Tristan and I reach for the same book and our hands bump together, heat searing up my fingers and into my arm. My pulse races, and I have to swallow back a small sound of surprise. Do all the girls feel this way when they touch him? Is that why he’s always sleeping with a new one?

“I’ve got a list of titles on my phone that I looked up that might be helpful,” I say, reaching into my bookbag and pulling it out. Tristan just stands there in his perfectly polished uniform, not a button out of place, not a single crease or stain. The way he holds his head tells me he knows he’s the king, even if the other guys don’t want to believe it. My eyes scan the list and then I hand it over to him, and we start pulling out books and laying them on the table.

When none of those gives us the information we’re looking for, we head back into the shelves, our bodies pressed close in the tight space. I can smell him, too, this fresh, sharp peppermint and cinnamon mix that makes my nostrils tingle. He reaches around me a few times, effectively pinning me against the bookcase with his warm, hard body pressed up against my back.

Holy crap.

As he pulls away, there’s this rush of cool air, like I’m free-falling when all I want is to be held close.

My eyes close and I exhale.

“Something the matter?” Tristan asks, still standing far too close to me. His lips touch the side of my head as he talks and his left hand finds my shoulder, kneading my knotted flesh with an expert’s touch. A groan escapes me and I lean back into him without even meaning to.

Marnye, what are you doing?! I snap at myself, opening my eyes and pulling away. There’s a book we missed before that I recognize from the list of titles I made, and I reach up to get it as Tristan steps back. Of course … I tried so hard not to freak out over my lack of panties that I completely forgot to be cautious about not wearing any. My skirt lifts up and I swear, I can feel a cool breeze on my bare ass.

Tristan’s hands fall on my hips, and I hear him exhale sharply.

“Can I ask for that favor now?” he whispers, his voice seduction incarnate, winding around me and working its way inside my chest.

“What’s the favor?” I choke out, feeling the warmth of his hands through my skirt. He leans in close and puts his mouth next to my ear again.

“Let me touch you.”

My heart explodes in my chest, and I find myself nodding before I even realize what I’m doing.

Tristan moves his hands over my hips and under my skirt, cupping my bare ass in his palms. I’ve literally never done anything like this before, so I find myself holding my breath until I’ve gone dizzy, leaning in against the bookshelf with my arms still over my head, fingers clutching the edge of the shelf.

He cups my bottom in a tight grip, his breath ragged and warm against my ear. I can barely hear him though, or anything else for that matter because my heart is beating so fast that it drowns out the world. A hot, warm throbbing takes place in my core, and I suddenly want his hands lower, searching for something else.

It feels fated, this meeting of ours, in the dark, quiet shadows of the library.

If Harper and Becky hadn’t stolen my panties, if I hadn’t stood on my tiptoes to grab the book, if Tristan hadn’t been standing so close behind me …

My breath rushes out in a gasp as his palms travel over the curve of my ass, sliding up and underneath the pleats of my skirt before trailing down the outsides of my thighs. With a sudden curse, Tristan steps back and I turn to face him, our bodies just inches apart. His slacks can’t hide the bulge underneath, and his eyes are far too dark and dripping with lust to be fake.

This wasn’t planned. I can feel it.

“Your debt to me is paid,” he says, turning and heading for the table. He scoops up a box of slides and storms off toward the microfilm reader. I’m not sure whether to go or stay, but I feel hot and achy and confused, so I just grab my bookbag and bail.

The next time I see Tristan, he has the project finished, and we don’t talk about what happened in the library.

While the Idol boys are being, for the most part, pleasant, the girls are at their worst. And the Inner Circle isn’t much better. On the last Friday of the month, just after grades are posted and I take second place behind Tristan (damn it!), I get a call that Vice Principal Castor wants to see me.

His office is located in the administration building just outside the chapel. My heart is thundering, my palms sweaty as I make my way out the door and along the windy gravel path. The gardens on either side are beautiful, carefully manicured, and filled with late winter flowers like daffodils, California golden currants, and fragrant rosemary. The sun is shining, and the air is perfumed with sweetness. I’m nervous, but not overly so.

Not until I knock on the man’s door and hear a gruff invitation from the other side.

Vice Principal Paul Castor is in his late fifties, early sixties with graying hair, a short beard and mustache, and arms thick from strenuous workouts. Sometimes I see him jogging around campus after school and on weekends. He lives on the Burberry Prep campus, several miles down the road in the staff housing.

