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her palms resting under her chin.
Maybe they should go shopping tomorrow. After all, Casey
could really use all the help she could get if she didn t want
to be crucified on her first day at Meadowlark, and there was
nothing that Sophie liked better than doing a make over. Casey
would probably even be pretty if they did something with that
fugly-ass hair and got her some decent clothes. Besides, Mon-
day was the first day back at school, and as Sophie mentally
Rolodexed her closet, she realized she had absolutely nothing
to wear. She was in desperate need of the perfect outfit one
that screamed confidence, style, and sophistication in the
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most understated way possible, of course. Grabbing her phone
from the table, she texted Phoebe, her fingers moving rapidly
across the keypad.
What up?
Nada. You?
Shopping tomorrow? Casey needs help! MAKEOVER!
Sure . . . but . . .
Sophie frowned at the colorful display screen of her
iPhone. When she d bought it six months ago, her father had
actually yelled at her for the first time ever when he got the bill.
Four hundred dollars for a phone, Sophia? he demanded, his
face turning the same shade of salmon pink as the Hermès silk
tie knotted at his throat. What s it made out of rare,
imported, gold-plated titanium?
Oh, please, Alistair, her mother had snapped, coming to
Sophie s rescue. Let me remind you that I spend more money
on a single pair of shoes and I don t hear you hollering about
that.
I might, if I thought it would do any good, her dad
mumbled, throwing his hands in the air in frustration and
walking out of the room
The screen stayed blank, and Sophie sighed impatiently.
Phoebe loved shopping the way junkies loved heroin so what
was the problem? Actually, when Sophie stopped to think
about it, there probably wasn t much of a difference between
the two shopping was definitely a drug, not to mention one
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hell of an addiction. And Sophie intended on getting high to-
morrow if it was the last thing she did . . .
There was a brief pause, and then the phone lit up again
with Phoebe s nervous reply.
Mad s not going to like it . . .
Maybe not, Sophie thought, the corners of her lips turning
up in a smile. But that didn t necessarily mean they shouldn t
do it . . . did it? As far as Sophie was concerned, the fact that
Mad would probably be totally livid meant they should defi-
nitely do it. Why, she wondered as she texted back, does it feel
so good to be so bad?
Barney s at noon?
K. J
Sophie turned her phone off and dug her hand back into
the box, grabbing the last handful of sugary cereal and
popping it in her mouth, chewing contentedly the diet,
Madison, and the scars on her wrist momentarily forgotten.
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boys . . .
they re not
just for
breakfast
anymore
Madison stood 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- breakfasts, late-night
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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 tenta-
tively 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 wait-
ing 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 any-
thing 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
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JENNI FER BANASH
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 re-
gained. 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 surrounded them so much po-
tential history in sticky black ink as the waitress approached,
leaning down to take Madison s order.
I ll have a skinny vanilla latte with an extra shot, she said,
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