“Okay, sir artiste,” I joke, hefting my own ball from the track and licking my lower lip, “watch and learn how a pro does it.”

“You’re so going to regret that,” Zayd chuckles, folding his arms over his chest. When I throw a glare back his way, he lifts one tattooed hand and waves it lazily at me. “Go on, Miss Bowling Expert Extraordinaire, and let’s see these pro moves.”

I scoff and turn back to the lane, doing this dramatic little run thing before I chuck the ball and watch as it warbles, twists, and then knocks over one single stupid pin before disappearing.

“Honey soaked beeswax balls,” I curse, and Zayd howls with laughter. Damn, I missed that laugh. He’s laughing so hard he’s bent over at the waist.

“Beeswax balls?! That’s your idea of cursing?!”

“Hey, it’s better than hairy goat balls,” I grumble, collecting my ball, and pausing as Zack steps up beside me. He raises his dark brows.

“Want some pointers?” he asks, and my heart starts to beat like crazy. I nod, and he comes up behind me, putting his big hands on my hips and making me shiver. He guides me to a specific spot, and then shows me how to hold the ball, where to place my fingers. “Since you’re the birthday girl, I’ll help you throw this first time. After that, you’re on your own.” He stands behind me, sliding his fingers along my right arm before leaning over my shoulder to brush a light kiss to my right cheek.

I almost melt right there in front of everyone.

Instead, I exhale and shudder as Zack helps me throw the ball in just such a way that I actually pick up a spare.

“Holy crap,” I blurt, grinning as I spin around and find him still standing way too close to me. We look at each other a moment before I duck past him and take up a spot on the bench between Miranda and Andrew. Seems like the safest spot in the room, to be quite honest.

We finish our game, and Zack just narrowly beats Windsor.

It’s all fun and games until the prince loses, and I see his jaw clench. There’s a flash of darkness in his gaze that I recognize from when he tried to get me to plant drugs on Tristan, or when he was talking to me during Ben Thresher’s arrest. He notices me watching, and instead of denying it, he walks right up to me and leans in to whisper in my ear.

“I told you I was a bloody, awful wanker,” he whispers, and then he nibbles my earlobe. I’m so startled that I jump, and fling my hand up to cover my ear. I end up smacking him in the face, and he groans, covering up his mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. When he moves his hands, there’s a bit of blood. “I think I just cut my lip on my tooth.”

“I’m sorry,” I groan, but Windsor just laughs some more and excuses himself to clean up in the bathroom while the rest of us gather around a table to eat burgers from a huge stack on a silver platter, fries from dozens of red and white paper trays, and sodas from cups with the bowling alley’s logo printed on the side.

This is about as far from the luxe nature of Burberry Prep as one could get.

Conversation is light, shallow, but nice.

I think we’re all still trying to get a feel for how to interact with each other.

By the time the cake comes, it’s not quite so awkward, and I realize as I pass Creed a paper plate with a big slice on it that I’m actually having fun. Honestly, this may be one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. I even forget about Jennifer for a while, standing in the corner like an outcast. This time, it’s not me that’s the social pariah here: it’s her.

Dad gifts me another sentimental object that makes me weepy: a big, beautiful frame he welded, filled with pictures of the two of us, starting from the day I was born, and including one for each birthday thereafter. I’m so happy with the gift, but at the same time I’m terrified.

He thinks he’s dying.

I don’t want to consider it.

I tear into the other gifts to find—not surprisingly—a plethora of ridiculously expensive items, like a bottle of Clive Christiansen Imperial Majesty perfume that costs a whopping twelve grand per ounce. Miranda gifted me with that one. I almost choke and die when she sprays me with it, like watching dollar bills misting in the air around me. To be fair, it smells delicious.

The pile of fancy gifts—shoes, clothes, jewelry, a new suitcase (Andrew must be tried of seeing my ratty duffel bag year after year), and other assorted items—sits at the end of the table as I pick up Windsor’s small, black satin envelope.

“It’s just a little thing,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, his hazel eyes glittering as I tear up the flap to find … a key on a glittery pink Princess keychain. My eyes narrow at the same time my heart thumps like crazy. Pretty sure my hands are shaking, too.

“Princess?” I say, and he just laughs, gesturing for me to dig around in the envelope.

Inside, there’s a pink slip for a car with my name on it.

My eyes widen, and then I’m standing up and racing outside.

There’s a rose-gold fucking Maserati convertible with a bow on the hood.

“Windsor,” I start as Dad comes sprinting out behind me. His jaw drops when he sees the car. I turn to look at the prince, standing there with his hands in his pants pockets, his red hair sticking up in the front like it always does. He’s smiling pleasantly, like he’s happy I’m excited, but also like it’s no big deal. He also has this … I don’t want to say smugness, but self-satisfaction, like he wanted to make sure he had the biggest gift, and gets off on it, too. Hmm.

“Seriously?” Miranda coughs. “You one-upping asshole.” This last part is mumbled under her breath, but I hear it anyway.

“I can’t accept this,” I whisper, looking between him and the car.

“You can’t?” he asks with a small, faux frown. “That’s too bad. I had to special order this color. I can’t return it.” He smiles at me, and there’s something not quite so perfect about that expression, an almost sloppy sort of grin that I like. I bite my lower lip and squeeze the keys against my chest. “Just one ride in it, and then I’ll sell it on eBay?”

“One ride,” I whisper, turning to look at Charlie. He’s still gaping, probably trying to figure out how much the car costs. My guess: more than our rented house is worth. “Is it okay if I take it for a spin? I mean, just once because I can’t accept a gift this lavish …”

“I …” Dad starts, and then lifts his hands in surrender. “Why the hell not?”

Grabbing Miranda and Andrew by the hands, I drag them down the steps and head over to the convertible, running my hand along the shiny rose-gold paint. Holy crap, holy crap, holy crap.

“Drive slow!” Dad shouts out. “And wear your seat belts!”

During the summer, I completed my required driver’s training course, took the test, and passed. This girl now officially has her license.

I push my seat forward, so Andrew and Miranda can climb into the back. Windsor doesn’t even open his door, just hops over it. He leans forward, snatches the giant white bow off the hood, and slumps back in his seat.

“How much did this cost?” I whisper, as I start up the car and Zayd’s band, Afterglow, starts playing. Grinning, I turn it up, and give the others a little wave before backing out of the space. I cannot keep this. It’s too much. It’s too extravagant a gift for a friend to give. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Just … sell it and make a donation with the amount.”

“I’ll make a donation to wherever you want in the amount I paid for the convertible, if you keep it.”

Windsor is dead serious, leaning against his door and watching me, the wind tousling his red hair.

“But … why?” I ask, just before we pull out of the parking lot. I’m aware Miranda and Andrew are listening, but I can’t help it. “Why did you get this for me?”

“Why?” Windsor echoes, like I’ve lost my mind. He looks baffled as he reaches out and frees a piece of hair that’s stuck to my glossy lips. “Because you deserve it, milady.”

The first day of my third year at Burberry Preparatory Academy begins with a long car ride, as usual. What’s unusual about this time is that I’m driving myself. In the Maserati that Windsor bought me. Don’t get me wrong: I feel like an asshole riding in such an expensive vehicle, but the prince did make a generous donation to my favorite charity. Plus, it’s rude to refuse a gift made with thoughtfulness.

All of that and … I wanted to keep it. Does that make me selfish?

“You are the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” Miranda declares from the passenger seat, and the prince murmurs his agreement from behind her, most of his attention focused on his phone. Miranda sounds almost indignant about it, her white-blond hair whipping about in the wind as we take the coastal highway south toward the academy.