“Come in and take a seat, Miss Reed,” he says, his voice hard. The way his gray-blue eyes track me, I know right away I’m in trouble. He’s staring at me like I’ve already done something wrong, and he’s simply deciding on the correct form of punishment.

I do as he asks, folding my skirt underneath my thighs, and doing my best not to think about Tristan’s hands roaming around down there. As soon as that thought enters my mind, a hot flush comes to my cheeks, and I have to swallow around a lump in my throat.

Last night, I had a three hour texting conversation with Lizzie about Tristan. The way she talks about him, you’d think he walked on water. She actually likes the guy. When I tried asking her how she felt about breaking up with him, she waited almost a half an hour before texting me back.

If I had any other choice, I’d still be with them.

And what sort of answer is that?

“Miss Reed,” Mr. Castor repeats, folding his hands on the top of his desk. He stares me down like we’re in an interrogation room. “Do you know why I called you here?” I shake my head, but I’m still all jumbled up with thoughts of Tristan, so it’s hard to force my mouth to speak coherent thoughts. “We’ve received almost two dozen complaints from students across all four years here at Burberry Prep, that you’ve been selling your services.”

My mouth drops open, and my cheeks flame red.

Services … as in … does Mr. Castor think I’m a Working Girl from the Brothel, too?

“Homework, essays, answers to test,” he continues, and I almost breathe a sigh of relief. Oh, those sorts of services. But then I realize the implications present in that. Over two dozen complaints?! “The accusations have come from students with very credible reputations, and we need to take them seriously.”

“As seriously as you took the accusations about my out of control drinking?” I snap, a high note of panic in my voice. Mr. Castor looks chagrined, and sighs.

“Look, I understand you’ve been having trouble fitting in, but two dozen complaints is too many. Miss Reed, you are talented and bright, but unless there’s some secret coup against you then—”

“There is a secret coup!” I shout. I don’t mean to raise my voice, but I’m starting to panic here. My hands curl into fists in the red pleats of my skirt.

“We have proof, copies of identical homework assignments with your handwriting on them.”

My brows crinkle up, but I can’t figure out how exactly they swung that one.

“Can I see these copies?” I ask, because I know if I take a look at them, then I’ll be able to determine if it really is my handwriting. Mr. Castor gives me a tight half-smile and opens a folder on his desk, passing over a sheet of paper that most definitely has my writing on it. The only difference is that the name’s been changed. Two minutes with Photoshop could fix that. I wrack my brain as I stare at the sheet of paper, and then it all clicks.

My locker, the day my panties were stolen. I had this exact assignment in there, and when I couldn’t find it, I just asked our Japanese teacher, Mrs. Suzuki—Suzuki Sensei—for another one.

“We have four students who turned this in as proof, another dozen with identical math homework, and so on. Miss Reed, if you confess right now and give up the names of all the students involved, we’ll make the punishment light. After all, buying these services is nearly as bad as selling them, and we can’t exactly expel over two dozen students.” He sighs and sits back in his chair. “We’ll start with a two week suspension wherein you’ll return home, but take your schoolwork with you. Any assignment that’s been copied will have a grade of zero, and you’ll lose your place in the student rankings.”

My heart turns to ice and plummets into my stomach, shattering to pieces. I clamp my hand over my mouth and feel so sick that I’m not sure I’ve even got the strength to stand up and make it over to one of the potted plants in the corner. I’ve been working hard, so fucking hard.

The Idol boys, Tristan in particular, come to mind. He just surpassed me in rank, but it wouldn’t surprise me if—

There’s a sharp knock on the double doors, but whoever it is that’s on the other side doesn’t wait for confirmation. They swing inward, and Tristan Vanderbilt strolls in with Zayd Kaiser on one side, and Creed Cabot on the other.

“Boys,” Mr. Castor begins as they stroll up, Zayd on my left, Creed on my right. Tristan stands behind me and puts both of his hands on my shoulders. When he squeezes, a swarm of butterflies takes off in my belly.

“Vice Principal Castor,” Tristan begins, his voice cold and arrogant and full of disdain. It’s quite clear in the way he speaks to the man that he doesn’t respect him. “I’ve just been made aware of the accusations leveled at Miss Reed.”

“Mr. Vanderbilt, you know I can’t discuss the business of other students—”

Tristan halts the man’s words with a wave of his hand. With the other, he starts to massage my shoulder, and I almost melt in my chair. Zayd is grinning on my left, winking at me when I glance his way. Creed just looks bored and completely and utterly put out. If he were a cat, his tail would be flicking in irritation.