Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (8 page)

Another crackle and she heard her mother sniff before saying, “Oh no. You wait a second, missy. We haven’t talked about the absolutely irresponsible, not to mention dangerous, thing you did last night. This is why I didn’t think it was a good idea to have you going off to that . . . that . . . hellhole. Too much could go wrong up—”

“Mama, stop. You’re being ridiculous and I don’t want to argue with you. I appreciate you’re concerned, but I’m a grown woman. Let me repeat that—
grown
woman.”

Silence on the line.

“Mama?”

“Whatever you want, honey. I want you to be happy. That’s all I ever wanted. Got to go. Shorty’s here to prune the roses in the south garden.” The cold words were spoken like a true passive-aggressive southern mama. But the one thing Patsy Reynolds had gotten right was that Sal Genovese was a perfect stranger. Emphasis on
perfect
.

“’Bye, Mama. Give Daddy my love.” Rosemary hung up. Looking at Melbourne, who leaped to join his friend on the counter, she sighed. “Guess I shouldn’t have poked a stick at her by telling the truth. Should have told her I stayed in and watched
Little House on the Prairie
reruns.”

Moscow yowled again.

“Okay, I’m getting it,” she said, pulling the bag of cat food from beneath the counter, noting once again how much more expensive the cat food was in NYC than in Mississippi. Her dad would flip out at the sticker shock. The man claimed cats didn’t need fancy store-bought food, not when they came equipped to find their own dinner.

After pouring a cup of coffee and figuring out how to work the fancy convection microwave, Rosemary propped up her feet and got out her travel guides. So much to do in NYC, she didn’t know where to start.

Should she buy a ticket for the on-again, off-again bus? Someone had told her it was the best way to get a feel for the city, but that seemed so touristy. But . . . she
was
a tourist.

Or she could wander around SoHo and the surrounding neighborhoods, letting the day take her where she should go. Like she had last night.

Sal laughing as she tried on flip-flops in the twenty-four-hour convenience store popped into her mind. He’d looked so incredibly handsome, his dark hair falling over his brow, brushing past his eyebrows. Her father would say he needed a decent haircut, but Rosemary liked the way it lazily skimmed his brows. She also liked his crooked nose and his toothy smile. And the five o’clock shadow had made him more approachable. But the thing she loved almost as much as the kiss he’d given her was the way he’d sung the lyrics from the old standards in her ear as they moved against each other on the dance floor. Nothing was sexier than a man who knew all the words to “At Last” and “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.”

Snapping the travel book shut, she made a snap decision. She’d go by Mama Mello’s first and leave Sal a note with her number. Maybe even ask him out. In her other life it would have felt too forward, but after enduring her mother’s rant, she felt even more determined to be the other half of herself—the half who wanted to lock her ankles around Sal’s neck . . . the half who wasn’t about to let the boy get away.

“Good enough, Lacy?” she asked the empty room.

No response, but Rosemary smiled anyway. She already knew the answer.

Today Rosemary would take the next step toward being a modern woman. She was going to be bold and forward. But she’d do it wearing her pearls like a good southern girl. Of that, her mother could at least approve.

An hour later, she sat outside a small café eating a bagel that wasn’t too different from the ones she bought at the Lazy Frog—Sassy must be doing something right. Fifteen minutes after smiling hello at a dozen strangers who looked uncomfortable smiling back, striking up a conversation with an older woman who walked a poodle with matching bows on her ears—the poodle, not the woman—and refraining from licking the cream cheese off her plate, Rosemary headed toward Mulberry Street and Mama Mello’s.

She felt good. The day wasn’t as humid, so she wore her hair down and pulled on a new Katherine Way tunic dress she’d found in a boutique in Jackson on the not so ill-fated but still knuckle-gripping trip. In her crossover bag she carried a thank-you note for Sal. Thankfully, she’d stashed a monogrammed note in the side pocket before she left home so she had personal stationery on which to write her number.

And the last line stated very plainly that she wanted to see him again.

Applying a coat of lip gloss, she congratulated herself on finding the restaurant without getting turned around. A good sense of direction wasn’t on her short list of talents, so she’d studied the map of SoHo, Little Italy, and Nolita that morning.

The tables that had sat outside Mama Mello’s yesterday were noticeably absent, and the sign in the window told her in fancy cursive that the place was closed.

