SENIOR YEAR. First day of school and so far, so good.
I’m finally ruling this campus. It’s my kingdom, and everyone else here are just members of my court. I’ve worked toward this moment for the last three years at this school, and now I’m finally on top.
No one is going to ruin it for me. Not a single soul. Everyone knows their place. What’s even better? There are no Lancasters in attendance. They take top spot of the student hierarchy automatically, thanks to their last name. A family you can’t fight against, no matter how hard you try. They come in without having to do a single thing to prove their worth, and everyone follows what they say and do.
Only because their damn name is on the building.
First two classes of the day are easy. Advanced physics might be tough as we get deeper into the semester, but I’m guessing there are enough smart girls in the class who’d do my homework for me. Who’d help me with the tests and the labs. Girls who would give anything for some one-on-one time with me.
Am I interested in any of them? Not so much, but my dad always tells me you have to do whatever it takes to stay on top.
I’m walking down the hall toward my next class when I hear a familiar, feminine voice call my name. Turning, I see Mercedes Browne heading toward me, a coy smile on her elfin face, her dark hair swinging like she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial.
“Mercedes.” I flash her a smile, waiting as she makes her way to me. “How are you?”
“Aren’t you looking extra fine this morning, Mr. Fontaine.” She hip checks me and we fall into step with each other. “I hear Europe was good to you this summer.”
“We had fun.” That’s all I’ll admit about my European summer. I’m careful with what I say. My friends might know what happened in Paris and who it happened with, but that’s it. Unless the assholes opened their mouths and told everyone.
Wouldn’t put it past them. They love to stir up shit, even at my expense. I may have told them about my … incident with Carolina Lancaster, but I gave them zero details. I had to keep some of it to myself.
It’s the least I could do. Carolina wasn’t just some random girl I fucked around with.
Not even close.
“I’m jealous. I was in Australia.” Mercedes rolls her eyes. “With my family.”
“I love Australia.”
“Me too, but never with my family. At least you made your trip with the boys.” She shakes her head, a knowing gleam shining in her eyes. “I’m sure you were all up to no good.”
“What’s your next class?” I ask her, wanting to change the subject.
“American Government,” she says on a sigh. “Boring.”
“Lucky you, that’s where I’m headed too.” Mercedes might be too clingy and overly possessive, but she’s smart. This girl will keep me on top of the class when I start slacking, which I’ve done in the past.
“Oh goodie. A class with West.” She touches my arm just as we approach the classroom door. “Should be fun.”
There she goes with the possessiveness. Already touching me. I pull away from her seeking fingers, stopping in the doorway with Mercedes just behind me. Brent catches my gaze as if he’s been waiting for me, and when we make eye contact, he leans his head toward the girl sitting next to him, mouthing something I can’t decipher.
She’s blonde, her bright hair flowing down her back in faint waves. Her posture is absolute perfection, her spine straight, the angle of her head …
Familiar.
I’m frozen, Mercedes poking at my side, urging me to move it, but I can’t bring myself to put one foot forward like a normal fucking human being.
“West, come on. Let me in!” Mercedes practically screams.
At the sound of my name, the blonde turns, her deep blue eyes meeting mine, her lips parting in shock just before she turns away, like she doesn’t want me to see her.
Realization dawns, slow as the setting sun, while it sinks deeper and deeper into my brain.
What the fuck is Carolina Lancaster doing here?
I enter the classroom as if I’m in a trance, Mercedes curling her arm through mine and practically dragging me over to the rows of desks. I fall into the one behind Brent, noting how Carolina keeps her back to me.
She won’t even look in my direction. Her posture is so rigid, I’m afraid she might snap in two if she moves too fast. Completely ignoring me when all I want to do is look at her face. Stare into her eyes. Ask her without saying a single word: what are you doing here?
Knowing Carolina, she probably wouldn’t tell me.
“Hey, who’s the blonde?”
I glance to my right to see my other friend Russ slide into the seat next to mine, his gaze locked on the back of Carolina’s head. “Why do you want to know?”
My tone is hostile, and I clench my right hand into a tight fist.
“I get the feeling she’s hot.” Russ raises his voice. “Hey, blondie.”
Slowly, Carolina turns, her gaze sliding over me dismissively, like I don’t even exist. The anger rises within me and I let it. Fuck, I marinate in it, I’m so pissed. “Are you speaking to me?”
Her voice is soft. Cultured. With the faintest British lilt. Russ grins at her like an idiot.
“Yeah, babe. Totally talking to you. You new here?”
