Free The Elite by Jennifer Banash Page B

contentedly—the diet, Madison, and the scars on her wrist momentarily forgotten.
    7 1

    boys . . .
    they’re not
    just for
    breakfast
    anymore
    Madison s tood in the open doorway of Uncommon Grounds, her navy- and- white, Tracy Feith sundress swirling around her legs in the morning breeze. She walked into the coffee shop/restaurant, inhaling the tantalizing scent of roast-ing beans and freshly baked flaky pastries, pushing her hair from her shoulders with one hand while clutching her navy-and- white Fendi B bag with the other. The room was crowded with early- bird New Yorkers crouched over lattes, plates of free- range eggs, thick- cut organic bacon, and plump blueberry streusel muffins, the classic gray Formica- topped tables pushed up against bright yellow walls.
    Uncommon Grounds had always been their place—the scene of countless fights and make- up breakfasts, late- night T H E E L I T E
    cups of ginger tea, and long talks over eggs Benedict and milky café au lait. It was where she and Drew had first held hands under the cramped table two summers ago, his fingers tentatively stroking her palm while Phoebe and Sophie bickered endlessly about how many fat grams were in a single brioche.
    She craned her neck slightly until she spied Drew at a tiny table in the back of the room, a framed poster of an oversized coffee mug directly over his head. In his ancient olive cargos and black American Apparel T-shirt, he wasn’t exactly dressed to impress, but Madison thought he’d never looked cuter, even totally jet- lagged and moodily staring into his coffee, a deci-mated copy of the New York Times spread out in front of him.
    As she stared, she couldn’t help remembering all the fun they’d had last year—the movies they’d rented on random Saturday nights when there was nothing else to do, how he’d held her close as they sweated under the lights sweeping across the dance floor at Marquee. Just looking at him sitting there waiting for her, she finally admitted to herself just how much she’d missed him while he’d been away—and how much she might want him back.
    Madison took a deep breath, forcing her white Dolce sandals to move forward. It wasn’t like the two of them ever had much in common—other than being beautiful, that is.
    Madison hardly expected Drew to be the house-in-
    the-
    Hamptons type of guy. She had never imagined marrying anything less than royalty. But now, watching the way a lock of dark hair fell over his forehead, she wasn’t so sure anymore.
    What if I was wrong , she thought, her brow crinkling. What if 7 3

    J E N N I F E R B A N A S H
    Drew really is the one? And then an infinitely more terrifying thought crossed her mind, and her pulse began to race, her heart beating loudly underneath her lavender Agent Provoca-teur bra, her stomach dropping to somewhere around her ankles.
    And what if he just isn’t interested anymore?
    Just then Drew lifted his gaze from his cup and looked across the room, meeting her eyes. Immediately Madison forced her face into a dazzling smile and raised one hand in greeting. You’re being ridiculous , she told herself as she crossed the room, her long legs moving purposefully, confidence regained. After all, she’d practically made a career out of getting exactly what she wanted, from anyone she wanted. Why should Drew be any different?
    Drew’s formerly sullen face broke into a wide grin as she maneuvered around the tables and chairs, and approached the cluttered table. He looked so goddamn cute that she wanted to shove the newspaper to the floor, throw him on top of the table, and force him to make out with her until they were both gasping for air. That would give Arts and Leisure a whole new meaning—not that she ever made it past the Style section . . .
    But first things first. She needed coffee. Stat.
    Madison sat down across from Drew, her knees bumping into his long legs beneath the table. Drew started gathering up the crumpled newspapers that