Ginger's Heart (A Modern Fairytale, #3)(149)

Savannah, who was an ancient twenty-six to her sister’s adorable twenty-two, cocked her head to the side, searching Scarlet’s face for meanness, but found only worry. Scarlet had never really understood Savannah’s decision to leave Danvers, Virginia, and move to New York City, to become a reporter. The one time Scarlet had visited, she spent the entire weekend ensconced in the relative safety of her hotel room, despite Savannah’s efforts to get her out and about.

“Marriage has never really been on my radar, Scarlet. That’s your territory.”

“Don’t you want to be one of those career women who has it all? Exciting job, hot husband waiting in bed for you at night?”

Savannah rolled her eyes. Reporting the news wasn’t exactly a nine-to-five gig, not that Scarlet had ever understood that. After graduating from high school, Katie Scarlet Carmichael had upped her hours at Fleurish Flower Shop from part-time to full-time and plastered a can-do smile on her face when Trent Hamilton returned home from the University of West Virginia every weekend. Sure enough, through four years of college temptation, nothing turned Trent’s head as much as Scarlet, and by the time he graduated, her patience had paid off; he proposed the very same day. And now here was Scarlet, a year later, thumbing through bridal magazines in preparation for her July wedding. Savannah didn’t generally envy her sister—they’d chosen extremely different paths for their lives—but sometimes she envied Scarlet’s single-mindedness. All she’d ever wanted was to become Mrs. Trent Hamilton, loving wife, mother, and pillar of the community, and, voilà!, that’s exactly what she was getting.

Savannah softened her expression. “I guess I wouldn’t mind the hot man part.”

“Husband,” said Scarlet. “Husband. Flesh and blood. Not just the characters on your HBO shows. Now, listen up. ‘Number three, the first time you look like hell and he couldn’t care less.’”

“What man on the face of the earth doesn’t care when you look like hell?” Certainly not the couple of guys Savannah had dated in New York. She winced as Patrick’s face flitted through her mind. Damn Patrick Monroe anyway. He had sure done a number on her.

“One who’s head over heels in love with you. ‘Number four’ . . . oh,” murmured Scarlet with a sigh. “‘The first time you talk until dawn.’ That’s a good one.”

Yeah, thought Savannah. That’s a good one unless everything he’s telling you until dawn is lies and you don’t realize it because you’re blinded by lust—she refused to admit to the other “l” word—and you believe everything he says because how could he be lying and still worship your body like he’s been schooled in the erotic arts?

“‘Number five, the first time you bring him home to meet the family.’”

Savannah looked at the fresh white paint of the porch clapboard siding and the cheerful sky-blue paint of the ceiling. The bright red geraniums that her mother had placed at intervals swung lightly in the late afternoon May breeze. At the bottom of the porch steps a brick walkway divided a well-kept patch of grass and ended at an azalea-flanked white picket gate that opened onto the sidewalk of a tree-lined street. It was the quintessential all-American home, and yet she’d never had the guts to bring Patrick home to meet her parents. He’d grown up on the Upper West Side, attending private schools and summering in Nantucket. Danvers, Virginia, wouldn’t have been sophisticated enough for his tastes, and she couldn’t have borne the amusement in his eyes when he surveyed the home she loved. She’d decided not to risk it.

“‘Number six . . . ’” Savannah looked up at her sister and watched her fan herself as her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. “Oh my. ‘The first time you’re naked together and you don’t feel a shred of insecurity.’ Well, my stars . . . ”

Savannah grinned. “Please tell me that you and Trent have done the deed in broad daylight.”

“That’s my private business.” Scarlet’s flush increased. “H-have you? Done that?”

“Had sex in broad daylight? Of course.”

“With that Patrick?”

Scarlet had not been a fan of Patrick’s when they’d had dinner together during her disastrous visit to New York. She told Savannah she felt he was politely laughing at her, and honestly, Scarlet was right. Later, when he and Savannah were alone, he’d called her sister’s accent “powerful” and added that it was “lucky she’s cute so she can get away with it.” When he asked why Savannah didn’t speak with the same accent, she explained she’d worked hard to lose it during her four years at NYU. By the time she’d taken the job at the Sentinel, it was all but gone except for when she drank too much.

“I didn’t like him, Vanna. I know you did, so I’m sorry it didn’t work out, but I just know there’s someone better out there for you. Someone right.”

“It’s okay. He turned out to be a rat.”

Scarlet nodded. “You can say that again.”

“It was my own fault for not seeing what you saw over one dinner. What’s number seven?”

“Oh!”

Scarlet turned her attention back to the magazine while Savannah leaned forward to pick up her glass of iced tea. The glass was sweaty with cool droplets that dripped into the space between her breasts as she sipped.