Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (17 page)

He turned away from his mother’s direct stare because though he’d toed the line out of family loyalty, he wasn’t happy about it. And he wanted his mother to know that. He’d already stayed late at the restaurant so his father could go home and change, and he’d been at the Vitale’s house for at least forty-five minutes.

He glanced at his phone then stood and pushed his chair in, intending on taking his leave.

But Angelina appeared at his elbow, looking waiflike in a dress that covered all her assets for once. “Can I get you more coffee, Sal?”

“I’m not going to be able to sleep as it is,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll pass.”

Angelina placed her hand on his arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s decaf.”

“No, I’m good. I should probably—”

“My cousin Bella wanted to say hello to you,” Angelina said, jerking her head toward a frizzy-headed woman who looked about forty pounds too heavy and twenty years past her prime. “Do you remember her from the YMCA? She was an aerobics instructor. Aunt Louisa loved aerobics.”

Bella appeared with a wide smile. “So this is Sal?”

That shaky feeling in his belly grew. What had Angelina been telling her friends and family about him? But he knew. God help him, he knew.

“I’ve heard so much about you. Angelina positively glows when she talks about you and I see why,” Bella said, raking him with an appreciative glance. “Of course, I’ve known your mother for ages. We went to grammar school together.”

Angelina shot Bella a look, giving a curt shake of her head. “I glow when I talk about lots of people, Bella. Sal’s just lucky he made the cut.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Bella,” Sal said as the older woman shot Angelina a questioning look.

“And you. Terrible tragedy, but the upside is it brings people together.” Bella gave him a nudge. Literally a nudge toward Angelina.

“Yeah,” Sal said, glancing at the cuckoo clock hanging in the kitchen, where his parents sat with Angelina’s father and siblings. Ten minutes past ten o’clock. It would take him at least thirty minutes to get to SoHo. Another five or ten minutes to walk to the block on Spring Street where Rosemary waited. It was foolish to keep her waiting. “Uh, I need to step out and make a call. Excuse me.”

Sal nodded toward Bella and gave Angelina a tight smile before pushing past his brother holding his niece and slipping out the French doors that led to the small patio out back. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed the number he’d added to his contacts only a few days ago.

“Hey,” he said.

“Sal,” Rosemary breathed. “Where are you? I thought you’d be here by now.”

“I got hung up, baby. I’m sorry.”

“Are you coming?

“I could make a joke about that,” he teased.

Her throaty laugh made his balls tighten. Christ, he got hard just hearing her voice.

“Look, I’m going to be another hour or so. A family friend passed and I needed to be—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. You have to stay. I can’t be that selfish,” Rosemary said, genuine anguish in her voice. “It’s important to be there for your family, for your friends. I know.”

“But I can still—”

“We can see each other tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s the wake. My parents have to go to that and Vincent has a final in his business class. So I have to run the restaurant tomorrow night. I’m going to be tied up all day and all night.”

“Oh,” she said softly. “Then I’ll come have lunch at the restaurant. You’ll be working, right?”

“Yeah. But it’s not the same, you know?”

“I know but it’s better than not seeing you at all.”

He looked up at the stars winking at him. They seemed almost mocking. “I want to be with you.”

“I want that, too,” she said. “But I’ll save the whips and chains for Wednesday night.”

He chuckled and then caught sight of Angelina at the door. Her earrings caught the light of the full moon, and her grief-stricken face looked softer than normal. She made his stomach hurt, but he couldn’t be harsh when the woman was in a bad place. Her family was her world, and Louisa had been one of her favorite people. Or so she’d always said. “Okay, that sounds . . . painful. But for you I’ll try anything.”

“Sweet dreams, Sal. I’ll miss you.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

He hung up, frustrated, sad, and resigned to doing the right thing.

“Are you through with your call?” Angelina asked, stepping onto the patio.

“Yeah.” He pocketed his cell.

“Sorry about Bella. She may have read into some things I said.”

Sal wanted to chew Angelina out for misleading her family about him, but he wasn’t sure the ballbusting beauty could handle the harsh truth about the way he felt at the moment. “Sure.”

“Look, don’t be mad. I had hoped things would be different by now.”

“What? Like I’d roll over just because you decided I should?” he asked.

Her teeth flashed in the darkness. “I’m good at scratching bellies.”

