Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (12 page)

She’d text him later and pray he would want to see her again. That he’d want to finish their kinky little stripping game.

Because as soon as she got rid of Patsy, she would jump back in with both feet. Bra and panties optional.

Chapter Ten

Sal sipped the spicy cabernet and prayed a TARDIS would appear so he could go back to Friday night and the kinky stripping game he’d played with Rosemary. Because sitting at the dinner table with his entire family and Angelina had turned into medieval water torture.

Yes, Angelina again.

His mother hadn’t been subtle in her attempt to integrate the woman into his life. She’d been at the last two Sunday lunches, charming his family with her silly anecdotes, hoodwinking his grandmother with her devoutness.

“So, Sal, the contractor needs you to go down to the deli and see about the meat display. He needs to know where you want it so he can install the counter. Let’s get that checked off,” his father said, passing the platter with the pork roast to Brittany, who took a healthy serving. His sister was whip thin and ate like a horse.

Sal craned his neck, because his collar suddenly felt too tight. “It’s wherever you want it, Pop.”

His father glanced up. “What do I care where you keep the meat? It’s yours to decide.”

“But it’s your place, Pop,” Sal said.

Dominic jabbed a finger at him. “Stop playing dumb. You know Pop’s gonna retire soon. He’s doing that deli for you. I run the main restaurant, Vince is over in Brooklyn, and you got the deli. What’s so hard to understand about Pop wanting you to take some interest in something that will be yours?”

Dominic was the oldest, which meant he was the enforcer of his parents’ directives. Like Himmler to Hitler, not that his parents were as bad as Hitler. Much. Dom had bought into the Genovese way with nary a thought of any other career. Vincent, on the other hand, had expressed an interest in medicine, even getting accepted into medical school, but once Big Donnie handed him the keys to the Brooklyn restaurant, Vinnie couldn’t justify years upon years of schooling when he could marry his high school sweetheart and buy a place in Brooklyn. Sal was always odd man out.

“And what about me and Brit? What, ’cause we’re girls we’re shut out?” Frances Anne chimed in, her expression showing she wanted a fight. Frances took more interest in the small Mama Mello’s empire than anyone else. After attending business school and getting a degree in marketing, she had ideas about social media, advertising, and branding that often pitted her against her too-traditional parents. As much as Frances aggravated him with her overly protective nature, she was the sibling he related most to. They were both frustrated.

“We’re not having this discussion today,” his father said, glancing over at Angelina. “We have company.”

“All I’m saying is I’m not sure running the deli is what I want.” Sal took another swig of wine. He didn’t want to gulp it but God help him, he needed more booze to deal with the family theatrics that were inevitable around the table. Last week it was over the christening of the new Genovese and who would be the godparents. The week before that it was over the Yankees’ midseason trade. Always fireworks at the Genovese table.

“And why don’t you?” his mother asked, her fork pausing in midair. Her dark hair had been secured in the familiar bun she always wore, and the diamond loops his father had given her for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary sparkled beneath the extravagant chandelier. Natalie had insisted they needed the garish light fixture in their formal dining room, but it looked incongruous in the cramped space, which was made even smaller by his boisterous family packed in at the table. “Your father is handing you a future and you treat the opportunity like it’s garbage?”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” Sal said, trying to keep his voice level.
Not another shouting match, please.
His nerves already felt shredded. “I’m just saying running the deli is a big commitment.”

His mother looked disgusted and eyed his father. “This one is always so difficult.”

Angelina leaned forward. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Genovese, once Sal sees how incredible the place is looking, he’ll be excited for a new opportunity.”

Sal turned his head. “How do you know?”

“Because I went by the Mello deli Friday morning. It’s an incredible location. Can’t believe you got it for that price.” She nodded like a good Realtor should.

He wondered if he’d fallen down a hole . . . in a desert . . . in Mongolia. “You went to the deli on Friday? Why?”

“I had a showing nearby and your mother invited me to drop in and check out the progress. At least
she
appreciates my expert opinion on what works in the neighborhood. I have a lot of experience, you know.”

Vincent’s gaze met his. His brother grinned. Sal thought about flipping his brother off, but he didn’t want to set his mother off again.

“And we appreciate you, Angelina. After all, you were the one who suggested the deli in the first place,” Natalie said.

What the hell?

“I thought Mac Terelli suggested the deli?” Sal looked at his father, something hot slithering into his gut. His father had told him Mac, a developer and close friend, had seen opportunity for the Genoveses to expand in the theater district. To find out Angelina was behind the sudden press to buy space and outfit it as a pizza and sub sandwich joint felt manipulative. Like she’d laid his future out for him like a woman setting out a suit of clothes . . . then waited for him to see how indispensable she was. She’d probably already ordered stationery with “Angelina Genovese” scrawled across it.

“Oh, and Angelina had such a good idea for that brick wall where customers line up. She knows a muralist who can paint the Mama Mello’s logo on the wall. Maybe a nice pastoral scene, too. Make the customer feel like they’re in Italy.”

Angelina vibrated with pleasure beside him. “Oh, and don’t forget I know a supplier for the tables and chairs. Old world iron would lend authenticity to the space,” Angelina said, shoveling around the pasta on her plate. Their conversation last Friday at Mama Mello’s hadn’t been mentioned and Angelina had been sweet as the cream cake his mother had sitting on the sideboard. Nauseatingly so. “As long as it’s okay with Sal, of course.”

