But, eventually, I’ll have to.

Because nobody in the real world has five boyfriends, particularly not when all five of them have familiar obligations or careers they have to uphold. Even if they didn’t, no man wants to share a girl forever.

I just try to enjoy whatever time I have left.

“Dance with me?” Zayd asks after he’s down at least three smores. I take his hand and let him pull me into the house and the throbbing bass beat. People clear out of our way, and I can feel the envy in their gazes as I switch between Zayd and Creed, Zack and Windsor.

Tristan stands aside and apart, sipping from a glass of what I hope is water and not vodka, his steely gaze focused on me. He seems almost … sad? But that can’t be right. He just beat me for the first in three years. I tell myself it’s because I took on too much with cheerleading and orchestra and tutoring, but … really, it’s because Tristan’s a worthy opponent.

I take a break from dancing to stand beside him, hooking my arm around his the way I did in Paris, closing my eyes as I breathe in his peppermint and cinnamon scent. Clean and spicy at the same time.

“I wish I could bottle your smell,” I tell him, and that, at least, gets the tiniest quirk of lips.

“Mm. What would call it? Eau de Asshole?”

“I was thinking Silken Prick Face. And the whole commercial would be about this naked guy wrapped in sulk, running through waves on a moonlit eve, while some weird voiceover whispers Silken Prick over and over again.” This time, I get a full laugh out of Tristan, and I think it startles us both just a bit.

We’re quiet for a while, watching the crowd thin out as people—mostly couples—start disappearing up to their rooms, or down to the beach for the bonfire or the boats.

“Why did you sabotage my test?” I ask, because that question’s been bugging me since last year. “I know now that you were trying to get me to drop out of Burberry, but … that’s not like you. Even when you hated me, you knew I was a qualified opponent.”

Tristan is silent for a while before he sighs and looks down at me.

“Sometimes we do things that we think are best, even if we know they’re wrong. Harper had even worse things planned for your grades. All I did was redirect her. And then I told Zayd. Marnye, I’ve never wanted to beat anyone at anything so badly as I wanted to win against you in grades.” I raise my eyebrows, but he’s not done, setting his waiter glass on a side table, and turning to look at me. “There have only ever been two settings in my life: completely hopeless failure under my father’s expectations, and ridiculous ease with the rest of the world. You challenge me, Marnye. You make me want to be better.”

My eyes widen, but we’re interrupted by Lizzie, pulling us both onto the dance floor for one last song before we hit the road again, off to Vanderbilt Manor, and a peek into Tristan’s private life that I never thought I’d live to see.

“Holy shit, it’s Mount Olympus,” I breathe as I stand in front of the Vanderbilt Manor, all forty-thousand square feet of it. According to Tristan, there are two art galleries, a ballroom, a winter garden, a library, a billiard room, a gun room, and … there are so many freaking rooms, I literally don’t remember them all.

“Might as well be,” Zack snorts, “because the people who live here think they’re gods.”

“Oh, like you’re any different, Brooks,” Tristan says, sweeping past and heading up the steps of the white stone manor. The staff greets him warmly which I find surprising. I figured Tristan was the type to treat those around him like ‘the help’. But he actually gives an older, silver-haired man a hug. A hug. How many times have I seen Tristan Vanderbilt hug anyone?

We head into the main hall, and I’m immediately overwhelmed by the amount of space and the lavishness of the décor. There’s a stack of papers on a table with a fresh floral bouquet that’s as big as my car. Tristan grabs it and starts passing out maps.

Literal maps. Of his house.

Maybe, if you need to give people a map of your home, it’s a little too big to begin with?

“Your rooms are labelled,” he explains, moving over to one of the walls to point out an intercom. “If you get lost, or need help finding something, just press the button on any of these and one of the staff can help you out.” He pauses for a minute as we all study the maps, taking note of our names scrawled onto the page. While it looks like there are plenty of guest rooms, he’s placed us all on the upper level, in the east wing, near his personal bedroom.

Lizzie bites her lip, and I look up, meeting her amber eyes.

It hasn’t escaped either of our notice that she’s sharing a room with Andrew, while I’ve got my own suite … right next to Tristan’s.

“Come on, Charity,” Tristan says cheekily, “I’ll show you to your room.” He takes my arm and guides me to the right, through the east foyer and the banquet hall before we finally get to the stairs. The others follow along behind as we sweep up the curving staircase, and Tristan starts directing people to their rooms.

The staff follows, loaded up with our bags. It makes me slightly uncomfortable, having other people wait on me, but now that I’m upstairs and looking at the door to Tristan’s bedroom, I forget all about it.

“Come,” he says, dragging me forward and into a sitting room, a study, and finally … his room.

My eyes immediately go to the black silk coverlet on the bed.

“This isn’t a room, this is a … wow, holy shit, Tristan.” He lets go of my arm and then sweeps over to a liquor cabinet, opening it up with a hidden key that he pulls out from beneath a potted plant. Once again, I’m so struck by the casual way in which he pours alcohol from a glass decanter that I have to shake my head to clear it.

“You like it?” he asks, turning to look at me and offering up a glass.

I look at it for a long, long while, and then shake my head no. Tristan simply smiles, and my back straightens as I hear Lizzie come into the room like she’s been here plenty of times before.

“It hasn’t changed a bit, has it?” she says, taking the alcohol from Tristan’s hand and throwing it back in one go. She leans back against the wall in her denim short-shorts and suspenders, looking casual and cool in a way I’m not sure that I ever will. I’ve sort of just accepted at this point that I’m a little clumsy, a little awkward, and that’s okay.

“William doesn’t like change,” Tristan says, moving over to stand beside Lizzie. I watch them carefully as he leans over and opens the window, letting in the cool, night breeze. It’s so quiet out here, I can’t hear anything but the sounds of the household, a distant owl, and some rustling in the brush that could be a deer or a raccoon.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I start, as Creed joins us next, pulling me into his arms and hugging me close. I shiver, wondering if he’s going to sneak into my room and join me tonight. I’d like that. I’d like it quite a bit. Having only had sex with him twice, I’m more than ready for more. “How is it that your family’s out of money? It looks like you’re doing just fine to me.”

Tristan’s face gets tight as he stares out the window at the pregnant roundness of the moon.

“We have the house, and the yacht, the cars, the businesses … but no cash flow and too much debt. Even if he sold off everything we have, William wouldn’t have enough to keep us out of the hole.” Tristan turns around and nods with his chin in the direction of the liquor cabinet. “Help yourself, Cabot.”

“I always do,” Creed drawls, holding on tight to me.

“Someday soon, a debtor will come calling, all our assets will be seized, and …” Tristan trails off, his eyes going cloudy, and then he just shakes his head, that layer of haughty arrogance crashing over his face in a stone mask. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t worry about it.”

The others filter in, and drinks are poured.

We end up downstairs in the movie theater, sitting in a small cluster in the back row. This time, we put on a series of zombie movies, but everyone’s too busy talking to pay much attention.

Tristan, though, seems so far away, and I find that most of my attention is on him … and on the way Lizzie puts her hand over his, giving a small, private, little squeeze.

She’s going to make a move soon, I can feel it.

But am I ready for it?

Creed does slip into my room at night, and we spend hours worshipping each other’s bodies. When I get up in the morning, he’s still asleep, so I sneak out and down the stairs to find the kitchen.

True to form, I get lost for about twenty minutes before I find my way into the breakfast room. Tristan’s the only one in there, eating a plate of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and sipping a cup of coffee. He doesn’t look seventeen-nearly-eighteen right then, more like he’s in his late twenties or early thirties. There’s so much darkness inside of him.