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“Oh, do I have time for breakfast then? What time are they getting here?” she asks, still flustered.
“Of course you have time to eat. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Dad says, and I smile, thinking of all the times he’s said the exact same thing to me.
Beth delivers our breakfast, and we fall into a comfortable silence as we eat. It’s bizarre how well Izzy fits in with all of us. I’m obsessed, the guys are enamored, and Dad’s enthralled. She’s so fucking easy to be around, and it terrifies me how much I’m coming to take her presence for granted, even after only a week.
When the guys arrive, they all pile into the dining room, helping themselves to coffee while we finish eating. “Izzy, you look hot as hell, ready for your grand entrance?” Davis asks with a laugh, dipping down to press a kiss on her cheek and stealing a piece of bacon from her plate.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” she says, swatting his hand away when he tries to take another piece. “I have a feeling I’m going to spend a lot of time showing people the rock today, though,” she says humorlessly between bites of food.
“You could just walk around with your finger in the air,” I suggest.
Without saying a word, she turns and flashes me her middle finger, and everyone, including my dad, laughs.
After Izzy and I grab our bags, we make our way to Thorn’s limo that’s waiting at the curb. Although it’s not uncommon to see limos and town cars at school, Thorn usually prefers to drive himself, but we all fit into the limo a lot more comfortably than we do in his Mercedes. Pausing by the door, I wait for Izzy to climb in first, then follow, sliding next to her on the long bench seat. “Did you see the article yet?” I ask, pulling her into my side.
The New York Times article about us was published yesterday, but we all agreed to enjoy the evening and wait until today to read it.
“I’m not sure I want to,” she whispers, worrying at her lower lip with her teeth. Reaching out, I pull her plump, red lip free with my thumb, then lean forward and press a soft kiss against her mouth.
“Here,” Kip says, interrupting the quiet moment between us to hand Izzy his cell with the article and photographs open on the screen.
Slowly, she drags her gaze from mine, taking the offered cell and looking down. The pictures show the world everything I’ve been trying to tell her. That this all might have started off being fake, but I stopped pretending even before we found her at the hotel.
She looks radiant and absolutely fucking perfect in every single picture. From the princess-worthy red gown to her bare feet with red painted toes, everything about her is so unequivocally Izzy that there’s no way she could ever be mistaken for her sister.
The photos of the five of us playing around in the fountain—Izzy’s white gown soaking wet, her smile wide and genuine—are utter brilliance, and I already emailed the editor of The New York Times to ask for copies of all of the pictures.
I want to remember that day, to remember the way she laughed and played—so free and so beautiful. I want to remember the way she looked at me and how it felt to hold her while I told the world she was mine.
“I look like Penelope,” she whispers, her voice a little sad.
“No, you look like you, and even if they put her in identical clothes and took the exact same pictures, she’d be nothing but a lackluster copy,” I tell her, feeling the truth of my words down to my very soul.
The closer we get to school, the more tense and withdrawn Izzy gets. The guys do their best to make her laugh and dilute some of the tension that’s pouring from her in waves, but I can tell by the way she’s as rigid as a board that she’s nervous.
Her toe is tapping anxiously on the floor by the time we slow to a stop at the bottom of the school steps and wait for the driver to open the door. The guys file out first, and I turn and palm Izzy’s cheek. “We’ve got this,” I assure her, dropping my hand and climbing out.
The moment I’m standing on the sidewalk, I hold my hand out for her to take. When she doesn’t hesitate to slide her fingers into mine, I squeeze, rubbing my thumb over the huge Winslow diamond as I help her from the car.
The guys and I might be Elite, but we’ve never bothered with making grand entrances or flaunting our social status. But today, that’s exactly what we’re doing, and everyone stops and stares at us as I drape my arm over her shoulder, and she lifts her left hand, entwining her fingers with mine, so her large engagement ring is clearly on display.
Just like we planned, the guys take their positions on either side of us, and we move as a group. forcing everyone to rush out of the way as we climb the stairs. The whole thing is kind of ridiculous, but this entire spectacle is about making sure everyone sees Izzy and understands her new status. She isn’t the recluse sister of Penelope Rhodes anymore; now she’s my fiancée and GAA’s newest Elite.
I spot Penelope holding court at the top of the steps. Her glare is glacial, but I look away, waiting for the crowd of kids to swell around us. Scanning the excited hoard, I spot the half-dozen kids Kip organized, ready to record our announcement with their cell phones in the air and pointed at us.
“Fellow Green Acres Academy students,” I call out loudly.
The noise of the crowd reduces. “Gulliver, Thorn, Kip, and I proudly accepted the mantle of becoming your senior Elites this year. We love this school, and we love all of you too. But recently we realized the Elite was missing something,” Davis announces confidently.
A rumble of uncertainty vibrates through the group, and I glance at Davis, flashing him a smirk.
“Being Elite is about more than being popular. It’s about being someone that you guys can all look up to. It’s about setting the tone for the year and keeping the school in order while having as much fun as we can,” Kip says, grinning when whoops of excitement fill the air.
“Elites have always had the ability to ask people to serve with us, but the four of us are more than friends and Elites. We’re family,” Thorn says.
“But recently, our family got a little bigger.” I glance down at the girl at my side. “Some of you were here last Friday when I asked this beautiful woman to marry me, and she agreed to do me the honor of becoming my wife.” There’s more cheering and whooping, but I lift my hand into the air, and the volume lowers. “Well, it only seems fitting that because she’s joined our family in real life, that she join our Elite family here at GAA too. So without further ado, I present your newest Elite. Miss Izabella Rhodes.”
There’s a charged moment of silence that suddenly morphs into a roar of applause that’s so loud it’s almost deafening. When the five of us discussed making Izzy part of the Elite, she wasn’t on board with the idea. She argued that it would be blatant nepotism and that she’d never spoken to any of the kids from school, so it wasn’t right to bring her into a GAA tradition. But we all disagreed. Sometimes things are all about perception, and this cements her as one of us in a much more relevant way than the article does.
