Stuck With The Four Hotties

Zayd looks me dead in the eye.

“I’m interested. Seriously fucking interested.” Creed makes a frustrated sound, and Zack scowls.

I turn to Tristan then. He’s standing in the doorway next to me. We’re so close I can see his pulse thundering. On the outside, he looks calm. But I can tell it’s all a facade. He’s boiling on the inside.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Tristan responds, cool as a goddamn cucumber, his blade gray gaze cutting into me.

“Are you interested in me?” It’s so freaking hard to get those words out, to ask a question I’ve honestly been wondering about for almost two years. I want to hear him say it. My mind briefly strays to Lizzie, but … I need to know how Tristan feels, regardless of what happens after.

He puts his hand on the doorjamb above my head and leans in close. “Haven’t I made that obvious?” he asks, a smirk twisting on his full lips.

His hair is so goddamn beautiful, blue-black strands that shift gently across his forehead.

“That’s not an answer.” I stay firm, even as he puts his left hand on my hip, and presses his thumb into my pelvic bone, making me gasp. “Yes or no.”

Tristan stares at me for so long that I wonder if he’s even going to reply at all. But then I remember that moment in Paris, outside the Eiffel Tower. There was so much tension, and his face was so soft, almost gentle. He was going to say something to me before Windsor interrupted us, I know he was.

I remember their argument in French, and wish I’d picked the language of love instead of Spanish and Japanese. Part of me knows there’s something in that conversation that I would’ve wanted to hear.

“A good follow-up question would be: do you still love Lizzie, and if so, how do your feelings for the Walton girl compare to your ones for Marnye?” Windsor saunters forward, fully aware that he’s throwing a wrench in the cogs of this conversation. I could kill him in that moment.

Tristan’s face shadows over, and he sneers, turning toward Windsor like maybe he’ll start a fight that won’t end without bloodshed. I could see the two of them going to the death with blows. I put a hand on his chest and step between them, turning a look on the prince.

“What is your problem, Wind?” I snap, feeling my anger and frustration bubble to the surface. He really is a bully of bullies. Like, that’s his thing,

and I can’t decide if he’s hanging out with me because that’s what he likes to do or what. Everything he says and does is a big production, a joke. “Why are you making this harder than it has to be?”

He’s still smiling as he steps toward me, putting us toe to toe.

“It was a valid question: Tristan loves Lizzie, Lizzie loves Tristan. So what happens to you, Marnye? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I believe that,” I say, feeling this tightness in my chest. “But I also know that you’re socially aware enough to not bring something like that up in a moment like this. You keep joking about how we could date and have some fun together, but I can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’re serious or-”

Windsor York, the prince of fucking England, sweeps his arm around me and pulls me close so fast that I don’t have time to finish my sentence. Instead, I find his fingers on my chin and his mouth pressing up against mine.

His tongue traces my lower lip before diving into my mouth, lust and passion swirling through his touch and into me. There’s suddenly so much tension between us that I can barely breathe. No, not barely, I can’t. I don’t breathe. How could I when he’s kissing me like he’s been waiting his entire life to find me?

There’s no teasing in this kiss, there’s no joke.

There’s nothing but intent, clear and sharp. It’s in the way he holds me, touches me, kisses me. Ardent fire swirls through my blood, poisoning me against the world. There’s nothing I want more in that moment than him, than my very own fucking prince.

He pulls back suddenly, with a flourish, like always, sliding his fingers from my chin and up my jawline, touching my hair.

“Milady, I’m very much interested.” He grins, but there’s a heat to it now that either I just missed before, or he did a damn good job hiding. “You’re soThis is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

… very much everything I never knew I wanted. You hate money. You hate assholes. You don’t take shit. Darling, let me make you a princess.”

“Stop that,” I choke out, because now I’m certain he’s joking again. I push away from him, and he lets me go, watching with glimmering hazel eyes as I press my back to the wall between him and Tristan.

The king of Burberry Prep is not a happy little ruler in that moment. “You son of a bitch,” Tristan snarls, and Windsor grins.

“Son of a princess, actually. Great-grandson to a queen. Let’s get that part right at least. You might be ‘American royalty'”-Wind makes derisive little

quotes with his fingers-“but I actually am royalty.” He smirks. “Tenth in line to the throne, prestigious enough to be important, but not close enough to it that anyone cares what I do. I have my own money, my own life. If I want to date a poor, American girl, I can. What about you? Are you even allowed to like Marnye?”

Tristan steps forward, and then he turns to look at me. To his credit, he controls the angry sneer on his face, and cools his expression, flicking his tongue out to lick the edge of his lip as he looks me over.

His eyes come to rest on my face, and then he’s turning to me, grabbing me by the hips and setting me on the edge of the sofa table. He brings both hands up and tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me in for another kiss.

Seriously, at this point, my mind is gone, spinning away into oblivion. I’m just a ball of

emotion with no logicality left.