Stuck With The Four Hotties

During my tutoring sessions with Creed, I make sure that we talk about things other than work. I even accept a few invites from Miranda to hang out in their apartment. Slowly, Creed starts to come around, and even though he ignores me in the halls, he’s very close to the same guy I remember from last year when we’re in private.

We’re back to watching movies on his couch, and it’s not a rare occurrence for me to come over and find him in nothing but sweats, a towel around his neck, a glass of water in his hand as he takes me in with a sweep of those cold, blue eyes.

Oddly enough, I’m having the most trouble getting Zayd to talk me.

A week out from spring break, I get tired of it and track him down in the music room while he’s playing guitar. He doesn’t notice me until I’m standing right next to him, humming some song under his breath that I’m surprised to find I actually like. I’ve never been much for contemporary music, so that’s a huge thing for me.

“Whoa, Charity, what are you doing here?” he asks, blinking his green eyes at me and looking almost sheepish about being caught with his hands on an instrument. I cross my arms over my chest and watch him as he sets it aside and turns to stare me down. He looks too tired to pull the full rockstar asshole routine.

“I’m here because you’re avoiding me.” Zayd’s nostrils flares, but he has nowhere to hide, so he’s forced to sit there and deal with me. “Why? You

told me about Tristan’s plan with the essay and the test, and then you came to my room to tell me about the bet the girls made. You must care a little, or you wouldn’t have bothered. Besides, for guys who claim they hate my guts, Creed and Tristan seem willing to hang out.”

Zayd’s shoulders stiffen, and he grits his teeth. He rubs one inked hand up his other equally tattooed arm. His sleeves are rolled up, his red tie completely undone and hanging over his mostly unbuttoned shirt.

“Fuck off, Charity,” he says, but there’s no heat left. I wonder what else is going on behind the scenes with the boys that I don’t know about. “You shouldn’t have come back here, you know? Like, didn’t we make it obvious that you don’t belong here?”

“Why?” I challenge, stepping forward and getting into his space. My pulse is racing so fast that I’m starting to feel dizzy. “Because I’m poor? Or because you don’t want me to get hurt?”

“Both? Neither? I don’t fucking know.” He stands up, and I’m forced to take a small step back to keep us from brushing together. I’d forgotten how tall he was, how beautiful, his hair freshly dyed with that same sea green from last year. It’s hard to look away from his lip rings when he starts to tease them with his tongue. “Look, you took my music career away from me. What more do you want?”

“I want us to be friends again,” I blurt without meaning to. I’m actually starting to wonder if I’m straying from my chosen path here, if there’s more going on between us than just revenge and hormones.

“Yeah, well, we were never friends,” he says, but when he tries to walk away, I grab his hand and squeeze it. Our eyes meet, and I refuse to look away first.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on your ghostwriter,” I say, and he blinks confusedly at me. “That song, the one you hate so much, the one your friends laughed at … I liked it. A lot. So don’t knock whoever the record company paid to write it, okay?’

Zayd stares at me for longer than should be appropriate before tearing his hand from my grip and bailing up the music room steps and out the door. For several moments after, I feel too heavy to move, so I slump down on the table where Zayd was sitting, and just try to remember how to breathe.

“Bravo,” Windsor says, surprising me as he appears from the darkness of Mr. Carter’s office. “You’re really sticking it to them.”

“Leave me alone, Wind,” I groan, but he ignores me and sits down in a chair with a black instrument case in his hand. When he pulls out the flute, I raise an eyebrow. “Like I said, you don’t know everything. Just … help me with the girls, okay? I could really use a friend right now.” I push some hair away from my forehead.

Windsor watches me for a moment, and then holds up his instrument. “Play a duet with me?” he asks, and I blink in surprise. I had no idea he

could play the flute. Of course, he is a prince, so I’m sure he plays a dozen instruments I don’t know about. He hands me some sheet music. “You can follow this, can’t you?”

I nod, and he grins, gesturing with his chin in the direction of the pedal harp.

Even though I’m exhausted and could really use the sleep, I sit down, set up my music, and wait for him to start playing.

Windsor is good, almost too good. The way he plays makes my heart flutter with each note, this cheerful but introspective collection of sounds that seem to draw my fingers along the strings as if by magic. Once that song is done, we play another. And another. We play for so long that my hands begin to cramp, and one of the security guards finally comes and kicks us out.

The prince walks me back to my room with an unhurried ease, and when he gets me to my door, he leans in for another of his cheek kisses. I mess it all up by turning my head, and our mouths brush for the briefest of moments. It’s a short, sweet, accidental kiss, but it makes my toes curl, and a small, strange sounRêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

d rises from my throat.