Page 35 of The Prom King & The Ice Queen

Still, we’re too far away from any home in particular so I inch the car forward.

“Which one is yours?” I ask.

“Doesn't matter.” She’s already unbuckling. But then we’re both distracted by the sight of a blonde woman stumbling toward the car. She’s waving and smiling…and weaving.

Savannah mutters a curse and turns to me with a death glare. “Don’t move.”

I don’t. I watch, though. I watch, utterly fascinated, as Savannah rushes over to the woman and wraps an arm around her. She looks like she’s taking care of one of the kids at the party, her expression all gentle and…un-Savannah-like. She takes the woman into the most run-down trailer in the lot.

Just as I’m wondering if I should leave, I see her come back out again, in normal clothes. Not the Disney princess gown. But her expression…

I find myself jerking back slightly at her glare.

Savannah Winters is far more terrifying than any fictional ice queen could ever be. And while I’m trying to hold onto the irritation which pretty much always shadows my view of this girl, right now…it’s difficult.

It’s not pity I feel as this Amazonian warrior strides toward my car, her chin held high with pride even though she clearly hadn’t wanted me to see that.

It’s not pity because nothing about her glare or her stance or her attitude allows for pity.

But I can’t bring myself to be annoyed either when she slips back into the passenger seat, her blue eyes blazing in challenge.

What does she think I’m going to do? Run back to our friends and tattle about what I saw?

She crosses her arms. “So. Now you know.”

I nod. I’m not about to play dumb. Everyone knows that Savannah doesn’t come from money the way a lot of us do, but I don’t think anyone knows the reality of her situation.

Heck, I definitely didn’t. But this glimpse I’m getting right now is giving me a good idea that there’s a reason the girls never have sleepovers at her house. And this job of hers isn’t to pay for clubs or even college tuition.

She’s staring at me expectantly now. Like she’s waiting for me to make some sort of comment.

And all at once it clicks, and my gut twists in a way I’ve never felt before.

Again, not pity. But it’s close.

“Is this why?” I say. “Is this why you stole the ring?”

This is the wrong thing to say. That much is immediately apparent when her expression slams shut, going from cold to stony so fast I feel a shudder of reverberation as the gate closes on me.

“No,” she says. “I told you, that was a mistake. My dad may have a record and my mom…” She suddenly looks exhausted when she glances toward her home. But when she meets my gaze again, that tiredness is gone. “My mom has her issues. But I’m not a thief. Not all of us poor people are criminals, you know.”

Ouch.I wince at the disdain in her voice.

“And I’m not the snob you think I am, okay? I’m just trying to understand.” I point to myself. “I’m not the one who lied about where I live and what I do with my free time.”

She narrows her eyes. “No, you’re just the one who kept his family’s illegitimate secret because heaven forbid anyone know that the Barons aren’t perfect.”

I flinch at that. “You mean Vince? I didn’t even know he existed until he came here.”

She stares at me for a second, too shocked to come up with a sharp retort. “Seriously?”

I arch my brows. “Seriously.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen her speechless and I can’t help but laugh.

She looks a little confused by my laughter and it physically hurts when I see the flicker of suspicion in her eyes.

She thinks I’m laughing at her.

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