Page 38 of Love Me Tomorrow

12

Savannah

“Good Lord, but that Dominic DaSilva has a pair of abs on him like I’ve never seen.” One sip of champagne, a quick glance around at the crowded ballroom, and then Frannie Barron, the mayor of New Orleans, leans in conspiratorially to whisper, “Tell me, are they painted on? Photoshopped?” Her penciled-in, dark brows raise. “You never know with TV nowadays.”

Dominic DaSilva, former NFL tight end, all around bad boy extraordinaire. Of all the guys vying for my heart onPut A Ring On It, Dom was the only one to give me butterflies. His gaze was dark, his muscles were bulging, and in those first few weeks when I had been determined to put Owen aside and get on with my life, I’d momentarily allowed myself to think ofmorewith the famous ex-football player.

Unfortunately, all I needed was our first one-on-one date to realize that while my body was all too willing to give Dom a go—his abs might as well be Photoshopped they’re so well-defined—my brain refused to get with the program.

Hello, my name is Savannah Rose and it seems that I’m permanently fated to pray at the altar of Owen Harvey.

It’d be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.

I clink my champagne flute with Frannie’s. “No Photoshop in sight, Madame Mayor. Let’s just say that the man earns his ridges the old-fashioned way. Lots of sit-ups, not enough of Taco Tuesdays.”

“A shame.”

“I totally agree. Tacos are food for the soul.”

Frannie throws her head back with a laugh, her long, Senegalese twist braids slipping over her shoulders. “I mean, it’s a shame that I’m not twenty years younger.”

“And not married,” I tease. Frannie might be our mayor but I’ve known her since I was ten years old and bussing her table at Rose & Thorn every Saturday afternoon. Her husband was the first one to give me a taste for interior design—he’s the mastermind behind some of the most opulent historical home restorations in the city. Between the summer of my sophomore and junior years of college, he even set me up with an internship, much to the disgruntlement of my dad.

“Bah,” Frannie mutters, batting a dismissive hand in the air. “That’s marriage for you. One day it’s all sunshine and roses—no pun intended, of course—and then the next thing you know, conversation is somehow cemented on bathroom activities, who was the last one to put away the dishes, and God forbid you eventhinkabout watching a new TV show on your own—I promise that World War III will be imminent.”

Trying to hold back a laugh, I sip my champagne. “It sounds wonderful.”

“Marriageiswonderful. It’s also not for everyone.” She eyes me over the rim of her glass. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you aren’t wearing a ring.”

Crap.

Not this again.

Averting my gaze, I sweep a hasty glance over the elegant ballroom. Every summer the mayor of New Orleans hosts an auction to fund his or her favorite charities. Tonight, there are Saints players hobnobbing with some of the city’s oldest Creole families, like my own; venture capitalists sharing drinks with lawyers; politicians sitting beside oil tycoons. Last I checked, the minimum bid for the auction items starts at five-thousand dollars with the implied understanding that bidders ought to be raising the stakes well into the five-figures by the end of the night.

The mayor’s ball is an invitation-only party for the rich, the famous, and the famously rich.

The Roses fit solidly in the latter group.

“Production asked me to keep my jewelry to a minimum once the show started airing.” The lie slips smoothly from my tongue. I’m pretty sure thePut A Ring On Itproducers don’t care one way or the other, since rumors ultimately fuel the show’s overall audience ratings. “Am I engaged? Am I not engaged?” I wag my eyebrows playfully. “You’ll just have to tune in for the finale to find out.”

The mayor sips her bubbly. “Are you aware that your right eye twitches when you lie?”

“What? Of course it doesn’t.”

“I’ve known you since the days of hot-pink braces and acne, dear. Don’t think I don’t remember you lying to your old man right in front of me when he needed help at one of the restaurants and you pretended to have to study for a test.”

I open my mouth, then gently snap it closed. “I did have a test.”

“Sure you did,” the mayor says with a sly grin, “but you also wanted to come over to the house and talk about fabric patterns with Antoine. Your eyes always give you away.”

Literally, too, I suppose.

Frannie taps my bare ring finger. “Never fear. You’ll meet the love of your life someday, and then you, too, will be welcomed into the world of arguments about what shows to watch and what takeout to order, and the number of times your partner finishes the toilet paper and fails to clue you in until it’s too late.”

I swallow a startled laugh. “That’s honestly more than I ever needed to know about Antoine.”

“Twenty-five years of marriage, Savannah. If I can’t make fun of him by now, who will?” She squeezes my hand, busses my cheek, then steps back. “All right, I’m off to mingle. Since you’re clearly not engaged, and there are plenty of single men present, I expect to see you on the dance floor. Don’t be a wallflower.”

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