Huh. She hadn’t thought about that.

Rosemary tried the door but it was locked.

So . . . what to do?

The old Rosemary would have chalked it up to fate or slid the note under the door hoping for the best. She glanced down at the flush threshold where the note would never fit. But no matter. Because the
new
Rosemary had long tired of playing the role of shrinking violet. She wasn’t about to be thwarted by a
C
LOSED
sign.

So she knocked on the glass, cupped her hands around her face, and peered inside.

A young woman stopped setting cutlery on the tables and squinted at Rosemary. Making an annoyed face, she headed toward the front and unlocked the door, pushing it open. “Deliveries over there.” She jabbed a finger to the right.

Rosemary leaned back and noted the door. “I’m, ah, not here for a delivery.”

“Then we don’t want any,” the younger woman said, pulling the door toward her.

Rosemary caught the handle before it closed. “Wait.”

“What? We open at eleven. Come back then.”

“No.” Rosemary jerked the door open. “If you’d let me speak, I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

The woman looked about Rosemary’s age. Maybe younger. She wore a white shirt and trim black pants, and her dark hair hung in a low ponytail. Her chin was pointed, eyes dark, and the curve of her face looked familiar. Rosemary would bet her new Tory Burch flats that this girl was Sal’s sister.

“So what’s this about?”

“Sal,” Rosemary said. “Is he here?”

The woman broke into laughter. “Oh God. You’re joking, right?”

“No,” Rosemary said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.

“Let me guess, you left your panties at his place,” the woman asked.

“What? No.” Rosemary let go of the door, shocked the woman would even think something like that.

Sal’s sister or cousin or whoever she was lowered her eyes and took in Rosemary. Then she arched her eyebrows. “Never mind. I can see that probably didn’t happen. But, hey, don’t fault me. It’s happened before. The last chick was adamant she was going to get her Agent Provocateur undies back.”

Rosemary didn’t know what to say, so she pulled the thank-you note from her bag. “So if you’re done telling me about Sal’s intimate past, I’d appreciate your giving this to him.”

The woman looked at the heavy vellum envelope with Rosemary’s initials engraved on the back as if it were a loaded gun. “You want me to give him an invitation or something?”

“Actually it’s a—”

“Rosemary?” a voice called behind the woman. Sal appeared, sticking his head around the door. He looked even better than she remembered. This time his hair had been tamed by a brush and a small pinprick of red sauce dotted his white apron. Just like the day before. Like a trademark. “Hey, you came by.”

The woman holding the door turned her head, shrinking back, looking flabbergasted. “You know
this
chick?”

“Yeah, so let her in, Fran,” Sal said, pulling the door back, annoyance on his face as evident as the scent of garlic permeating the air. He jerked his head toward the woman still looking confused. “This is Frances Anne, my sister.”

Rosemary’s hands sweated again, but she used her best committee smile when she turned to the woman. “Hi, I’m Rosemary. I, uh, came to the restaurant last night. The meatballs were really good.”

Frances Anne reacted like a unicorn had tap-danced into the restaurant. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

“What’s this?” Sal interrupted, plucking the note Rosemary had been about to hand his sister from her hand.

“It’s a thank-you note. I didn’t have your address,” Rosemary said lamely, wishing she’d forgotten the whole thing. She felt about as comfortable as a nun in a whorehouse.

“A thank-you note?” Frances Anne repeated.

“You know, Pop needs you in the back,” Sal said, jerking his head toward the kitchen, narrowing his eyes in that age-old suggestion of
get lost
.

“He can wait,” Frances Anne said, shifting her gaze between Rosemary and Sal. Obviously Frances Anne felt vested in the interaction.

“No. He can’t. Vamoose,” Sal said, jerking a thumb this time. “I can handle this.”

Frances Anne dropped her gaze and looked pointedly at Rosemary. “You sure? ’Cause I have a feeling you need help here, bro. It’s like déjà vu all over again.”

Rosemary was polite, but she wasn’t mealymouthed. Frances Anne seemed way too protective over a thirtysomething brother. “I came to thank your brother for being so kind to me last night. He made sure I had a nice introduction to New York City and was a perfect gentleman.”