“Angie,” he warned.

“Joking,” she said, but he could tell she didn’t mean it. “But why are you seeing me as the enemy? Because of your mother? Or do you not like me at all?”

“I never said that.”

“I think this is about you defying your parents. It’s one of those things a guy does. The more they push you toward something that makes sense, the more you dig in your heels because you don’t want to be told to do something. Like reverse psychology or something. You won’t give me a chance because that means you’re giving in. And you don’t like to give in. Maybe if you’d see the real me instead of this woman you think I am, things could be different. So I don’t think it’s me. I think it’s you.”

Maybe. He couldn’t say that wasn’t some of it. He knew this about himself, but that didn’t mean he intentionally shunned Angelina out of spite. Angelina made sense on paper, and there was nothing wrong with her other than her being bold and cocksure. In fact, those were qualities he should desire in a mate, but for some reason Angelina came off as hard and manipulative. “I don’t know, Angie. Maybe that’s some of it. No one likes being managed. No matter what you say, it feels like you and my ma got together and decided we’d do good together. Nobody asked me what I wanted.”

Angelina tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “You’re mad because when I saw you, I saw a future together? I want you. Why doesn’t that flatter you? ’Cause I’ve turned down a lot of guys, you know. I’m not chopped liver or something the dog dragged up.”

She made his protests seem absurd. But it wasn’t that simple. “I don’t fault you for going after what you want, and I know lots of guys want you. You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Exactly,” she said, moving closer to him. “When I saw you across the fellowship hall at the church bouncing your niece on your knee, making silly faces at her, I knew I’d never seen a man as frickin’ sexy as you. My knees actually got a little weak.” She smiled.

“But you didn’t know me. We hadn’t talked since you were a kid.”

“I didn’t have to know you. I could see what I’d been looking for right there. Good-looking, kind, Italian, good family.”

“You make me sound like a dog.”

Angelina shook her head. “Oh, come on. You know that’s not what I mean.”

“Look, Angelina. You’re a nice girl.”

She ran a hand up his chest. “No, I’m not. We both know that. I’m ambitious—bitchy, even. I’m also smart and have tremendous upside. You shouldn’t count me out because you didn’t think of it first.”

Was that what he’d done? Scratched Angelina off because she’d strapped on her hunting boots and grabbed an elephant gun to go after him? He’d always liked the chase. Or perhaps he’d always like the unattainable. Maybe that’s what Hillary had been about. Maybe deep down inside he’d known she wasn’t going to marry him and that made her safe. And now there was Rosemary. He’d chased her, wooed her beneath the stars to Nat King Cole. And she, too, was unavailable. Perhaps it wasn’t about the chase. Maybe he was afraid to let himself get caught by the very thing he desired. Which made him one messed-up dude.

Angelina seemed to be waiting on him to say something.

He didn’t.

So she did what she always did—took control. Raising up, she kissed him.

He let her. Because he needed to see if he felt anything this time. Maybe she deserved a chance, a clean slate.

Her lips were firm and tasted of cherries, as if she’d applied lip gloss before slipping out into the darkness. She wound her arms about his neck and he obligingly dropped his hands to her small waist. Her nails scraped his neck as she opened her mouth and devoured him.

No doubt about it—her kiss was hot, wet, and designed to make a man want her. Thing was, Angelina didn’t do it for him.

He’d been fair, but no dice.

Breaking the kiss, he stepped away. “I need to go.”

She frowned. “Will I see you tomorrow at the wake?”

“I have to run the restaurant so my parents can attend.”

“But what if I want you with me? Would you deny me your support during a time like this?”

“I can talk to Pops if you want me to come. We can trade out.”

“No. Don’t come. I’m fine.”

Guilt slammed him. He was being an ass. The Vitales were family friends; they were part of his community. He couldn’t blow Angelina off if she wanted him to come to the wake. “I’ll be at the funeral on Wednesday.”

“I appreciate your taking time from . . . what is it you’re doing? Going to strip clubs? Picking up whores?”

“Come on, Angie. Don’t do this,” he said.

“I can do what I want,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “My aunt died and you’re standing here being a stubborn asshole. You won’t even try with me. And we could be good together.”

“Jesus, Angelina, don’t you want a man who burns for you? Why would you settle for anything less?”

