Annabella's lily-white skin was better suited for the climate of the New England states from which her forefathers hailed than the unforgiving southern sun. She absolutely dreaded summers in the south and was a most tetchy belle. It was little wonder that Warren sighed heavily when he saw her flaxen hair matted to her rubicund face through the wrought iron gate. He despised coming home from law school summer after summer and seeing his childhood friend grow more rancorous each year. Annabella had been saving herself for the right man, but somehow that man never revealed himself to her. She was positively incorrigible and no man in his right mind would dare marry such a woman. She was too entitled and Warren refused to pursue someone who thought more of herself than he did. For his part, Warren was a pretentious playboy who consumed his family's wealth on philandering, and had little use for a frigid socialite. While he found her positively striking, he would never reveal his weakness to her. Each year, Annabella grew more disgusted with Warren's revolving door of women parading across the promenade. It was obvious he was not marriage material, so her girlhood crush on the alabaster blond dissipated over time. By the time she was old enough to consider marriage, Warren was at the bottom of her list of potential suitors. Now, he had completely dropped off the list.