“He told me he was thinking of asking you,” she says, sitting up and pushing around the sea of glittering dresses. “You should go with him, even if it’s just as a friend.”

“Why don’t you go with him?” I ask, and there’s a tenseness in her shoulders that’s impossible to miss. Hmm. “Or maybe with Tristan? He seems to like you?” Miranda lifts her eyes up to me, brows raised, and then she laughs.

“Tristan’s a jerk. No way in hell would I go with him. I’ll probably just go with Creed, do the twin thing or whatever.” She pulls out the gold dress with the long sleeves, and the disturbingly low-cut back. It’s super short, hitting me at mid-thigh, but it does look nice with my rose gold hair, and the skirt is flowy, like a fairy princess. The little girl in me is super attracted to it. “I’ll call my mom and ask her to get us an off-campus pass. We can take ask someone for a ride, and shop for new shoes. My treat.”

“I can’t ask you to do that,” I start, but Miranda waves her hand, cutting me off.

“I want to do it. Besides, who doesn’t love shoe shopping? I could use a new pair, too.” She lifts her foot up and wiggles around the shiny silver Cinderella slipper. Pretty sure those are Louboutins. And they look basically unworn. Getting out of Burberry Prep for a while on a girl’s day out sounds pretty awesome though …

“Okay,” I say, lifting up the gold dress for another inspection. “Let’s do it.”

Kathleen gets us an off-campus pass with no trouble, and even arranges for a driver to take us into the city. Unfortunately, Creed also decides to go with us.

He sits on the opposite side of Miranda in the car’s backseat, but his smell tickles my nostrils, like fresh laundry and soap. It’s annoyingly addictive. Miranda fills the silence, but it’s a mostly one-sided conversation, and I’m beyond relieved when we pull up to the shoe boutique. It’s situated in the small but exclusive little town of Lujo. It literally means luxury in Spanish, and it reminds me a little of the Coachella Valley near LA.

The street we’re on is brick, lined with historical buildings, and designer shops. It’s the first time I’ve been back in town since leaving for Burberry Prep, and I feel a little dizzy with excitement when we climb out.

“Café first, then shoes. As important as high heels are, coffee is god.” Miranda hooks her arm through mine and pulls us into a sweet little café with high-backed leather chairs, a fireplace, and plush faux fur rugs on the brick floors. We study the chalkboard menu, and I decide on a latte and a cheese danish while Miranda goes for full chocolate overload and grabs a chocolate brownie and a mocha.

Creed pays for us, and then looks me over before turning his attention to his sister.

“Go find a table, and I’ll bring our stuff over.”

“He’s being awfully mild-mannered today,” I say as we head through a small doorway and into a second seating area. It’s much less crowded on this side, and we snag a spot on a small cream-colored sofa with silver-painted wood accents. I’d so take it home with me if I could. I’d take this whole street with me if possible. The inner architecture geek inside of me is squealing.

“Yeah, well, he’s bound to his own rules, you know? He can’t pick on you either.” Miranda leans back in the sofa and looks up at the antique chandelier above us.

“Are you guys … okay now?” I hedge, and she drops her eyes to mine. There’s a pleading there, like she wants to talk to me about something, but there’s no time for it. Creed appears, balancing two coffees and two plates. He deposits them in front of us and disappears again to grab his own food.

“We’re always on shaky ground, Creed and me. I mean, we used to be super close as kids, but not since maybe sixth or seventh grade. He tries too hard to control me, and he never listens to our parents. They’ve sort of given up on him a little. They know he’ll get good grades, graduate, whatever, but he’s done some really messed-up stuff. I think he might be jealous of my relationship with Mom.” Miranda pauses as Creed comes back and drapes himself over the leather chair across from us. He never just sits. No, it’s always a production.

“You’re buying shoes for the formal on Friday?” he asks, this small thread of interest in his normally bored voice.

“Marnye needs shoes,” Miranda starts, and then her eyes narrow like she’s just thought of something. “She also needs a date.”

Creed stares his twin down, and it’s like some secret hidden messages pass between them. Eventually, he licks his lips and then turns his full attention to me.

“Come to the winter formal with me.” Not a question, a statement. I raise an eyebrow.

“Really?” I ask, and I hate the way my voice sounds, a little too eager for my tastes. “Why? You hate me.”

