Scarlett Yates had the kind of looks that leaned sweet and delicate, with a baby face that made her, at twenty-three, constantly mistaken for a student—one of those seventeen or eighteen-year-old college freshmen.
But right now, she was oozing femininity, combining sultriness and sweetness in one, so beautiful it was hard to look away.
Being praised by him, Scarlett felt a bit shy and a bit secretly pleased, and suddenly felt that the two hours of fussing hadn't been a waste at all.
Women dress up for the ones who appreciate them; she was no exception.
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The wedding photos were being shot at a farm on the outskirts, dozens of miles from the city.
This farm was said to be one of Seymour's properties as well, and it had a lovely name: Purple Mist Farm.
Since it was called Purple Mist Farm, of course there were large fields of lavender here—an entire hillside covered in dreamy purple.
