She and Creed—along with the others—stayed in Cruz Bay the last two days, but unlike the others, neither Windsor nor the Cabot twins has a car. After I sunk Creed’s Bentley Bentayga, he was not given a replacement. Kathleen Cabot is a harsh mistress. And Windsor … I can’t forget the way his face looked in the rear-view on the way to Royal Pointe; he either can’t or doesn’t want to drive.

Tristan has a brand-new black Aston Martin Rapide while Zayd’s in a Jaguar convertible identical to the one I dumped in the pool. Zack, of course, has his McLaren, and Andrew has his Lambo back. I have no idea what Lizzie drives, but I’m guessing I’ll find out, considering she’s now going to Burberry with us.

My stomach turns over with anxiety, but I ignore the feeling. I’m not going to alienate a friend because I’m jealous over a boy I’m not sure either of us even wants or could reasonably have.

Creed leans forward, putting his mouth far too close to my ear. I can smell his clean soap and fresh laundry scent as he drawls out his words like he’s half-asleep.

“You truly are quite selfless, gifting your attention to idiots like Zack Brooks and Windsor York.”

“Don’t even get started,” I warn him, sensing something big coming from Creed Cabot. He’s going to ask you out. That’s what Miranda texted me last night, and then with several laughing emojis, #TeamCreed.

Gulp.

If he asks me out, what am I going to say? It’s too soon, sorry buddy? Or … yes, please?

A groan escapes me that makes him chuckle. His warm breath teases my skin, and I accidentally press down too hard on the gas, making all four of us grunt as our bodies press back into the sumptuous white leather seats. I slow down a little, mindful of Dad’s nervousness. He didn’t want me to drive today, but I promised I’d be safe.

I intend to keep that promise.

After a few pit stops for food and bathroom breaks, we arrive in the visitors’ lot, park, and get out to change into our uniforms. The others aren’t too far behind us—we did sort of a caravan thing—and then it’s a bit like a fashion show as each boy emerges in his third year uniform.

I pretend the drool in my mouth is from the cold French fries I’m chewing on, but that’s not entirely true. I come very close to wiping grease and salt off on the fresh pleats of my brand-new black plaid skirt, and admire Zayd from the corner of my eye.

Within hours—or maybe minutes—he’ll be all wrinkled and disheveled which, of course, is part of his charm. But seeing him in a pressed, creased uniform, complete with jacket and tie, is a real treat.

Third years wear black and red plaid skirts (boys wear black slacks with a subtle red pinstripe), crisp white shirts, matching plaid ties, and red jackets. Sock choices are the same as last year—white with stripes on the top—or black plaid socks in thigh-high, knee-high, or ankle-high options. Shoes are shiny and black, as always, but this is the first year that a very small kitten heel option is allowed for girls only (genderism is still a very common practice at Burberry, unfortunately). Miranda says anyone who doesn’t pick it is mercilessly made fun of, but that’s no surprise: the Plebs and Bluebloods alike at Burberry Prep love to pick on others, regardless of reason.

“Are we ready?” Tristan asks, straightening his already straight tie and staring at me with slate gray eyes.

“I’m, uh, neck deep in French fries,” I choke out, hopping off the trunk of my new car and wiping vigorously at my fingers with a cluster of napkins. Tristan makes a disgusted sound in his throat and sweeps across the white rock of the parking area, whipping a handkerchief from his front pocket, and clasping my hands in his.

My heart races as I look up at him, and he carefully wipes my fingers off with slow, sensual motions.

Is he … cleaning my hands off or hitting on me? I wonder as he takes on this task with the same single-minded purpose in which he tackles his coursework. My chest feels tight, and I’m having trouble catching my breath.

“Here, keep it.” He tucks it into my palm, and steps back, sighing as he opens his leather bookbag and removes a fresh black silk handkerchief, folding it meticulously, and placing it back in his pocket.

I gape at it.

“You keep extra handkerchiefs in your schoolbag?” I ask, stifling a laugh. He gives me a dark look, and then pauses as Lizzie comes out of the bathroom, dressed in her new uniform.