“I did. Not anymore.” Just that. Wow, the guy sure is loquacious. He puts his elbow on the arm of the chair and rests his chin in his palm. The pale blue of his eyes is picked up by the color of his shirt, the top two buttons undone, his black jeans an edgy contrast against such a proper looking shirt. Creed’s wearing men’s dress shoes with a skull and crossbones on the toe, a little gothic for his tastes. When he sees me looking, his mouth curves up into a sharp smile. “Paxton Blackwell, have you heard of him?”

“Not exactly,” I start, wondering where this is going. I pick up my latte while Miranda inhales her brownie. “Why?”

“He’s the lead singer of Beauty in Lies. They went on tour with Zayd’s band, Afterglow. These shoes, Barker Blacks, are his favorite. He wears them to every concert.”

I blink stupidly, taking a sip of my drink to cover up the silence. This is the longest and most normal conversation Creed and I have ever had. I’m not even sure what to say.

“Sorry, I don’t listen to rock or pop or really any mainstream music for that matter. Mostly, I’m focused on Sophia Dussek or Catrin Finch.” I switch my coffee out for the Danish, and Creed watches me, like he’s studying my every movement. I realize I haven’t given him an answer to his question: should I go to the winter formal with this guy?

“Harpists,” Creed says, but not like he’s at all unsure, more like he would expect any cultured person to recognize those names. “Becky wants to kill you for taking her spot in the orchestra.”

“I didn’t take her spot; I’m just a better player. Besides, she’s the understudy. That’s a big deal, too.”

Creed leans forward, his lashes long and curled, paler than his sisters, but not as fine as his hair. They’ve got more of a golden-brown color, bringing more attention to those gorgeous eyes of his.

“You sweep into our school, and you destroy students who’ve had every advantage in life. You play better, you study harder. People feel like you’re taking the luxuries of their birthright away from them.”

“For all I’ve heard them complain that I’m a charity case, taking other people’s hard-earned money, nobody seems to be willing to actually work harder to beat me. They just want me to disappear.” Creed reaches out and touches the corner of my mouth with his knuckle.

“Crumb,” he explains, but my face is on fire, and Miranda is looking between the two of us like she’s never seen us before. Creed proceeds to lick said crumb off which can only really be interpreted one way: he’s hitting on me. “So yes or no, will you go to the winter formal with me?”

“You haven’t given me any reason to say yes,” I tell him, and his lazy lips curl into an insouciant smile. He picks up his coffee—black, no sugar, no cream—and sips it, watching me over the rim of the mug. I guess he’s not going to argue that point. He probably just thinks I’ll give in.

I make a point to ignore him while we finish our food and drinks, turning to Miranda and discussing her plans for the upcoming trip to Paris instead. She’s been there so many times it’s not that big of a deal to her, but my heart aches at the thought of seeing the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the Catacombs. One day, if I stay on track, I’ll be able to pay my own way across the world.

Once we get inside the boutique—some place called Chaussures du Monde—I’m completely gob smacked. Glass shelves line every wall and go all the way up to the twenty foot ceiling with its vintage tin ceiling tiles and chandeliers.

“Impressive, right?” Miranda asks, breathless and excited. She pulls me over to a display in the corner and starts pointing out things she thinks I should wear. Fortunately, after pointing out a good thirty or so pairs she wants me to try on, she gets distracted by shoes for her own outfit.

I feel rather than hear Creed step up behind me.

He reaches around me, his body brushing up against my back and giving me chills as he snags a pair of heels decorated with gold moons and silver stars. They’re honestly perfect for the dress I’m borrowing, but I can only imagine how expensive they are.

“Try these ones,” he whispers, voice so close to my ear that I have to close my eyes and take a deep breath to ward off the strange fluttering feeling in my stomach. I turn around, expecting him to move back, but it doesn’t quite work that way. My chest brushes up against his, and my breath escapes in a rush. Creed looks down at me for a long moment before reaching up to push a loose strand of rose gold hair away from my eyes. “Can we see these in a thirty-seven?” he asks, and the associate helping us scurries off to comply.

“That’s creepy,” I tell him as he finally steps back, and I move over to sit on the curving gold couch that winds its way through the center of the store. It’s just one continuous piece, and I have to wonder where they got it, and how they managed to squeeze it in the doors. “How do you know my size?”

“Because Miranda’s my twin, and you share shoes with her.” He waits for the associate to come back, and then takes the box from her hands. “I’ll do it.” His voice brooks no argument, and his clothes and stance clearly speak to money, so the woman moves to the side and watches as Creed kneels in front of me.