In the Arms of the Elite (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #4) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,62

leg and glaring at me. Windsor ignores it, stepping right over it and leaving it to sunbathe on the small brick patio.

“I told them all to show up a few days late, so we’d have some time together.” He winks at me over his shoulder, and then turns back around, leading us through a small mudroom type area with boots and coats and rustic looking beams that I can tell are a good hundred years old. You can’t fake that patina.

Wind takes us into a much more modern looking kitchen (it’s impossible to relay just how much I’d have freaked out if the place had had original cabinets) with an entire wall of windows on the opposite side of the room. Our view is taken up by a deck, a carefully tended garden, and rolling hills covered in grapevines.

It’s breathtaking.

“Haha-ue,” Windsor calls out, drawing the attention of the woman lounging out of the deck. He calls her haha-ue (it’s pronounced hah-hah-way), a very formal version of mother in Japanese. It’s something a noble or … well, royal might call their mom. He might not be taking advanced Japanese with me, but he definitely pays attention to my classes.

I feel my mouth curve into a smile as Windsor’s mother stands up, dressed in a loose-fitting gray sundress patterned with a sunflower print. She lifts the shades off her face, her red-orange hair curled carefully around her shoulders. Just off to the side of the deck, there’s a man in a red shirt and jeans, standing casually but unobtrusively.

Security, no doubt about it.

I think about that bodyguard Kathleen Cabot tried to hire for me during second year. What was his name? Kyle something? I should’ve accepted his help, and then maybe I wouldn’t have been nearly drowned.

“Don’t call me that; it sounds like you’re laughing at me.” Windsor’s mother pauses to smile at us, and I can see the skin around his eyes tightening slightly.

“Forgive her. She speaks ten languages, but Japanese is not one of them.” Wind sighs and holds out a hand to indicate his mother. “Princess Alexandra Mary Elizabeth Windsor, formerly Alexandra Duchess of Westminster. And yes, she was most certainly taking the piss when she named me.”

“Forgive my son,” Alexandra corrects as she holds out her hand to shake first Charlie’s, and then mine. “He forgets his station.”

“You never let me forget,” Windsor adds as Dad wrinkles up his brow.

“Taking the piss?” he asks, and Windsor and I both laugh. I’ve heard that phrase enough times now to know what it means.

“Like … telling a joke,” I explain, and Dad nods.

“Like I said, forgive my son and please, call me Alex.”

“Charlie,” Dad replies, and the four of us end up in the kitchen with a whole spread of beautiful hor d’oeuvres, including crackers, soft cheeses, olives, and plenty of fruit. There’s wine, too, but Dad doesn’t even look at it.

The princess seems nice enough, if a little disconnected. She checks her phone constantly, and I can tell she’s only mildly interested in our conversation. When Dad leaves to go lie down, the housekeeper shows him to his room, and Princess Alex disappears outside to talk on the phone.

Windsor stares at me from across the soapstone countertop and shrugs his shoulders, his hazel eyes carefully focused on mine.

“What do you think?” he asks, pouring himself a glass of wine and swirling the liquid around inside, so he can smell it.

“She seems …” I search for the right word, and when Wind passes over another glass, I decline. I think I’m going to stay a no-alcohol sort of girl. Pot is okay, though it doesn’t seem to be curing Charlie … The vegan food isn’t curing Charlie. The chemo isn’t curing Charlie. My hands start to shake, and I tuck them in my lap. “Nice, but distant.”

Wind nods, and takes a sip of his wine, standing up fully and gazing past me, out the wall of windows toward the orange and yellow sunset.

“Yes, that’s how I’d describe her, too. Only I’d use the words vapid and self-absorbed, too.” He shrugs his shoulders and sighs. “Anyway, I’m eighteen now, so I suppose I needn’t worry about her. I’m far wealthier than she is, and it’s more than likely she’ll blow through most of her money before she hits fifty.” He pauses and his fingers tighten around the stem of his wineglass before he looks down at me. “You realize that, don’t you?”

“That your mom’s going to bankrupt herself?” I ask, and