Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (20 page)

Sal had surprised her with some custom tags stamped with “South of SoHo.” She used old-fashioned diaper pins and twine to secure them to the pillows’ trimming. Afterward she placed the pillows in two large shopping bags. Gilda had said her son would come to visit like he did every Sunday afternoon and she’d send them with him. No need to go to Trevor’s offices. No need to waste one more precious second of her time here in New York City.

Rosemary sank onto the couch, her mind tripping back to what she’d almost blurted out last night. Yep, she’d come a cat’s hair from breaking down and begging Sal to keep her. To stop her from going back to Mississippi. To make what they had real.

But that would be insane.

Of course, everything about the past weeks in SoHo had been crazy, so why would her changing the rules be any different?

But she knew the answer.

Because though she loved Sal, they weren’t meant to be. No matter how lovely the dream she’d whipped up for the past few weeks, the fluffy clouds and sunshine were a netherworld of her own making. Sal didn’t love her. He’d implied as much almost week ago when they were making love.

But she’d given her own heart anyhow. How could she not and be true to who she was? She might have gone sans undies, gotten her butt tattooed, and gotten snockered on champagne punch, but she was still regular ol’ Rosemary. Pretending the world away for a little while was one thing, but she’d never lied to herself. Truth waited like a winged creature sitting sentry. It would not stay content to watch her run away much longer.

So she had a come-to-Jesus meeting with herself. Sal would stay here. She would go. And their time together would be stitched on her soul, marking her for always. Rosemary had accepted this was the way of it.

Two more days until she left.

She got up and got on with it.

Friday afternoon was busier than normal on the streets of SoHo. But wasn’t that always the case? Even in Morning Glory people started the weekend on Friday.

“Hi, Michelle,” Rosemary said to the cashier at Golly Gee Willikers, a small café with good bagels and wonderful jams and jellies. “Do y’all ship?”

Michelle smiled. “I love when you say
y’all
. And, yes, we ship in the continental US.”

“Perfect. I’m going to mail home some jams for gifts. Don’t want to pay overage on my bags for the flight home.”

“Smart girl,” Michelle said, pulling the jars she pointed to off the shelves behind her. The café resembled an old-fashioned general store. Which was probably why Rosemary liked it so well. Old-fashioned. Wasn’t that what Sal called her? “You going back home soon?”

“Sunday.” Saying it made it so real. So final.

“Well, I’m glad you came by. And don’t forget to send me that—what was it?”

“Mayhaw jelly. My mama makes it every year. I’ll mail you some.”

Michelle handed her a card and rang her up. “’Bye, Rosemary. If you come back to the city, come see me.”

Rosemary waved and as she stepped out into the SoHo sunshine, her phone rang.

Jess.

“Hey, stranger,” Jess said, her voice hoarse.

“Hey,” Rosemary said, moving to the side as a group of tourists passed her. “Are you fighting a summer cold or something?”

“No. I went to Tanner’s T-ball game. He scored two home runs. Well, of course, everyone scored a home run. Fielding is not a priority for four-year-olds. But picking dandelions and noses is. Go figure.”

Something warm edged out the desperate feeling she’d been carrying around for the last day and a half. “Oh my gosh, he’s already four?”

“I know, but my sister-in-law keeps feeding him for some reason.”

“So how are things?” Rosemary asked, knowing the impending divorce weighed on Jess. Personally, Rosemary believed her friend was better off without her high school sweetheart turned lunatic.

“They’re going. I’m sorry I had to get off the phone the other day before you could tell me about your New York fling. Someone from a staffing firm called and I had to get paperwork in to them. I’m signing up to do contract nursing. So finish telling me about the carriage ride.”

“Wait, what staffing firm?” Rosemary asked.

“Just a way I can get out of Morning Glory every now and then. Most jobs are only a month or two, but it will be nice to not carry a shooter’s mirror to check around corners. Benton and whatever slut he’s dating seem to pop out of nowhere. I need a break.”

“I heard he’s dating a bartender from Jackson. It almost makes me feel sorry for Brandy. Almost.”

Benton had left Jess for their florist, Brandy Robbins. Silly Brandy thought Jess’s ex-husband and son to the mayor would marry her. Ha-ha. He’d moved on to a string of women.

“Yep. Been dating this one for a couple of weeks.”

“Ugh, but good for you. Applying with that agency is a good way to get over Benton and the divorce. Of course, I’ll miss you like crazy when you’re gone, but you need some time away.”

“And money,” Jess drawled before giving a sigh. “Enough about me. Last time you were telling me about the carriage ride. And since Eden has such a big mouth—”

“She’s already told you about my Italian stallion?” Rosemary teased.

“Only that he’s romantic and hung like a horse.”

“Jess,” Rosemary hissed even as she laughed. “Yes and yes.”

