Chapter 3
“Should I bow?” the boy asks as he looks between Oliver and me. His lips twitch and I’m pretty sure he’s trying not to laugh. At our expense.
“That won’t be necessary,” Oliver says, his eyebrows drawn together with confusion.
I sigh. Oliver has never been good with sarcasm. I’m guessing the boy recognizes Oliver now, because everyone in America is obsessed with the possibility that Oliver and I are dating.
Ever since our parents began campaigning together as president and vice president, there’s been plenty of stories about me and Oliver.
From the clothes we wear becoming instant bestsellers to more recent stories about us dating.
The press went wild when we attended junior prom together.
And I get it. The eldest daughter of the First Family and the eldest son of the Second Family makes for a good story.
Plus, Oliver would pretty much be an ideal boyfriend.
He’s smart, kind, and organized. We have the same class schedule.
And perhaps most important, he understands how to operate in our shared world of fancy functions, Secret Service, and family duty.
Still, standing between Oliver and this boy feels like I’m in a passive-aggressive game show.
“Gabriel of the Mystic Hollow Calabreses,” he says with a pompous bow and a wave of his hand. A quick glance at Oliver and I know from the twitch in his smile that my friend is puzzled and low-key annoyed. It’s actually amusing to see. Oliver rarely gets thrown off.
Meanwhile, Gabriel rises from his bow, returning to his full height. Though he’s not as tall as Oliver, you wouldn’t know it. His athletic build and attitude make him feel much taller.
Gabriel? Calabrese? My head tilts as I try to figure out how he made the guest list. My mind races to high school prize winner or artist—he certainly has that vibe about him—but likely he’s someone’s plus-one.
Mystic Hollow sounds familiar but I can’t place it. I try not to stare as I study him for some kind of clue. A rectangular object inside his tuxedo jacket catches my attention. His phone? Whatever it is, it’s not dangerous since the Secret Service would’ve checked him.
“See something you like?” Gabriel asks. My gaze jumps from his chest to his face to find his lips upturned into a satisfied smile.
My nostrils flare, but my response is cut off as Oliver’s hand grabs mine. “We need to go,” he says to me, his grip tightening.
He isn’t wrong. “It’s 18:55,” I gasp. Dad won’t be happy. With one last look at Gabriel, whose gorgeous face is as unreadable as the unsmiling portraits hanging on the White House’s walls, I let Oliver tug me away through the crowd.
Gabriel is Trouble with a capital T. I should stay away from him.
With any luck, I can avoid him the rest of the night despite my lingering questions, like why does he know about old photos?
Why is he even here tonight? And what’s with the Chuck Taylors?
Didn’t he get the dress code instructions? Does he even follow instructions?
My mind hardens with resolve. No, Abby. You are not to see that boy again. Of course, that ultimatum didn’t work out too well for Rose and Jack.
I do my best to match my stride with Oliver’s—again cursing my restrictive dress. I’m going to Hawaii soon, and for a moment I picture myself walking along the beach in a sundress and flip-flops. I can’t wait.
I frantically scan the room for my sister. “I already directed Elle to the Yellow Oval,” Oliver confides. Oliver and I have been friends for so long he can practically read my mind. He grins at me, and thanks to our unspoken best-friends mind-melding abilities, he knows I’m grateful.
I follow behind him quickly, holding up my skirt to allow myself to keep up. It’s not like me to be late. “And what’s your story? You’re cutting it close,” I tease.
Oliver winces. “Sorry, my dad was going over some Hawaii plans and I tried to make it clear to him that you and I are going to have some downtime while we’re there.”
“Did it work?” I ask.
He grins. “I managed to negotiate about half of our to-do items away. We’ve got dolphins to swim with, right?”
I smile. Ever since we watched a bunch of National Geographic marine life documentaries on the campaign trail, whales and dolphins have been our thing.
The Yellow Oval Room is where mom likes to entertain VVIP guests before they make their formal entrance into the State Dining Room.
True to its name, the room is painted a soft yellow in homage to First Lady Dolley Madison’s color scheme when this was the Ladies’ Drawing Room.
Today it serves as a formal sitting room.
Elle is not allowed to eat Doritos here.
I’ve always loved the room’s long windows, which overlook majestic views of the South Lawn and the tall, marbled Washington Monument piercing the sky.
I spot my parents instantly—surrounded by people orbiting them like planets around the sun.