Her face crinkled and she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “You’re so stupid, Sal. Love? And I guess you believe in Santa Claus, too? Life isn’t about falling in love. It’s about sex, power, and making your way. You don’t piss away all that so you can chase rainbows and look for unicorns.” Angelina looked at him with something akin to pity.

“You believe that? That marriage is business?” he asked, not believing she could toss aside the concept of love so easily.

“How can I not? The relationships that last between two people are based on mutual respect, compatible goals, and fondness. I don’t need you to write me poetry or braid my hair. I want a man who knows what he wants—a family and a thriving business,” she said, spinning on her heel and climbing the three steps that led to the porch. “So I’m not sure we’re right for each other after all. Or maybe we’re perfect. I can see the world as it is, and you can put on your rose-colored glasses. Funny—I never took you for a romantic.”

He’d never thought he was, either, but he damn sure didn’t see commitment the way Angelina did. Hers was a hard view, a joining of like-mindedness unaffected by emotion. Other than fondness. At least she’d mentioned that.

“I’ll see you at the funeral. Thanks for coming, Sal.”

And then Angelina disappeared back into the crowded kitchen, leaving him conflicted.

In all honestly, he’d never contemplated why a man made a commitment. When he proposed to Hillary, there’d been nothing logical about it. She’d consumed him and he’d wanted to please her at all costs.
Hillary had wanted a diamond on her finger, a fluffy veil, and nine months later a squalling bundle of joy. So he’d gotten down on a knee and given her what she wanted. He’d never thought about what marriage should look like to him. Should a man take a common sense approach like his parents had suggested? Pick the girl who made sense? Maybe falling in love was something good for poetry and ballads, even if it seemed contrary to everything he’d ever believed. He’d always thought marriage was the joining of two hearts, but maybe it was better when it was the joining of intentions.

He shook his head and made his way back into the Vitale house, not sure about the concepts whipping through his mind, but very sure that he wasn’t going to think about it until Rosemary went back to Mississippi and he was left to a world he’d always known.

Chapter Fifteen

Rosemary had just stepped out to go to lunch at Mama Mello’s when Gilda caught her.

“Rosemary?” the woman said, sticking her head out the door and looking around wildly.

“Morning, Gilda,” Rosemary said, turning to lock her cousin’s door.

“I heard your rented machine going all night,” Gilda said.

When Sal had called and said he couldn’t make it, Rosemary had thrown herself into piecing together a new design. She’d cut the embroidered pillowcases into strips and finished with a light pink eyelet trim. She’d finished two pillows and had thought of a new design for a round pillow using vintage sixties poly blend she’d bought on a whim. “I hope it didn’t bother you. It’s a quiet machine.”

“No, no.” Gilda waved an arm holding seven or so bangle bracelets. “Where are you going?”

“I’m popping by a thrift shop I went to the other day to grab some red-striped ticking I saw on the clearance table and then I’m going to Sal’s restaurant for lunch. Would you like to join me?”

The woman’s face scrunched up. “I had hoped you didn’t have definitive plans for lunch, because I called in a favor.”

Rosemary walked over to the woman. “What do you mean, a favor?”

“Yes, and it was a big one. So I’m afraid you’ll have to change your luncheon plans. Call your Italian and beg off. This is important.”

Rosemary had not a clue what the woman was talking about. A favor? “What are you talking about?”

“I called Stanton last night and sent him some pictures of your pillows. Of course the photos on the phone don’t do them justice, but Stanton liked them enough to show Trevor. And Trevor has a meeting on the West Coast on Wednesday, so the only time he has is today. So you’re going to have to change your clothes.”

Rosemary looked down at her shorts. “Why? Wait. Who’s Stanton? And I—”

“Stanton’s my son, of course. Didn’t I tell you about him? No? Well, no matter.”

“Oh no, you didn’t tell me about—”

“Change,” Gilda said, pointing a finger at the locked door over Rosemary’s shoulder. “Trevor’s a discerning man and short pants won’t say what you need to say, dear. Go put on that fetching little seersucker dress you wore the day you arrived. It has the perfect branding of southern innocence and charm. Very authentic for your purpose.”

“Uh, Gilda, I don’t know what that purpose is,” Rosemary said. She’d gleaned Gilda was eccentric the day before, but at the moment the woman seemed trapped in an alternate world only she understood.