“Oh, sister, I’m so glad. You needed to go somewhere wonderful and have hot, no-strings sex with, well, obviously a guy who could satisfy your inner slut.”

“Oh my Lord, Jess,” Rosemary said, nearly choking.

“I’m kidding. Sorta.”

“This
has
been good for me. Lacy was right.”

“And wouldn’t she love to hear you say so?” Jess said, humor gone.

“She would,” Rosemary said, before telling Jess about Trevor Lindley and the opportunity to sell her pillows to his company.

“That’s so awesome, Rosemary. Just all the stuff is happening for you,” Jess said, sounding almost as if she was about to cry. Which was very un-Jess-like.

“Yeah,” Rosemary said, her feet leading her toward Little Italy. Funny how she now knew the way. Maybe it had something to do with the man waiting for her. Or maybe she’d stopped worrying so much about the scary stuff, no longer fearful of the world around her.

“You sound sad,” Jess said.

“A little,” Rosemary admitted, stopping to admire a cute strapless maxi dress in the window, one she never would have contemplated buying before because it showed too much skin. “It’s going to be hard to leave. I mean, I miss Morning Glory and I could never live here really, but—”

“The Italian?”

Tears scratched her throat. “Yeah. My Italian sex slave.”

“You’re making me blush, Rose,” Jess laughed, before sobering. “You didn’t fall for him, did you? I mean, you were supposed to go up there and be a wild, modern woman who used men, drank hard liquor, and owned the Big Apple.”

“You didn’t think that would really happen, did you?”

Her friend sighed. “No. You’re just not that kind of girl, are you?”

“Nope,” Rosemary admitted, putting her hand on the handle. The dress would look good on her. “But I did get a tattoo.”

“What the hell?”

Rosemary couldn’t stop the laughter. “I love shocking you.”

“Oh, whew. You’re joking.”

“Oh no, I did get a tattoo.”

“Great Lord have mercy, what has this man done to our Rosemary?”

“I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you,” Rosemary joked, opening the door and stepping into the boutique. “I’ve got to run, but I’m glad you called. I’ll see you next week.” If she didn’t die of heartache first.

“Okay, enjoy your last two days, slut.”

Rosemary laughed. “I love you, too, Jess.”

And then she hung up, strode into the store, and asked the clerk to pull the dress in the window in a size eight. If she had to endure the pleasure/pain of saying good-bye to the man she loved, she could at the very least do it in a cute maxi dress. Two more days to be bold, sexy, and smitten with a hot Italian boy from Brooklyn. Two more days to own the new Rosemary, the girl who’d spread her wings and couldn’t image folding them up never to be used again just because she would go back to her hometown.

Okay, so she wasn’t going to go braless at the church picnic or let a guy get to third base in the back of a pickup truck. But she wasn’t going to be the woman she’d been before. Everything she’d done thus far in New York, from the cab ride to taking a business lunch with Trevor Lindley, had fashioned a more self-confident, self-aware woman . . . a woman who believed in her abilities both in and out of the bedroom.

Lacy hadn’t just given her a gift of adventure. She’d given her the gift of herself.

After trying on the dress and loving it, she handed the clerk her Visa and decided to wear the new dress to meet Sal at Mama Mello’s. She didn’t have a strapless bra, so she went without one. Another first, but damned if her boobs weren’t perky enough to look fine beneath the gathered elastic.

Ten minutes later, she stepped into Mama Mello’s and found Sal sitting at the bar with one of the most gorgeous women she’d ever seen.

And that’s when she got a wriggly feeling that wouldn’t leave her.

Chapter Eighteen

When Rosemary walked into Mama Mello’s their last Friday together, time stood still. As in Sal could almost hear the tinny seconds tick off from the clock keeping track of the few moments he had left with the southern girl who’d rocked his world.

Angelina moved beside him, her dark hair swishing past his face as she turned to look at what had captured his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a V form between her eyes; he heard her measured breath, felt her register the situation.

“You know her?” Angelina asked, her blood-red fingernails scraping the bar.

He didn’t say anything, which seemed to annoy Angelina, because she gave a slight huff. But he didn’t care because once again Angelina sat uninvited in the middle of his world. Like a bad penny, she’d cropped up, contrived reason tumbling from her glossy lips. This time, his mother had asked Angelina to stop by Mama Mello’s to pick up Frangelico for a recipe. Supposedly his mother had graciously volunteered to teach Angelina to make Italian pastry. The thought behind the action made Sal’s skin crawl, but he’d complied, sliding behind the bar to hunt for the liqueur.

Angelina had taken his maneuver for an invitation and plopped her rounded ass down on a stool and started asking questions about culinary school, of all things.

“Was the school hard?” she’d asked.

“Not really. For a while I enjoyed it, but then it started seeming like the same thing every day—a bunch of stuff I already knew. I figured I could learn what I needed from Pops, so I quit going. Probably a stupid move because I find I use techniques they taught me all the time. Some of the menu items we’ve done well with evolved directly from a few of the classes.”

