Page 72 of Wicked Prince

Once we come into range of my car, I hit the unlock button on my key fob and watch out of the corner of my eye for what Stefan's reaction is going to be. He opens my door without a word, so I guess he's not one of the overtly rude rich snobs like Kayleigh.

"So," he begins once we're on the road. "You've only been at Bainbridge for a semester?"

"Not quite yet," I answer. "I transferred pretty recently. Sorry, I'm probably not the best person to be giving you the tour."

"I disagree," he says cryptically.

When I glance over, he's watching me intently.

What the hell is up with this guy?

"Um. So, Princeton. What's that like?"

He pauses a moment to consider it before he answers, "Ostentatious. Pretentious. Overrated. Same as any of the other Ivies, really."

I can't help but laugh. "I hate to tell you, but Bainbridge is pretty much the same way."

"Oh, I imagine it's worse, considering who runs it," he says. "I mean no offense."

"None taken," I scoff. Maybe he's not just another typical rich brat after all, old-school chivalry aside. It's probably a force of habit in a family like his. "I imagine you're probably pretty tired. I can take you to the guest house if you’d like."

"It was a short flight on a private jet," he says dryly. "I think I'll be all right. Are you hungry?"

The question seems to come out of nowhere, so it takes me a second. "Oh. Uh... sure, we could get something on the way there, I guess. What are you in the mood for?"

"What's your favorite?" he asks.

I hesitate. I don't want to have to admit I really don't know anything about the restaurants near campus, save for the one I work at. Anthony and I usually just meet up at the little cafes or coffeeshops around campus, and Dad always shuttles me across town when he doesn't want to traumatize his wife by bringing me over.

"There's a Mediterranean place pretty close by."

"Sounds great," he says.

I parallel park in a spot along the curb and look up at the red-and-white awning of the trendy restaurant. Hopefully, it doesn't give him food poisoning or anything. Pretty sure Dad is going to kill me if I kill the scion of the Romero family line with bad tabbouleh.

At the rate this semester is going, that would be just my luck.

The restaurant isn't too crowded, so it doesn't take long before we get a table. I'm not surprised when the hostess can't stop gawking at Stefan, or when I catch two waitresses across the room arguing before one wrenches the menus out of the other girl's hand and comes over before she can protest.

"Hi, welcome to Apollo's," she says brightly, and only to Stefan. "My name's Meghan, and I'll be serving you this evening. Is this your first time?"

"Mine," Stefan says, looking up at me. "She's been here before."

Meghan finally notices my existence and frowns. "Really? I don't think I've seen you."

"I usually come in the afternoons," I mumble. "May I have an ice water, please?"

"Oh. Sure," she says, turning back to Stefan. "And what can I get for you, sir?"

"I'll have an iced tea, please. No sugar."

"I'll be right back with those," Meghan says, placing a menu directly in his hands and dropping the other on the table as an afterthought.

"Friendly place," Stefan remarks once she's gone off for our drinks.

"Oh, very," I say dryly. I imagine someone like Stefan lives in a world where everyone is magically pleasant all the time. That's probably why he's so nice. At least on the surface.

I know better than to think that actually means anything.

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