“Your pillows, dear. They’re charming as you are and Trevor has tremendous power in product placement. Unless you’re not interested?”

Rosemary felt like she’d fallen down a rabbit hole. “Interested in what? Who is Trevor?”

“He’s my son’s lover and soon-to-be husband. They’re getting married in the fall. In Sonoma. He’s also Trevor Lindley.”

“Trevor Lindley? The interior designer who has a show on HGTV? Are you joking?”

“Yes. And no.”

Rosemary shook her head. “What?”

“Yes, he’s that Trevor Lindley, and no, I’m not joking. Trevor also has several retail stores. Doing quite well for himself. Not that my Stanton doesn’t do well on his own. He’s an actor. Off Broadway, of course, but he’s a solid performer.”

“You arranged a meeting for me with Trevor Lindley?” Rosemary felt like someone else said the words coming out of her mouth. She’d watched
At Home With Trevor
for the past three years, loving the way the man had invented a rustic contemporary trend that had swept the designing world. She even had a bedside table done in chalk paint because she’d seen one on his show. “Why?”

“Because he loves fun pillows and yours have such authenticity. And they’re very well made. I think he’d love to add them to his stores. Custom-made is such a desirable trend at the moment.”

“You’re joking,” Rosemary said, reaching out a trembling hand.

Gilda laughed. “Dear girl, I never joke about design. It’s at the very heart of the human condition. To create something beautiful is to be human. I’d say it separates us from the apes, but even apes can draw now. I’ve seen videos on YouTube.”

“What? Why did you do this? I can’t—” Rosemary shook her head and blinked twice. “I have to change.”

“Yes. Wear what I suggested. Trevor will love it. He’s always had a passion for all things southern. He and Stanton spent several weeks in Charleston last year while Trevor designed his tidal line. They even rented a town house there for a while.”

Rosemary’s body trembled as she turned back toward her cousin’s loft. “I have to go back inside.”

“Yes. And don’t forget those lovely pearls. They’re gorgeous with your coloring,” Gilda said.

Rosemary turned back to Gilda. “What time? I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.”

“He’ll send a car for you. He said it would be after one o’clock because he had a producer meeting or something such as that.”

“Aren’t you coming with us?” Rosemary asked, her voice small as the magnitude of the moment washed over her. She was having lunch with Trevor Lindley to discuss her pillows. It didn’t even make sense. Not really. Why would he want to discuss the toss pillows of a small-town Mississippi girl who pieced them together for fun?

“I don’t leave the apartment, dear. I suffer from agoraphobia. I don’t deal well with the outside world.”

Rosemary stared at Gilda, registering the reason why the woman never crossed her threshold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“And why should you? But I’m perfectly happy where I am most days, especially when funny little girls collapse in the hall and then take tea with me.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” Rosemary said, “but this is crazy.”

Gilda smiled and tapped the side of her nose. “Life usually is, darling. It usually is. Now off you go to prepare for Trevor. He’s a dear man and you’ll enjoy dining with him, regardless of whether you strike a deal or not.”

“Strike a deal,” Rosemary repeated weakly as she turned around and nearly bumped into the doorjamb. Total out-of-body experience. “Wait! Where do I meet him?”

“Out front. He knows where I live.”

“Gilda, thank you for this opportunity,” Rosemary said, turning around at the threshold. But Gilda had already closed the door. The sound of the three locks turning was the only sound in the hallway.

Rosemary dug her cell phone out of her pocket and texted Sal. She knew he was likely busy with the lunch crowd and wouldn’t answer if she called. After she had lunch with Trevor Lindley—she pinched herself—she’d go by Mama Mello’s and hope to catch him on a break.

As she shut the loft door, she looked at the two pillows she’d completed last night and the pieces she’d sewn together for the new design.

“Oh my God,” she said aloud before squealing and clapping her hands. This was an opportunity of a lifetime tossed into her lap. And all because she’d taken a risk. This was how life happened, doors opened, windows shattered, and new places became hers.

Lacy had been so right.

“Thank you, Lace,” she said, picking up the pillow top she’d stitched last night. “You knew what I needed. I miss you.”

And before she could get misty, she shook herself.

Time to take life by the tail and give it a good shake.

Trevor Lindley.

Lord love a duck.

This time she woke to drums beating a steady rhythm. She cracked an eye and the number on the bedside clock glowed 12:23 a.m.