“But you won’t go back?”

He shrugged. “I’ve taken some specialty classes, but you know I like making pizzas. Guess some people find it stupid to limit myself to something like pizza, but I like the challenge of making an American staple complex and interesting.”

“I like them,” Angelina said, latching on to the passionate subject. “Especially the sauces.”

“Took me a while to find the perfect balance between sweet and tangy for the tomato base,” he said unscrewing the top of the bottle. “Why? You thinking of going to culinary school? Real estate a bust?”

She shook her head. “No, I wondered why you didn’t stick with school is all. You seem to like cooking so much. Like it’s a true passion.”

Sal shrugged, filling the clean sauce jar with the liqueur his mother had requested, wondering about this new tactic of Angelina’s—interested chitchat. Was this another ploy to get him to lower his defenses, or had she accepted the fact he wasn’t interested? “I do. I feel more myself when I’m creating new pies. Probably the same way you feel when you show a place and sell it on the same day, right.”

“Real estate isn’t creative. Not really.”

“Yeah, but accomplishing a goal is,” he said, wondering why he told her this. But something in his own words resonated within him. He felt more himself when he was creating a dish . . . not running a restaurant. Not that he couldn’t run his own place, but he longed to do his own thing. He’d always be a Genovese, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t break out of the box a bit.

“So you doing something fun this weekend?” she asked, pointing at the zinfandel sitting behind him. “I’ll have a glass of that before I go to your mother’s.”

He shook his head when the bartender started for the bottle. “No worries, Kyle. I got it.”

Pulling out a clean stem, he poured Angelina a glass. Then he tilted his head and poured one for himself. He was off the clock and wouldn’t mind something to mellow him. “I’ve got plans tonight and Saturday, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m going to Bloomie’s with some girls tomorrow. Maybe hit a few clubs tomorrow night. If you’re out, you should text me and come hang with us.”

He didn’t say anything, because meeting up with Angelina sounded as fun as going in for a prostate check . . . and likely just as uncomfortable.

Dreading this Sunday had become a hobby, but he hoped to give Rosemary and their short-lived love affair a perfect send-off by dinner at Tavern on the Green, the one place she’d mentioned wanting to dine at. Then they’d go dancing at the Hotel Morey rooftop bar. They’d started on that dance floor and he wanted to finish there. Full circle.

“Frances Anne and Bobby split, huh?” Angelina asked.

Had they? He hadn’t paid attention. His spare thoughts had been occupied and he hadn’t engaged his sister in much conversation since she’d been so judgmental about Rosemary. He knew Frannie knew he was miffed. He didn’t really care, because he’d been avoiding anything that reminded him of the reality of his world, which included skipping Mass and Sunday lunch last week. “Huh.”

“You didn’t know?”

Sal shook his head as a flash of guilt hit him. He’d call Frannie later. His sister had been pretty damn good to him when Hillary had broken his heart, bringing him his favorite beer, refusing to say she’d told him so. Frannie had liked Hillary, so when Sal got dumped, she’d taken it personally. Which was probably why she’d been so overly protective when she met Rosemary. Sal owed his sister the same commiseration. Once Rosemary left, he and Frannie could drown their sorrows together.

He glanced at his phone, noting the time. Rosemary would be there in ten minutes. He needed to get rid of Angelina, but the woman was too busy yapping rather than drinking the expensive vintage she’d requested. “You like the wine?”

Picking up the glass, she sipped, wrinkling her nose slightly. “It tastes like cherry cobbler.”

“That’s why I like it,” Sal said, pulling Angelina’s glass away and sliding the jar of liqueur she’d come for over to her. “Here you go.”

“I wasn’t finished with the wine, you rude ass,” Angelina said, her brown eyes flashing.

“You said you didn’t like it. Figured you weren’t going to finish it,” he said.

“That didn’t mean you could take it from me and pour it out.” Her face grew as tight as the skirt she wore. The blouse she wore was sheer enough to show her bra. Wasn’t very professional to him, but the yahoos she sold real estate to probably ate it up.

“Thought my ma was waiting on you? It’s nearly five o’clock and the train will be slammed.”

“You’re right,” she said, snatching the jar and shoving it into her purse. She didn’t look happy.

Yep, friendly as a viper, and nothing in her demeanor suggested she had the hots for him. Hopefully, she’d turned a corner. Because after this thing with Rosemary, he’d decided while he might give in to some things life pushed him toward, he wasn’t letting anyone pick a woman for him. No damn way. And he didn’t give a rat’s fart what anyone thought, Angelina would never be the woman wearing his ring, bearing his children, and sitting in the rocking chair with him fifty years from now. If he even got married.

