Stars, Stripes & Summer Nights

by Celeste Dador

Genres: Young Adult; YA Social Themes; YA Romance

Synopsis

A swoony, patriotic romance with Gilmore Girls charm—follow First Daughter Abby as she dives into a summer of surprises, small-town magic, and sparks with the boy who shakes up her world.

What if the person who turns your world upside down is exactly who you're meant to find?

All First Daughter Abby Alzona wanted was one normal night. But one impulsive pizza order later, she’s front-page news—and officially exiled to a Wi-Fi-free country inn for the summer, along with her little sister Elle.

The inn belongs to Gabriel Calabrese’s family: he’s sarcastic, camera-obsessed, and definitely not dazzled by presidential perks (also, kind of the reason for the whole pizza fiasco). But Abby’s determined to make the most of her time away from the White House—with a summer bucket list full of things real teens get to do. Pool parties. Picnics. Maybe even a first kiss.

As she and Elle dive into small-town life, Abby starts to see what makes Gabriel tick. And maybe, just maybe, she’s falling for him. . . .

Release date: May 12, 2026

Publisher: Delacorte Romance

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

“Smokeshow” and “hot guy” are phrases you don’t typically hear during Mom’s work parties, but of course my sister missed that memo years ago. Fortunately, we’re in the privacy of my upstairs bedroom, away from spying eyes and gossip-­hungry ears.

I lower my phone, where my feed shows most of my classmates at end-­of-­the-­school-­year parties. Not me. I’m mentally preparing myself to keep an eye on the “rambunctious” member of the family. My head tilts sharply as I beckon my little sister away from my bedroom’s second-floor window. The royal-­blue curtain, which Mom’s designer selected, provides a stark contrast to Elle’s sparkly citrine-­yellow ball gown, the gown she and Mom eventually compromised on.

Since I’m the “dependable” one, no one had to weigh in on my dress. My white-­gloved hands flatten my lavender sheath dress against my thighs—­very Jane Austen meets Jackie O. It’s classic and maybe a little predictable, but I prefer playing it safe.

A stubborn strand of my sister’s brown hair has fallen from her updo. “Tsk tsk,” I say as I tuck it back into place for the millionth time. Oblivious, Elle continues to talk about the “hottie” outside like a reporter live on the scene. I sigh. Freshman year has turned my sister boy crazy. To her, the “American dream” refers to a cute guy. For the rest of my family, it’s what everyone in this country deserves.

I force all five feet, two inches of myself to stand tall. “Young lady”—­my voice is overly crisp and clipped as I impersonate our mom—­“you mean attractive and smart.”

Elle smirks as she fans herself with her neon-­green nails, a color she picked despite my repeated suggestions for Essie’s Ballet Slippers—­my go-­to pale pink.

“Nope. I definitely mean smokeshow,” she says.

“Smokeshow? Hay naku. Is something burning?” I throw up my hands, this time imitating Mom’s sister Tita Karra’s sonorous accent when she slips into Tagalog to scold us.

Elle’s giggle is my reward. Only Elle knows that imitating voices is my thing. I’ve got several governors and many of our teachers down pat. Impersonations are one of the few things that have gotten her—­and if I’m being honest, also me—­through the years and years of monotonous VIP functions.

I wrestle Elle’s sequined dress straps back into place; she was too busy with her amateur red-carpet fashion analysis of our guests to notice. “Hold on,” I protest as she turns away.

“He might be gone,” Elle groans as she rushes back to my window to press her nose against it. My pearl earrings jostle as I shake my head at my sister.

“Like I said, total hottie,” Elle continues. “Loving the dark wavy hero hair. And sweet! Are those Chuck Taylors with his tux?” Exhaling loudly, I stand behind her and follow her gaze, where guests in predictable black tie and grand ball gowns parade about our manicured lawn below. It’s a perfect June evening, meant for showing off the historic grounds of our home under the star-spangled night sky—­but most guests aren’t stopping to smell the fragrant flowers in our rose garden, they’re rushing to get inside to the party instead.

“None of these guests strikes me as hot unless balding and boring is your thing,” I say.

