Damn it.

“Whatever. We're not at Burberry now though, are we?” Isabella turns to walk off, her dress just barely covering her ass. I'm not judging, it's just … sad. She's fourteen for crap's sake. Before she gets three feet from us, Isabella pauses and glances over her shoulder. If I didn't know better, I'd say she had Dad's nose. “No wonder Mom dumped you. What a disappointment.”

Isabella spins away in a flurry of brunette hair, rejoining her friends near the seating area by the bar. My mouth tightens into a thin line as I think about her sitting between my parents, about the tears in my dad's eyes that he never fully explained.

“You've wanted this for so long, Marnye-bear. I'm just happy the moment is finally here.”

Huh.

“Do you want me to beat her up for you?” Miranda asks, and I glance over to see she's positively fuming. I shake my head, and then tuck my fingers into the pockets of the sexy, little cocktail dress. Wow. I would never have expected Tristan Vanderbilt to pick out a dress with pockets on it, especially not the Tristan from two years ago.

“She's upset about something,” I say, pushing the hurt down as it tries to rear its ugly head inside of me. “And I think I might have some idea of what that is.”

Turning to Miranda, I pull out the fake driver's license with two fingers and force a grin. I'm not going to let Isabella Carmichael get to me, not even if she is the culmination and destruction of fourteen years of hopes and daydreams.

“Why don't you get yourself something fruity and alcoholic, and I'll be the DD?”

Miranda narrows her eyes at me, but nods anyway and grabs my hand, dragging me over to the bar.

Isabella stays as long as we do, right up until the club closes, and I swear, I can feel her eyes on my back the entire time.

It's not a comfortable feeling … almost like I've got a target between my shoulder blades.

I'm going to have to watch my new little sister very, very carefully, aren't I?

The next morning, I'm rudely awoken by the sound of a bus horn outside my window. Groaning, I pull a pillow over my head to quiet the noise. A few moments later, there's a knock on the door, and I'm forced to get up anyway.

Miranda's still peacefully passed out on the couch, snoring, and Dad's left for a doctor's appointment. I'd intended on going with him, but he didn't wake me up. Part of me wonders if he doesn't want me to know how bad things are getting.

“This better be good,” I grumble, rubbing at my sleep-crusted eyes and throwing the front door open.

My eyes widen, and a small squeak escapes my lips.

Fuck.

This'll teach me to check the peephole for, like, murderers and stuff. That is, murderers and tatted rock star boys.

“Whoa there, Working Girl, are you rocking duckie pj's?” Zayd asks, throwing out this devilish little grin as he pinches the shoulder of my pajamas and then leans in for a kiss.

I'm so shocked to see him, and embarrassed as all get-out, but when he steps forward and curls his inked arm around me, I forget that I'm wearing pajamas with feet.

Zayd tastes like cherry Coke and cloves, and he smells like sage and geranium. With his strong arm banded around me and his lips against mine, I can barely breathe. My heart is beating out of my chest, and I'm on my tiptoes, eyes closed, swooning away into oblivion.

“What on earth are you wearing?” a lazy voice drawls from somewhere behind Zayd. My eyes snap open, and I'm pushing back against Zayd's chest as he howls with laughter and releases me.

My footie pajamas slip on the hardwood floor, and if Zayd didn't step forward to catch me again, I would've fallen right on my ass.

Creed moves into the shadows of the house, giving me that devil-may-care smile of his as he walks over and sits down on the sofa, right on top of his sister. She barely stirs as he reaches out and pokes a finger in the center of her forehead.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” he purrs, flicking his eyes briefly over to mine. There's a small flash of jealousy there as he licks his lips, studying me as I stand in the circle of Zayd's arms. “Did you two stay up late partying last night? That's awfully naughty of you, Marnye.”

