In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,60

chords. Are you done yet? I told you: your form is superior, but you’re too rash. Calm yourself a little, and you’d be a worthy opponent.”

Creed Cabot makes a frustrated sound under his breath and then chucks his weapon to the ground in irritation before he notices me sitting there, his cheeks flushing with red.

“Marnye,” he says cautiously, throwing on that lazy, drawling affectation of his. “I didn’t realize you were sitting there …”

“Would you have fought any differently if you’d known?” I ask, standing up and finding my eyes drawn to Windsor’s fingers as he pulls down the zipper on the front of his uniform and shows off a little bare chest. My gaze snaps back to Creed, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says, reaching up to push sweaty blond hair off of his forehead.

“Why?” I ask, moving over to stand between them.

“Because … I’d be fighting for someone other than myself?” Creed says, but almost like it’s a question he’s asking himself. Windsor smiles at us both.

“Come back to my room. I’ll make you both a proper cup of English tea. It’s the cure for everything you know: depression, fatigue, anger, sadness, war.”

“Keep calm and carry on, right?” I ask, and Wind grins.

“Precisely.” He leads the way back to the locker room, and I wait outside as the boys change back into their uniforms. We head over to Tower Three, take the elevator up—or the lift as Wind calls it—and then Creed and I snuggle a bit while Windsor makes us all a cup of tea, and even sets up these three-tiered silver trays with tiny sandwiches and colorful macarons on them.

“You didn’t actually make all of this stuff, did you?” I ask, and Windsor gives me a weird look.

“Why not? What else do I have to do? I’m a prince, for fuck’s sake.”

Oh, well, okay.

I suppose that makes sense.

I look down at my tea, lifting the delicate saucer to my lips for a sip. It’s never too hot when Wind makes it; it’s always just right.

“What are your guys’ plans for fall break?” I ask, feeling this tenuous emotion inside of me tear like tissue paper. I’m so worried about Charlie, I feel sick. If I don’t actively work to not think about him, then he’s the only thing on my mind most days. “I want to be with my dad, but …” I’m almost afraid to finish that sentence, but I make myself lift my gaze, looking between Creed and Windsor and wondering how long they’ve been working on the sword fighting thing together. “I kind of …” Fuck, this is hard. “I’d like some company.”

“It’s hard, to watch someone you love suffer, isn’t it?” Windsor asks, and I remember that his dad passed away a long time ago. I’ve never asked why. It seemed too personal of a question. Maybe … I could ask in private sometime? “Come to my family’s estate in Napa. We’ll be celebrating … what is that grisly American holiday that celebrates genocide and racism, Thanksgiving is it? … yes, we’ll be celebrating Thanksgiving there. Mother will be attendance, if stuffy princesses are your sort of thing.”

My brows go up, and I blink several times to clear my surprise.

“You’re okay if I come up there with Charlie?”

“Okay? I’d love to have you.” Windsor pauses and sets his teacup down. His red hair is sweaty and sticking up all over the place. Creed is leaning on one elbow, resting his head in his palm, and stuffing a finger-sandwich into his mouth with the opposite hand as he watches me and Wind. “It’s on a vineyard, quite lovely. But we won’t have any wine on the premises, I can promise you that.”

“I think …” I start, exhaling sharply and putting my own teacup aside to keep the boys from seeing how badly my hands are shaking. “That alcohol isn’t as big of a worry now as it was. I think a vineyard would be nice. I’ll check with Dad.”

“We have our own polo field,” Windsor adds, glancing over at Creed. “We could put on a show. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“You’re addicted to winning, you know,” Creed whispers, eating another sandwich. I swear, that boy can put food away like nobody else but Zack. They could probably have an eating competition, and it’d be a close bet. The thing is, Zack probably weighs like fifty percent more than Creed. At least. He’s huge, my own big, sexy football playing teddy bear … “But