She huffs. “He must be inside already. I’ll find him when we get downstairs.”

My cheeks flush. That’s the last thing I want her to do. An awkward encounter with one of Mom’s VIP guests orchestrated by my sister. Hey, Abby, meet this hottie, Elle would shout across the room, causing people to stare. My number one rule in life: Don’t create any headaches for Mom. She’s got enough on her plate. “Please don’t. I’m not interested.”

A wicked grin curves her lips. “I’m just wondering if you’re ‘not interested’ because of your date tonight?” I fiddle with my amethyst necklace.

Heat spreads across my cheeks. “Sorry. I’m not sure what you mean.” But of course I do. Whether Oliver Darby is officially my date tonight is something I’ve been worrying about too, and something my sister has been teasing me over for years.

Oliver, my entire family, and his entire family know my parents’ rule. None of the Cary-­Alzona girls are allowed to date until senior year of high school. A rule that is apparently inconvenient to Elle but hasn’t bothered me because Oliver has always been my partner. It’s our unspoken default.

I bite my lip, recalling that he hinted about asking me something important this past week. After school today, he even made me promise to save him a dance. Is this the night he asks me to be his girlfriend?

Elle’s eyes gleam. I adjust some nonexistent wrinkles on my gloves, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of calling me out. “You know the rules about dating,” I remind her.

“I do indeed.” She moves her arms like she’s making a grand reveal. “Ta-­da! You’re officially a senior now.”

“In the fall. I’ll be a senior in the fall.” Even I wince at my sharp tone, which sounds as grouchy as one of Mom’s overworked lawyers.

My sister raises a finger like a reporter with a gotcha question. “If you believe that, then what about your unofficial summer bucket list?” I stiffen like the upper lip of a pretentious guest. Why did I let Elle read my summer bucket list?

And worst, the pesky thing swiped right and saw page two with my private goals—­aka my “for my eyes only” list, which bullets all the normal teenage things I want to experience before senior year. This is the last summer before I’m an official adult—­along with all the expectations of being my mother’s daughter.

Elle waggles her brows. “Goal eleven? That was”—­she pauses dramatically—­“first kiss, I believe?”

My cheeks burn. What a mistake it was writing that down. “That was a draft!” I practically shout. “Page one is the official summer list.” The enriching activities that colleges will like when I apply this fall. I glance at the antique clock on my dresser. “Speaking of official, we don’t want to be late.” I reach for the brass doorknob, anxious to stop this discussion about my bucket list.

“But Abby—­” Elle protests.

I cut her off. “Promise me you won’t tell anybody about my list.”

She frowns but agrees with a tiny huff. “You know, you shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to do stuff for yourself.”

Her words make me pause for a second. Everything I do is for my family. How is that not more important? I fling the door open, pretending not to hear her, and step out quickly, nearly bumping into the burly man guarding the door.

Without missing a beat, Agent Shaw steps aside. By now Shaw’s all too used to my near collisions with him and by default moves away whenever he hears me approaching. “Nice tie tonight, Shaw,” I say sheepishly. He’s always in a black suit, his tie the only thing that changes. Tonight it’s gray with green dots.

He nods at me before speaking into his earpiece. “Rapunzel and Rhapsody are on the move.”

Nessa, the other agent assigned to mine and Elle’s security detail, joins him. She’s wearing a navy pantsuit, flats, and a simple silver watch. I can’t see it but I know she has a secured firearm under her jacket. “Ready to party?” Elle asks with a giggle. We’re rewarded with a tight smile from Nessa. And a grunt from Shaw.

I glance one last time at the privacy of my bedroom before turning toward the sounds of laughter and conversation as our guests mingle about the White House’s Residence.

My back straightens and chin lifts high as I switch into “First Daughter” mode. Elle stands next to me. I check her hair again, and everything is where it should be.

Taking a deep breath, I nod at my sister, then give her my usual pep talk before one of Mom’s VIP functions: “We are Abigail and ­Eleanor Cary-­Alzona, the sweet and charming daughters of Constance Alzona, president of these United States of America—­and it’s performance time.”