“I, we …” I start, but then I catch sight of Zack moving down the steps of the giant silver and black bus that's parked in front of my house. I'd be in awe of the size of the thing—it takes up the length of our yard plus the driveway and then some—if I weren't so focused on the boy with the broad shoulders and the rounded biceps. Do not drool, Marnye, not cool.

“Hey,” he says, cool as a cucumber, eyes dark and narrowed but not unpleasant. No, actually, in the deep, shadowed depths of those beautiful irises, he looks pretty damn happy to see me. A smile curves the perfection of his full, lush mouth. “Didn't expect to see us here, huh?”

“Not exactly,” I admit, feeling lightheaded and happy, but also a tad concerned. They've been missing a whole week, and then they show up in a giant RV? What's going on here? “What happened to Tristan and Windsor?”

“Oh, they're here alright,” Zayd says, making sure I'm settled on my feet before he lets go, his eyes scanning my pajama-clad form with interest. Heat suffuses my cheeks, and I start to back up, intending to escape to my bedroom before Tristan or Windsor come in and see me dressed like this. I'm embarrassed enough as it is, but somehow the thought of those two seeing me wearing fuzzy baby duck pj’s … “Oh no, you don't.” Zayd grabs me by the wrist and pulls me forward, keeping me from the safety of my closed bedroom door, and a pair of tight jeans and a cute top.

Tristan comes down the steps of the bus, dressed in his fourth-year uniform and looking like a goddamn king. He's got on the black blazer with the red and white Burberry Prep logo, the black shirt, black tie, black slacks …

Windsor is right behind him, dressed far more casually in long jean shorts, and a red wifebeater. His red hair is just slightly curled, and he has this swagger to his walk that makes me smile … That is, before the two boys step out of the sunshine and into the darkness of the house.

That's when their gazes both go straight to my outfit, and my face flames up like an inferno.

Something strange passes over Tristan's gaze, an almost unbelievable warmth, maybe even a strange sort of tenderness, but then it's gone, and he's cocking a perfectly sculpted dark brow at me.

“You look ridiculous. Where on earth did you find a pair of pajamas so hideous?”

“They're a gift from my dad,” I grumble as Windsor grins and steps forward, cupping the side of my face with his hand. My heart stops briefly, and I feel faint for the smallest of moments. I missed them all so much that all of a sudden, it really hits home.

I've been essentially living with these guys for years, eating in the same place, walking the same halls, day after day. Once we graduate, that's all gone. It's all gone, and I can never get it back.

My stomach turns over, and Windsor's face tightens almost imperceptibly.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, leaning in and putting his forehead up to mine. Windsor closes his beautiful hazel eyes for a moment, but not before I see a flash of fatigue in them. He's tired. Something happened this week, I know it.

“I'm just fine,” I tell him, feeling my stomach light up with butterflies. He pulls back just slightly from me, eyes opening, and then he leans in and crushes his mouth to mine. There's a fierce, quiet possession in that kiss that steals my breath away. It also feels like maybe … Windsor isn't the impermeable, unshakable force he pretends to be. It feels like he needs me in that moment, and I like it. I want to be there for him the way he was for me from the first second we met.

“The pajamas are quite nice, love. Very sexy.” He pulls back and moves over to the chair near the fireplace, sitting down like his body's just a little too heavy to carry around comfortably.

“So … how was the Club meeting?” I ask, clearing my throat as Miranda groans and stirs, mostly because Creed is yanking on her hair. Nobody but Zack is willing to look at me. “That bad, huh?”

“It was … interesting.” He looks away, toward an oil painting on the wall that Jennifer made in college. I've always hated it. It's not very good, and Jennifer isn't a very nice person, so I'm more than willing to point out the painting's flaws. She left me at a rest stop, kept my sister from me, and now she's pregnant again. Just what the world doesn't need, another baby for her to mess up. “But I guess it went better than expected. Tristan's still here, isn't he?” Zack narrows his eyes and sighs, reaching up to ruffle his short, dark hair.