The Envy of Idols (Rich Boys of Burberry Prep #3) - C.M. Stunich Page 0,29

cost?” I whisper, as I start up the car and Zayd’s band, Afterglow, starts playing. Grinning, I turn it up, and give the others a little wave before backing out of the space. I cannot keep this. It’s too much. It’s too extravagant a gift for a friend to give. “No, wait, don’t tell me. Just … sell it and make a donation with the amount.”

“I’ll make a donation to wherever you want in the amount I paid for the convertible, if you keep it.”

Windsor is dead serious, leaning against his door and watching me, the wind tousling his red hair.

“But … why?” I ask, just before we pull out of the parking lot. I’m aware Miranda and Andrew are listening, but I can’t help it. “Why did you get this for me?”

“Why?” Windsor echoes, like I’ve lost my mind. He looks baffled as he reaches out and frees a piece of hair that’s stuck to my glossy lips. “Because you deserve it, milady.”

The first day of my third year at Burberry Preparatory Academy begins with a long car ride, as usual. What’s unusual about this time is that I’m driving myself. In the Maserati that Windsor bought me. Don’t get me wrong: I feel like an asshole riding in such an expensive vehicle, but the prince did make a generous donation to my favorite charity. Plus, it’s rude to refuse a gift made with thoughtfulness.

All of that and … I wanted to keep it. Does that make me selfish?

“You are the least selfish person I’ve ever met,” Miranda declares from the passenger seat, and the prince murmurs his agreement from behind her, most of his attention focused on his phone. Miranda sounds almost indignant about it, her white-blond hair whipping about in the wind as we take the coastal highway south toward the academy.

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