Stuck With The Four Hotties

My heart aches and throbs, but I ignore it. My emotions for the Idol boys are confusing as hell, but I can’t let them derail me. Last year, I paid too much attention to my heart and hormones, and it didn’t end well.

“I’m fine,” I tell her, and she nods, rising from her desk and showing us out the door.

Windsor quickly makes himself scarce, but Tristan surprises me by following me to The Mess. He even sits down at my usual table, taking Miranda’s spot and staring at me.

“Do you still have the watch?” he asks, and I nod. “The necklace?” “Why?” I whisper, and he sighs, looking tired all of a sudden.

“Can I have them back? I’ll pay you for them. I just … don’t think it’s a good idea if either Harper or my dad sees them again.” He looks right at me, and there’s this stark truthfulness in his gray eyes that I’ve never seen before. My mind immediately goes back to that moment in the library where he could’ve gone further, done more, touched me in more intimate places … and didn’t. Did he know we were being filmed? It’s hard to say, but I imagine yes. “Actually, I shouldn’t be sitting here with you at all.”

“Because the Plebs might put your head in a guillotine if they see you with the Working Girl?” I query. It’s supposed to be a joke, but Tristan doesn’t seem to find it funny. He just sits there and stares at me, his raven-dark hair falling across his forehead, his tongue tracing his lower lip as he glances away.

“Could you bring the watch and the necklace on Monday? I’ve got cash.” “I don’t want your cash, Tristan,” I whisper, but I’ve still got that debit

card he set up for me, so I suppose that’s not entirely true. “But yes, you can have them back.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and we both pause as the waiter approaches and we put in our order. Neither of us says anything as we sit and wait for our food, but when his foot bumps mine under the table, our gazes snap up and lock. It’s like there’s a thread between us, pulling us together when every rational part of me says I should be keeping us apart.

It’s all for the bet, I tell myself, but even that’s a lie. I wonder if the guys ever felt like that when they were with me last year. Did they ever struggle with any real emotions?

“Why did you pick him?” Tristan asks suddenly, but I notice he doesn’t move his foot. We stay touching. “Why did you pick Zayd?”

I tuck my lower lip under my teeth and glance away, but I don’t have an answer to that question. I didn’t want to Fhoose; I hated it. But this is the real world, and I Fouldn’t have all three of you. There was no right FhoiFe, and somehow, I knew that no matter whose dress I wore, it would be the wrong one.

“It’s complicated,” I whisper, but Tristan scowls at me. “What? I cared about you guys. Wasn’t that the point of the bet? To make me … think I might be in love with you? You all succeeded, so there. If you need more trophies, I’ll order them for you.” He snaps his attention back to mine, and his hands tighten into fists on the table.

“You think you have it hard?” he asks, and there’s this thread of helplessness paired with the steel in his voice that I don’t understand, that I can’t interpret. His gray eyes are stormy and clouded with frustration. “I don’t get to love. I’ll never know if someone truly cares about me, or if they’re after my name or my money. And my dad … you saw my dad when he gave me the watch. Besides, I’m not stupid: I know it was you outside the VIP room at the ski lodge. He doesn’t love me: he owns me. I’m just a pawn for his bullshit.”

I swallow hard, my heart pounding. My first response is to drawl: ahh, poor little riFh boy. I should. I should say that and watch the hurt flicker across his face. But then there’s the bet … and also, there’s my humanity. I can’t make myself say it.

“If you really want it, one day you could find it,” I whisper, and Tristan stares at me across the surface of the table.

“Find what?” he growls, reaching up to mess with his dark hair.

“Love. It’s possible for someone to love you for you, Tristan. Trust me, I know: I was there.”

He drops his hand and stares at me like he’s seen a ghost.

In the next instant, he’s standing up and shoving the plates, cups, and silverware to the floor. They crash and break as he leans over and grabs me by my tie, yanking me forward as he covers the surface of the table with his

body. His mouth crashes into mine, and I break and burn in a million different ways.

Tristan’s tongue sweeps my lower lip, pulls it between his teeth, and then claims me completely and wholly, in a way I’ve always dreamed of. My hands come up to grab onto his shirt, but he grabs both wrists in one of his own and holds them in place between us, making it look like I’m begging for more of him. Maybe I am, I can’t tell.

He kisses me until the door to the kitchen opens and our waiter appears. When he releases me, the sudden break between us leaves me ice-cold,Belongs © to NôvelDrama.Org.

and I slump back in my seat.

Tristan storms out of The Mess, slams the door, and abandons me with a salad, a thumping heart, and a whole tornado of emotions that wreck me from the inside out.

Crap.

Revenge is best served cold, right? This feels steaming hot, and I’m not sure

if I hate it … or love it.