She expected her somewhat uppity tone to wither Frances Anne. No such luck—Sal’s sister crossed her arms and studied Rosemary as if she were bread mold. “He was
kind
to you, huh?”

So Rosemary looked at Sal, who seemed at a loss for how to handle his sister baring her teeth.

Rosemary might be dorky for showing up with engraved vellum, but she wasn’t a whore. “I didn’t sleep with your brother, if that’s what you’re implying. And I’m not sure why a thank-you note threatens you.”

Sal gave his sister a less than polite shove, angling her back toward the kitchen. “Frances Anne needs to apologize and finish what she was doing.”

“Should I apologize to the last one you got hung up on? I mean, man, you so have a type, don’t you?” Frances Anne said, ignoring her brother, digging in her heels.

“If we’re playing connect the dots, I’m missing a few,” Rosemary said.

Sal glared at his sister, his lips a thin line, his posture at least as stubborn as his sister’s.

Finally, France Anne gave a one-shouldered shrug, turned to Rosemary, and said, “Sorry if I implied something untrue. Sal can be a blockhead at times. We have to save him from himself when it comes to women. Nice to meet you.”

Rosemary didn’t know how to respond to that admission. Something bubbled beneath the surface, but she wasn’t going fishing. Wasn’t any of her business. She barely knew the man. “’Bye.”

Frances Anne gave her brother a look and then made for the tables and silverware she’d abandoned.

Sal held out his hands. “Sorry about that. Frances Anne is naturally suspicious and jumps to too many conclusions.” He said the last bit loud enough for everyone working inside to hear him.

“What did she mean about me being a type?”

“Nothing,” he said, fingering the envelope he’d taken from her. “She’s being pissy because she got in a fight with her boyfriend or something. Everyone’s a target for her this morning.”

“Oh,” Rosemary said, not exactly believing that excuse but, again, not familiar enough with the family dynamics to press him further.

“Rosemary, I’m so happy you came by,” he said giving her the smile she’d dreamed about last night—the one that made her girl parts tingly. All doubts about the words Frances Anne had flung at him disappeared. This was why she’d come to Mama Mello’s.

“I wanted to thank you for last night but I didn’t know your number or address.”

“So you hauled it all the way here to give me this?” he teased. His lips curled sensuously, reminding her of Elvis Presley. That was a huge plus, because she’d always had a thing for the King of Rock and Roll. She’d thought Graceland perfectly decorated. Even the Jungle Room.

Heat flooded into her cheeks. “It wasn’t
that
far. And it’s just a lame note. I was going to leave it, but there was no place to put it and I didn’t have tape, so . . .” She made a little shrug.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept a knowing smile in place.

“Okay, fine. You said you dropped the ball in my court. How in the heck was I supposed to lob it back to you without your digits? This note”—she tapped it—“was my best attempt at a backhand shot. I wanted to see you again.”

Sal slid a finger under the seal and tore the paper open. His lips moved as he read and after a few seconds he looked up. “You have lovely handwriting.”

Rosemary’s blush increased. She felt so stupid giving a guy like him a thank-you note. So, so stupid. Of course, she didn’t know what else she was to do. He’d dropped a possibility in her lap and left without telling her what it meant. “You can thank Mrs. Gunch for that. She went Nazi on us if we didn’t slant our handwriting to the right or make the proper curlicue on our
L
s.”

Sal folded the notecard and slid it in his back pocket. “I get off early today, so I’ll take you up on coffee.”

“Or tea if you’d rather have that.”

“Of course a sweet southern girl like you would bring up tea.” He grinned before leaning toward her and tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Damn, you’re pretty.”

She couldn’t stop her heart from galloping at his words. “I might have meant Long Island iced tea, you know.”

“Pardon my presumptuousness,” he said, tugging the strand of hair. His eyes dropped to her lips, and she could see in the chocolate depths of his gaze that he wanted to kiss her. And God help her, she wanted that more than she wanted anything at that moment. Except maybe world peace. She could bear the sacrifice for world peace only. Everything else was off the table.

“Sal,” a man called from the back of the restaurant. In the shadows beyond Sal’s shoulder Rosemary saw Frances Anne wrapping silverware and vague figures moving around the kitchen. The sound of clinking glasses and the rich scent of Italian red sauce filled the air. “You gotta tend the sauce.”