She inclines her head toward him in silent answer.
“What’s your name?”
Her expression is blank. Almost robotic. “Carolina.”
Russ grins, nudging me with his elbow. I jerk away from him, annoyed.
“Nice to meet you.” Russ thrusts his hand out toward her, that stupid grin still on his face. “Russell Chadwick.”
“Carolina Lancaster.” Her gaze lifts to mine. Briefly.
I look away as they shake hands, a muscle in my jaw working.
“Lancaster?” Mercedes practically squeaks. “As in the Carolina Lancaster?”
Mercedes is big on fangirl behavior. She will fawn all over Carolina, simply because of her name.
“What, like you’re a celebrity?” Russ glances around, searching for confirmation.
“She’s a ballet dancer. She danced for the London Academy, which is, like, the most prestigious dance school in the world,” Mercedes explains.
Carolina just sits there, quiet as a little church mouse, nothing like the girl I met in a nightclub this past summer. Though at least one thing remains consistent.
She won’t acknowledge me, just like she did when I first met her. She won’t even look at me.
Such a snob. After everything that happened between us, this is how she treats me.
“Why are you here and not at your dance school?” Mercedes asks.
Leave it to her to ask the important questions.
Carolina’s cheeks turn rosy, and I remember how her skin was flushed all over after we kissed.
I shove the memory out of my brain, pissed it had the nerve to creep in.
Her lips parting, she pauses, as if she’s trying to come up with something to say when the bell rings. Our teacher strides in, slamming the door behind him, and he goes straight to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker and tapping it against the words American Government that he must’ve written there earlier.
“This is the class you’re in. Double check your schedule to make sure you’re where you’re supposed to be. We’ve already had some confusion this morning. I’m not in the mood for any more.”
There’s some quiet chatter amongst all of us, but no one leaves the class, so I guess we’re all where we belong. Mr. Harvey is a no-nonsense motherfucker with zero sense of humor and a low tolerance for bullshit. I had him for World History my sophomore year and hated every minute of it, but damn if I didn’t learn a few things.
This year, I’m not in the mood to learn shit. I need to take all of the advanced classes to get into an Ivy League school, but it’s my senior year. I don’t want to do anything too strenuous.
I want to enjoy my last year in high school before it’s on to Princeton, Yale or Harvard. Those are the only schools my parents approve of me attending next year. My father says I have to take the requisite advanced courses at Lancaster and look like the overachiever he was. As his only son, he fully expects me to work for the family business, just as he does. The winery business that was started in the lush rolling valley of the Loire in France by my great-great-great grandfather, a man with a vision—a man who was drunk most of his days—the brilliant yet infamous Eduard Fontaine, which also happens to be my father’s name.
My namesake is my maternal grandfather, Jonathan Weston. It was at my mother’s insistence that they call me West, though my name is actually Weston Eduard Fontaine. She comes from solid American stock in Connecticut, and I was close to my grandparents when I was younger.
Not so much anymore.
I have nothing against our family history, or the fact that we make a lot of money producing some of the most coveted and expensive champagne in the world, but I have no desire to work for The House of Fontaine. Since enrolling in Lancaster, my parents moved to the Napa Valley, where we also have vineyards, and they’ve been there ever since.
While I’m over here busting my ass so I can get into an Ivy League university for the sole purpose of pleasing my parents. Specifically, my father.
The man is impossible to please.
Harvey launches into a lecture—such bullshit, it’s the first day of school—and I lose interest almost immediately, my gaze locking on the back of Carolina’s head. All of that white blonde hair flowing down her back in streaming bright waves.
I can’t believe she’s here. It almost doesn’t feel real. And our encounter in Paris definitely doesn’t feel real. Not anymore.
I haven’t been able to put that night out of my mind, no matter how hard I’ve tried. Dancing with her at the nightclub, sitting close to her in the cab, sneaking into the opera house, her hand clutched in mine as she dragged me up those endless marble stairs. The look she sent me over her shoulder, her eyes dancing. I could see them even in the dark, the naughty expression on her face.
The way she felt in my arms. The taste of her, lingering on my lips and tongue. Her scent, as cool and mysterious as the ocean. I remember thinking at the end of my European vacation that I’d give anything to smell her again. Just once.
Now, here she is, sitting in my classroom, her back to me, pretending I don’t even exist. A living, breathing reminder of what happened on the second story balcony at the Palais Garnier on a hot summer night in July, when I held a girl in my arms and made her come with my fingers.
Maybe what happened between us meant nothing to her. If that’s the case …
She can go to hell.