She’s a fucking vision.

My eyes move from her to Tristan, but he’s as stone-faced as always and gives nothing away.

“How do I look?” Lizzie asks self-consciously, brushing her hands down the front of the red jacket. “I’m so used to the Coventry Prep uniform that I feel out of place.”

“You look great,” Zack supplies, his fingers tucked into the pockets of his slacks. He says that to her while his dark eyes are focused on me.

“We need to walk in there as a group,” Tristan says, addressing everyone like he truly believes he’s the king. Windsor leans his shoulder against the brick wall of the restroom, smirking. His expression says that for now, he’ll let Tristan lead, but only because it’s convenient. As soon as it’s not, there’s going to be a war between those two.

“Are we on ignore mode still?” Zayd asks, cocking his pierced brow. “Because that didn’t exactly go over well last time.”

Tristan makes a sound in the back of his throat and scowls while Creed moves up to stand beside me.

“No. We’re at war. When we walk the halls, they move. When we want the elevators, they get lost. We eat at the Blueblood table. We control the school.”

“And if they don’t accept that?” Andrew asks, his voice strained. “Then what? Don’t forget: Greg and John, Harper and Becky, they’re dangerous. This is bigger than just who sits where, or who gets to use the Gallery. I’m scared. Maybe you’re not, but me, and Marnye, and Miranda … we could be targets.”

“That’s why we stick together at all times, pairs at the very least.” Tristan straightens out the rich red Burberry jacket with the little crest on the pocket, and then takes up the lead, heading for one of the idling academy cars. The driver opens the door, and Tristan steps aside, letting me slide in before he does. Pretty sure I hear Zayd grumble about that, and I smile.

The leather sticks to the backs of my thighs, and I realize then that I’m sweating. I’m nervous. And not just about Harper and her cronies, but … about the boys, too. Are they going to betray me again? Because being here in this car with all of them feels kind of … good.

“Remember,” Tristan whispers as the car rolls down the gently sloping hills that surround the school. I look up at him as ambient conversation from the others fills the inside of the limo. “You’re an Idol now.” He reaches over and adjusts the necklace I’m wearing, making my cheeks flush.

“I’m not exactly Idol material,” I say, giving a slight smile. Tristan frowns and looks away, out the tinted windows towards the forest beyond the hills. Everything he does is so dramatic. I’m not even sure he means to be that way; it’s just his natural personality.

Tristan is silent for the remainder of the drive, but the rest of my new friends are pretty chatty. Their talk helps calm my nerves a bit.

“You got this,” Zayd reassures me, winking before he climbs out of the limo with his bookbag thrown casually over his shoulder. Miranda follows behind him, then Creed, Andrew, Zack, Lizzie, and Windsor. Tristan and I are last, and I’m happy to see that the courtyard with the stag is empty when we walk up the steps toward the fountains and the surrounding towers.

“Let’s do breakfast,” Tristan says casually, and we make our way into the chapel building and down the hall toward The Mess.

It’s strange, being back in these halls after everything that happened at Royal Pointe, and the Hamptons, and my birthday party. Surreal, almost. My palms are sweaty as I cling to my bookbag and follow the group inside the dining hall.

I breathe a sigh of relief as we walk in and find that special table, the one up on the dais, empty.

We all squeeze around it together and take up our menus while Miranda laments the lack of coffee, mumbling under her breath about Ms. Felton being a caffeine Nazi.

“Coventry Prep has catered buffets for every meal,” Lizzie explains, sitting on Tristan’s right. I’m on his left, next to Creed. He’s leaning back in his chair like he’s ready for a nap, but his eyes are intense, laser-focused on me as I pretend to peruse the menu.

“What?” I ask finally, turning to look at him and most definitely not thinking about the hot tub. I mean, why would I? What purpose would that serve? No, my cheeks are not red at all. “Why do you keep staring at me?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to ask you to be my girlfriend,” he drawls with all the confidence and nonchalance of the idle rich, and all the color drains from my face.