and generally bad attitude, he’s not a bad park buddy. He doesn’t shy away from any ride, not even something as silly as the tea cups. He takes a selfie with me in front of the pink Disney castle, and even has lunch with me at the Pirates of the Caribbean restaurant. By the end of the day, I’m sort of enjoying parading around the park in our matching white uniforms, watching girls’ eyes track our movements with unbridled jealousy.

On the train ride back to the hotel, I fall asleep with my head on Tristan’s shoulder, and some strange, quiet part of me imagines him stroking his fingers through my hair.

On our last day in Paris, we hit the Eiffel Tower, but it’s a little too crowded to be enjoyable, so we excuse ourselves to the park across the street to take pictures. Everything seems normal until Tristan stops walking abruptly.

“You okay?” I ask, blinking up at him.

“Marnye,” Tristan starts, turning to face me. The way he’s gazing down at my face, with his gray gaze softened, his mouth parted slightly, I expect something big. My heart races, and I feel my throat getting tight. No words will come. Instead, I wait for his. “There are so many things … You can’t stay at Burberry Prep. The Infinity Club is—”

“Don’t blame your actions on the Club,” I tell him, finally finding my voice again. My breath comes in short, sharp, little pants. “Don’t do it. If you have something to say to me, then say it. But don’t stand there and hide behind the club.”

Tristan scowls, but then shakes his head, his raven-dark hair fluttering in the breeze. If I tilt my head just slightly, I can see the Eiffel Tower, standing proud in the pale blue afternoon sky. He takes another step closer to me and then raises his hands to my shoulders, laying his palms gently on them. My body tingles at the touch.

“Marnye,” he starts, sounding so different than usual, almost eager, almost … sorry. “I’m—”

“Well, well, didn’t realize you two were so close,” Windsor’s voice calls out, and I swear, there’s a sudden flash of rage in Tristan’s gaze before a wall smashes down his emotions. I watch in desperate sadness as he locks away whatever he was going to say, and drops his arms to his sides before turning to glare at the prince. “Oh, don’t mind me. I’m content to stand here and watch.” Windsor smiles, but it isn’t pleasant. He’s clearly plotting right now. As much as I like him, I always have to remember that I’m walking on a razor’s edge. He’s as dangerous as the rest of them.