Elite - Carrie Aarons


A Privileged Novel

Carrie Aarons

© 2018 by Carrie Aarons

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Editing done by Proofing Style.

Cover designed by Okay Creations.

This book is for a very special Aunt who has turned into a friend. Eloise contains all of the sass, wisdom and love that you bring to my life.


Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42


About the Author

Also by Carrie Aarons

Author’s Note

I know that some of the college scholarship information and basketball events in this novel won’t be factually correct, or fall on the historically accurate date in which they typically fall on. For the purposes of this story, I needed to change the timing/rules on certain happenings or occasions. I hope that doesn’t detract from your reading.

And if it does, I’ll buy you an ice cream.



I was so bloody lost.

The winding, enchanting roads of Thistle, Vermont had bewitched all of my senses, my eyes roaming over the snow-covered landscape and diverting me into a series of turns I could not retrace.

This town was straight out of a Grimm’s fairy tale, or a Ralph Lauren catalogue; all tall oak trees, alpine white, chunky knit sweaters, log cabins with smoke puffing from the chimneys and the smell of apple cider somewhere off in the distance.

And here I was, the British transplant who’d almost gotten herself killed several times while trying to navigate the Mercedes my father had had waiting for me at the airport. It wasn’t my fault that Americans insisted on driving on the wrong side of the road.

All right, so maybe I should have hired a driver to take me to campus. But I’d promised myself that I’d be more independent, get back to my roots and stop relying on the help to perform tasks in my everyday life that I was more than capable of doing.

But it didn’t mean I still wasn’t going to do them in style, hence the sixty-thousand-dollar sedan and Italian suede stiletto boots that threatened to pitch said car right into one of these Ansel Adams-like valleys.

Pulling over, I tapped on my iPhone to open up directions to Jade Mountain University. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the red-blooded, American campus, with its brick buildings covered in ivy, quad filled with antique wooden benches and the famed clock tower that watched over all of is students. Situated at the bottom of Thistle’s small mountain range, and next to the crystal-clear Jade Lake, the school had instantly caught my eye when I’d begun research on how to escape my stuffy existence in Europe.

Sure, the last two years at the Sorbonne had been educational … eye opening really. On one hand, the rigorous program had solidified my decision to become a chef. But at the same time, the harshness of my professors, not to mention the cutthroat competition presented by my peers, was becoming stifling. Before I immersed myself fully into that world, I needed one last burst of freedom.

Hence my sabbatical to