He didn’t say anything.

What could he say? Everyone in his life, except maybe Brittany, who was clueless about everything, had set this new direction for him into motion. Sal was a trained ape.
Come at this time. Stand here. Do this. Do that.

He pulled at his collar, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. He should have pleaded being sick that morning. Sal didn’t want to be there. Not even for Grandma Sophie, who looked to be falling asleep in her meatball soup.

“I have to go,” he said, dropping his napkin beside his half-eaten lunch.

“You haven’t finished your lunch yet,” his father said, looking pointedly at Sal’s plate. “Your mother and grandmother worked hard to cook this.”

“And it was delicious,” Sal said, pushing back his chair. “I forgot I have a commitment.”

“What commitment?” his mother asked, her brow knitted in discontent.

“Uh, I told some guys I’d meet them at the gym. We have a makeup game for league.”

“And you just now remembered?” Angelina asked, pressing her manicured hand on his arm. It felt like a shackle. He pulled away.

“Sorry, but lunch was excellent as always, Mama,” he said.

As he rounded the table, heading for the large opening to the foyer, his grandmother extended her cheek so he could kiss it. “So nice to see you, Salvatore. Come visit. The lavender smells lovely and the bee balm brings the butterflies. I miss you.”

Guilt pinged him. His grandmother Sophie loved to take tea in her garden. After she quit working in the restaurant, she’d turned her attention to the small courtyard behind her house in the Bronx, filling it with fragrant herbs and lovely blooms. Since Sal lived in Dyker Heights, it was hard for him to get out to see his grandmother, but he always found it restoring to sit with her on the cobbled patio, sipping herbal tea and watching the birds hop on the branches of the cherry tree draped over the privacy fence. A small piece of paradise, a place where he could breathe and think.

Angelina dropped her napkin and made to push back. “I’ll go with you. I love basketball,” she said.

Sal felt panic rear inside him.

“No,” he said, pressing his hands toward her as if it could hold her in place. “You know, the game will be a long one. And that gym smells like sweat and dirty feet had a kid together. Plus, we’re going out to a strip club for Jared’s bachelor party afterward. It’s a guy thing, you know?”

“A strip club?” Angelina repeated, her face growing stony. “Isn’t that a bit juvenile?”

“You know guys,” he said with a shrug, edging out of the dining room.

“Take me with you,” Vincent said.

“Me, too,” Dom chirped. “Please.”

Both guys got pinched by the women sitting beside them. Two yips of pain accompanied his scramble out of the dining room. As he fled, he heard accusations and laughter from his brothers and their women. The halfhearted fussing distracted everyone from his escape.

Of course the basketball game was total fabrication. He hated lying, but he’d blame it on that infernal woman his mother kept shoving down his throat. Every time he said something to his mother she’d say, “What’s not to like? Angelina’s beautiful, Catholic, Italian, and has a job. You got a better chance of winning the lotto than finding a good girl like her. Don’t be stubborn. And stop chasing girls with their snooty noses in the air. They don’t understand the life you lead. Angie is one of us.”

And his mother’s approval paired with innate confidence had Angelina believing he already belonged to her.

As long as Sal is okay with it.

Ha.

How many times had he heard his mother say the same thing when it came to his father? Hundreds. Natalie always pretended like she included his dad in decision making when she knew she made all the decisions. Big Donnie Genovese might be the face of Mama Mello’s, but his wife ruled with an iron fist.

Sal loved and admired his parents, but he’d never wanted the same kind of relationship. And settling for Angelina because it was easy felt like giving up on being the man he dreamed of being. Of course, he didn’t have an exact plan for who that man was, but he knew he was a man who made his own way.

Angelina had gone down to Mama Mello’s Express to pick out tables, make suggestions, and plan a goddamned mural to cover the wall. And then she’d looked at him with those wide gingery-brown eyes and said
as long as it was okay with him
?

As he walked briskly through the hall, he knew he was drowning. Eventually he’d grow tired of swimming and he’d give over to the current and be washed downstream toward a life planned for him. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe three years from now he’d be married to Angelina, working at the deli, and oblivious to the mundane life he’d accepted.

But right now he fought to grab on to the southern girl who was his island in the middle of the current. Lush, simple, and untouched by the flotsam and jetsam of his life, Rosemary gave him reprieve. Even if he knew it was short-lived. Eventually the island would disappear, leaving him with only the memory of paradise.

Almost exactly two weeks.

That was all they had.

Then she’d fly back to Mississippi and leave him here to the life designed for him. Postponing the inevitable. That’s what if felt like. His life was inevitable.

After all, how could he change it?

Sure, it was easy for someone to suggest he quit the family business, take his meager savings, and move elsewhere to start over. But it was altogether another thing to do it. Rosemary claimed to have been living in a bubble, hungry for experiences. Wasn’t he the same? His bubble was just different—bigger, noisier, and smellier. Like her, he’d been content to exist as a Genovese doing what Genoveses had done for almost a century.

He slipped through his parents’ parlor with the plastic-covered settee and the wall of photographs, wincing when he saw his geeky confirmation picture. His mother called, “Sal,” but he hurried out the door and down the steps of the brownstone he’d been raised in.

Then he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Rosemary’s number.

Please let her mother be gone.

Sweet baby Jesus, please.