Running a deli and living in Brooklyn wasn’t a bad life. He could negotiate the menu with his pops so that he had more control of the Mama Mello’s uptown. And one day, maybe he’d fall in love again. Hey, he’d fallen twice before. Surely, he could do it again.

But as Rosemary walked in, his heart shattered against his ribs and he forgot to breathe.

Yeah, he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel this way again.

And the thought of her walking out of his life made him feel desperate.

Rosemary looked at Angelina and he saw the suspicion in her eyes.

“You should get going,” he said, ripping his gaze from Rosemary and glancing at Angelina.

“You know her?” Angelina asked, narrowing her gaze. He could almost see the cogs of her mind turning, inputting the situation, analyzing the emotion, and drawing the conclusion. “Wait. You’ve been seeing
that
woman?”

Angelina spoke the question like his interest in Rosemary was an insult to her, as if she thought Rosemary far beneath her. But women like Angelina—with her fake boobs, tight clothes, and gym-honed body—never understood the attraction of fresh, natural beauty . . . and would never get the concept that Sal thought Rosemary was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. Hillary included.

Sal pulled away from the bar. “Later, Angie.”

“Seriously?” she called.

He ignored Angelina and made his way to the door. The guys who’d hit on Angelina a few weeks ago spilled in, loosening their ties, looking ready for Friday night.

“Rose,” he said, taking her elbow and spinning her back toward the open door.

“Hey,” she said, craning her head to look at the empty tables that would soon be filled with a Friday night crush. “I thought I was having the meatballs.”

He’d forgotten she wanted to eat. “I’ll grab some from the back and we’ll go to my place. You said you wanted to see where I live, right?”

“Well, yeah, but I thought we were going to go to that club you’d tried to take me to that night. The one with the good cocktails?” Rosemary didn’t look upset about his scrapping the plan that had sounded good the day before. Merely confused.

“If you really want to go we can, but I’d much rather spend time with just you.” Some frantic feeling drove him to squire her away, hiding her from anyone who would demand a crumb of attention. Ticking seconds.

“No, I’d rather do that, too,” she said with a smile, her gaze once more flickering back toward the bar. The tip of her tongue touched the arched bow of her top lip as she nervously looked around. Probably waiting for Frances Anne to pop out and karate chop her or something.

He wanted to kiss her, but something held him back. Maybe it was Frances Anne, who passed them, sending him a look as she brought water to a couple sitting near the window. Or maybe it was Angelina, no doubt staring daggers at them. Or maybe the truth was he didn’t want everyone seeing how vulnerable he was . . . how much he’d fallen for Rosemary. He felt naked, anxious for more time, dreading the end of them. Made him feel protective of himself.

“Good. Let me go back in the kitchen and grab some dinner.”

“Want me to wait at the bar?” Rosemary asked.

He glanced back and caught Angelina watching them. “No. Why don’t you run across the street and get dessert? Don’t tell my ma, but Joey Cigar makes the best tiramisu.” He didn’t want her anywhere near potential drama with Angelina. No telling what the dark Italian woman would do to his sweet southern girl.

Rosemary glanced out the large window and pointed toward the bakery kitty-corner from Mama Mello’s. “That place?”

“Yeah. Oh, and get one of their raspberry tarts, too.”

He watched her go and then grabbed Jean, their newest waitress, as she passed by. Giving her his order, he jogged back toward the bar. He ignored Angelina, who still sat there with her mouth half-open, and grabbed a bottle of white zinfandel.

“Sal, you’re joking, aren’t you? She looks like a child and she’s not even—”

“Don’t say it, Angie. This is none of your business,” he warned before showing the bottle to Kyle so he’d mark it off inventory. Kyle made a face like he couldn’t believe he wanted white zinfandel.

Didn’t Kyle know he’d do anything to please his Rosemary . . . even drink sweet pink wine?

“I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon,” Sal said, giving his sister a slap on her rear as he rounded the bar.

“You owe me for taking your shifts,” Frances Anne called.

“I gotcha. And we’ll share some beers. My treat,” Sal said, taking the bag and pushing out the door into the late afternoon of Little Italy. His sunshine girl waited for him in the bakery across the street and for the next thirty-something hours he wasn’t going to think about anything but her.

Rosemary ran her finger over the curve of the white rose in the bouquet on Sal’s table and took another bite of the delicious meatballs over spaghetti. The plates and silverware didn’t match and the table had seen better days, but the pressed tablecloth and earnest expression on Sal’s face warmed her heart.

“Sorry about the glasses. I had some nice ones, but they went missing during a Super Bowl party I threw a few years back. I usually drink beer from the can and rarely have anyone over.” Sal waggled the iced tea glass filled with the pink wine.

“It’s fine,” she said, spearing an Italian sausage–stuffed mushroom from the foam container sitting between them. “Who was that woman you were sitting with at the bar?”