“What?” she groaned and rolled over. The room tilted. Her mouth felt dry, like it had been stuffed with cotton, and her head throbbed. Where was she?

Her fingers found material and vague images came back to her. One in particular. Champagne punch.

The thumping continued and she realized someone was at the door. So she struggled into a sitting position and immediately noted her right butt cheek throbbed as badly as her head. Nausea rose and she swallowed hard.

“Just a minute,” she called, but damned if it didn’t hurt to talk. She inched over to the table and switched on the lamp. The harsh light felt like knives stabbing her eyes.

She’d never had a hangover before.

Oh crap.

Standing up too fast, she nearly toppled over. The banging on the door commenced again. “I’m coming,” she called.

Rosemary still wore the seersucker dress and her espadrille wedges nearly tripped her as she made her way toward the door. Peeking through the peephole, she saw Sal. He looked worried.

Unlatching the lock, she pulled the door open, wincing when her head snapped back and pain shot through her entire body.

“Rosemary,” he said, looking relieved. “I was worried sick. You sent me that vague message about a lunch date and then you never stopped by like you said and I—” He stopped, squinting his eyes at her.

She hung on to the open door because she might possibly still be drunk. Could a gal be both drunk and hungover at the same time? She didn’t know.

“Are you wasted?” he asked.

Rosemary swallowed the dryness in her mouth, noting the strong taste of cherry sewage. “I think so.”

He drew back. “Huh.”

“I had too much champagne punch with Trevor.”

“Trevor?” His chocolate eyes turned to stone . . . or something really hard and dangerous and not so gooey. “Who the hell is Trevor?”

“Why don’t you come inside before we wake everyone?” she asked.

But Sal crossed his arms and glared at her. “Did you go out with another guy today? And get drunk?”

She reached out and clasped one of his arms. “Don’t worry. He’s gay.”

Sal looked at her like she’d undergone alien possession . . . and after four glasses of that delicious punch, she rather thought she had.

Tugging his arm, she pleaded, “Just please come inside. I’ll explain.”

Begrudgingly he stepped inside and shut the door.

“Lock it,” she said. Or maybe she slurred the command.

He did.

“I need water.” She padded into the kitchen and fetched a glass from the cabinet. Two glasses of water later she felt like she could possibly talk. Sal followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, looking as disapproving as her father. No, her mother.

Rosemary took a deep breath, which somehow made her butt cheek hurt worse. What in the hell was causing that infernal pain?

And then she remembered.

“Oh my God.” She hiked up her dress and jerked her pink panties down and screamed.

“What the hell?” Sal said, coming around the counter and seeing the paper covering her right butt cheek. He reached out and pulled the paper off. “You got a tattoo?” he asked.

“I—I—oh shit,” Rosemary breathed running a finger over the actually quite gorgeous rendering of a compass rose on her butt. “Jeffery.”

“And who’s he?”

“The tattoo artist.” Images came flooding back. At first the champagne punch had made her tipsy, not drunk. She’d left the restaurant, telling Trevor she needed the fresh air and a walk. And there had been a tattoo parlor on the edge of Chinatown. She’d told him to give her something that represented being bold and finding new direction. Give her something that had led her to Sal.

The tattoo artist suggested a compass rose. She’d said, “Perfect,” and then gritted her teeth as the man swabbed her butt and subjected her to, on a pain scale of one to ten, a solid eight.

But Jeffery had told her she had a gorgeous ass. Which made her sorta smile through her clenched teeth. After all, the man had probably seen his fair share of bottoms.

“The view is nice,” Sal admitted, his eyes taking in the red skin beneath the new tattoo.

Carefully, Rosemary pulled her panties over the tender flesh and dropped her skirt. Then she tried not to vomit.

“Maybe you better sit down,” Sal said. He wrapped an arm around her waist, but when she leaned into him, she caught a whiff of tomato and garlic.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she gasped and lurched toward the metal door, trying to push it closed before emptying her stomach into the thankfully clean toilet.

“Aw, jeez,” Sal said, grabbing a washcloth and turning on the water. Rosemary assumed that’s what he was doing since she heard the closing of the cabinet and the running water. She was too busy retching her guts up. The words of her father rang in her ears: “Beware champagne. It goes down like butter and comes back up like sewage.”