It’s all fun and games until the prince loses, and I see his jaw clench. There’s a flash of darkness in his gaze that I recognize from when he tried to get me to plant drugs on Tristan, or when he was talking to me during Ben Thresher’s arrest. He notices me watching, and instead of denying it, he walks right up to me and leans in to whisper in my ear.
“I told you I was a bloody, awful wanker,” he whispers, and then he nibbles my earlobe. I’m so startled that I jump, and fling my hand up to cover my ear. I end up smacking him in the face, and he groans, covering up his mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter. When he moves his hands, there’s a bit of blood. “I think I just cut my lip on my tooth.”
“I’m sorry,” I groan, but Windsor just laughs some more and excuses himself to clean up in the bathroom while the rest of us gather around a table to eat burgers from a huge stack on a silver platter, fries from dozens of red and white paper trays, and sodas from cups with the bowling alley’s logo printed on the side.
This is about as far from the luxe nature of Burberry Prep as one could get.
Conversation is light, shallow, but nice.
I think we’re all still trying to get a feel for how to interact with each other.
By the time the cake comes, it’s not quite so awkward, and I realize as I pass Creed a paper plate with a big slice on it that I’m actually having fun. Honestly, this may be one of the best birthdays I’ve ever had. I even forget about Jennifer for a while, standing in the corner like an outcast. This time, it’s not me that’s the social pariah here: it’s her.
Dad gifts me another sentimental object that makes me weepy: a big, beautiful frame he welded, filled with pictures of the two of us, starting from the day I was born, and including one for each birthday thereafter. I’m so happy with the gift, but at the same time I’m terrified.
He thinks he’s dying.
I don’t want to consider it.
I tear into the other gifts to find—not surprisingly—a plethora of ridiculously expensive items, like a bottle of Clive Christiansen Imperial Majesty perfume that costs a whopping twelve grand per ounce. Miranda gifted me with that one. I almost choke and die when she sprays me with it, like watching dollar bills misting in the air around me. To be fair, it smells delicious.
The pile of fancy gifts—shoes, clothes, jewelry, a new suitcase (Andrew must be tried of seeing my ratty duffel bag year after year), and other assorted items—sits at the end of the table as I pick up Windsor’s small, black satin envelope.
“It’s just a little thing,” he says, resting his chin in his hand, his hazel eyes glittering as I tear up the flap to find … a key on a glittery pink Princess keychain. My eyes narrow at the same time my heart thumps like crazy. Pretty sure my hands are shaking, too.
“Princess?” I say, and he just laughs, gesturing for me to dig around in the envelope.
Inside, there’s a pink slip for a car with my name on it.
My eyes widen, and then I’m standing up and racing outside.
There’s a rose-gold fucking Maserati convertible with a bow on the hood.
“Windsor,” I start as Dad comes sprinting out behind me. His jaw drops when he sees the car. I turn to look at the prince, standing there with his hands in his pants pockets, his red hair sticking up in the front like it always does. He’s smiling pleasantly, like he’s happy I’m excited, but also like it’s no big deal. He also has this … I don’t want to say smugness, but self-satisfaction, like he wanted to make sure he had the biggest gift, and gets off on it, too. Hmm.
“Seriously?” Miranda coughs. “You one-upping asshole.” This last part is mumbled under her breath, but I hear it anyway.
“I can’t accept this,” I whisper, looking between him and the car.
“You can’t?” he asks with a small, faux frown. “That’s too bad. I had to special order this color. I can’t return it.” He smiles at me, and there’s something not quite so perfect about that expression, an almost sloppy sort of grin that I like. I bite my lower lip and squeeze the keys against my chest. “Just one ride in it, and then I’ll sell it on eBay?”
“One ride,” I whisper, turning to look at Charlie. He’s still gaping, probably trying to figure out how much the car costs. My guess: more than our rented house is worth. “Is it okay if I take it for a spin? I mean, just once because I can’t accept a gift this lavish …”