Mom shines in a sleek navy ball gown, rose-gold-tinged pearls glowing softly against her brown skin.
President Connie Alzona has led with distinction, integrity, and respect, but it’s in these personal moments—when she’s laughing, connecting one-on-one—that she truly lights up the room.
Her deep, joyful belly laugh, now a viral meme, rings out above the crowd.
Beside her is my father, the First Gentleman, charming a small circle of guests. I catch the tail end of one of his signature stories—something about life in space, no doubt. It’s classic: He keeps everyone entertained while Mom gets a breather from the endless spotlight.
They’re a team in every sense of the word. They just get each other.
Mom sees Oliver and me and motions us forward. I am comforted by her jasmine-and-freesia scent as she wraps an arm around me and gestures at the couple next to her.
A friendly-faced man who reminds me of an owl and a stately blond woman in a glamorous designer dress nod in my direction. Mom beams. “Mr. Prime Minister and Mrs. Mariano, may I introduce my eldest daughter, Abigail? And Vice President Darby’s son, Oliver.”
“Ah, the beautiful Abigail Cary-Alzona,” the prime minister exclaims. “A national treasure, no doubt. Lovely to meet you, my dear.” I blush, admiring his musical accent.
“Buona sera, Signor Prime Minister e Signora Mariano,” I say graciously. “Non vedo l’ora di visitare la sua casa.”
The prime minister grins, obviously pleased that I greeted him in his language. “And I look forward to your visit to my country, signorina,” he replies.
I nod in agreement. After the White House’s Independence Day Gala, our family is off to Italy for a state visit, which means my Hawaii trip is my best chance to check off my summer bucket list items. I’ll be under a microscope in Italy.
I flush as I look at Oliver. He’s chattering away with Mrs. Mariano. Oliver’s Italian is much better than mine, but he’s been a world traveler since birth. Helps when your family owns hotels all over the globe.
“You two are such a lovely pair,” Mrs. Mariano declares in the direction of Oliver and me. Oliver smiles, while my immediate response is a very mature nervous giggle as I remember Oliver had a question to ask me later tonight.
Fortunately, Dad jumps in. “Time flies, doesn’t it?
Abby’s still in pigtails as far as I’m concerned.
” Okay, not sure I’d go that far, but I’m thankful for his intervention.
Mental note, need to develop a new talking point regarding the status of me and Oliver.
It used to be a simple best friends, but from the way Oliver is looking, I’m not so sure anymore.
And I’m certain it’s complicated isn’t a relationship status Mom’s press secretary would approve.
“Where’s Elle?” I whisper into Dad’s ear.
His bushy eyebrows pinch together. “Giving a history lesson to some kid on the balcony,” he says. “Bozo?”
I stifle my laugh. “You mean Enzo,” I chastise him. The Truman Balcony is just outside the Yellow Oval, and sure enough, I see Elle pointing excitedly to something in the distance. A floppy-haired boy in a gold-trimmed tuxedo who must be Enzo leans against the balcony with her.
A woman next to Elle in a gorgeous red gown makes my smile stretch even wider.
I squeeze my mom’s arm. “Tita Karra is here! I thought she wasn’t going to make it.
” Mom leans out of her conversation and her lips quirk in that way they always do when she refers to her younger, pluckier sister.
“She apparently had an important guest she wanted to bring.” We exchange meaningful looks.
We never know who Tita will bring as her plus-one to Mom’s functions, but no doubt it’s someone connected to a cause she supports, like puppeteers for world peace, or even a service animal, which happened to be a potbellied pig one year.
So long as the guest passes a security check and doesn’t cause any controversy, Tita is allowed some grace.
It’s the least Mom can do for her sister, who is a fundraising goddess and practically raised Elle and me during Mom’s campaigns for Senate and twice for president.
One of our military social aides whispers in Mom’s ear.
She smiles at the news and claps her hands, drawing everyone’s attention.
“Who’s ready for dinner?” she asks like we’re about to have an intimate meal in our home, not a fancy political-people dinner where even the salads have last names.
I cast a look at Elle, Enzo, and Tita, who are slowly exiting the balcony.
I’ll lecture Elle about paying too much attention to Enzo when we’re seated at our table together. As for Tita, I hope to get a few words with her alone before her plus-one steals the spotlight.
The energy amps up higher with anticipation as the White House staff helps usher everyone from the Residence to the floor below us, where the State Dining Room is located.