Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (9 page)

“Oh damn.” Sal slapped his hands together. “I gotta go, but I’ll call you later. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He started toward the back, jabbing a finger. “Don’t go finding anything better to do than me.”

She laughed. “Is that an offer?”

“You better believe it is,” he said, teeth flashing a grin as someone yelled his name again. He hollered back, “Hey, I’m coming!”

“Is that an offer, too?” Rosemary called.

Sal stopped, put a hand over his heart, and closed his eyes. “Ah, a girl after my own heart.”

And then he gave her a devilish smile before ducking into the kitchen, leaving her with only a nosy, disapproving sister who stared at Rosemary with a wrinkly V between her eyes.

Lord love a duck, Rosemary had pretty much propositioned Sal in front of his sister . . . after the woman had implied she was a slut. So much for vellum and monograms. She’d gone from a polite thank-you note with an invitation for coffee straight to orgasm. But that’s what this man did to her—he unwrapped the person she’d always been beneath the Ralph Lauren dresses and subdued makeup. Sal brought out the saucy Rosemary she’d been before she’d moved back home from college. The woman she’d always wanted to be but never allowed herself.

And why was that?

Because she couldn’t be herself in Morning Glory? Perhaps when she returned after college and opened her shop, it had been easier to be what everyone expected her to be . . . what her mother had expected her to be. With Patsy shadowing her every move, she’d accepted the fact she’d wear tasteful clothing, shop at certain places, always write a thank-you note, and chair important events. She’d never smoke, get a tattoo, drink before five o’clock, or date a man who didn’t have a good family name. The only rebellion Rosemary had shown since moving back to Morning Glory was clinging to her friends, a few of whom Patsy did not approve.

Obviously when she packed for NYC, she’d found her long-lost courage and zest for being bold hidden in the liner of her suitcase.

So Rosemary was seizing the effing day like a boss. Yeah, she said
like a boss
, a phrase she’d never, ever used before. All these firsts put a spring in her step. “I’ll let myself out,” Rosemary called to Sal’s sister, enjoying the double entendre.

Frances Anne merely nodded, still looking cranky. Rosemary had no clue why Frances Anne acted disapproving. Maybe Italian families were like that, though she’d put her own French Creole/Scottish/Cherokee family up against anyone on the protective spectrum. No one could beat Patsy Reynolds when it came to being a mama bear.

No one.

Ever.

Rosemary pushed out the door into the late-morning sunshine. Around her the city moved like a breathing thing, well-oiled and on schedule. Traffic lights blinked, people strode with purpose, and doors opened and closed like the ticking of a clock. Gone were words like
mosey
and
lollygag
. Absent were the lazy stroll and daydream. Mississippi seemed fathoms upon fathoms away.

She slid on a pair of sunglasses that covered half her face and started walking toward Midtown.

Today she’d be a tourist.

And tonight she’d be Sal’s girl.

Chapter Seven

Sal stared at Angelina.

She stared back.

It was a stare-off of epic proportions with his life hanging in the balance.

Okay, so his life wasn’t really hanging in the balance. More like one more toe into a pool he didn’t wish to swim in. Or maybe he felt more like he stood on a precipice, balancing on uncertainty, ground shifting beneath him.

And right now he wasn’t letting go so he could jump toward Angelina.

No frickin’ way.

Not yet.

So he stood, toes gripping hard, refusing to tip forward.

Finally, Angelina tossed her dark hair over a shoulder and sighed. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not interested.”

“Who’s not interested in Maroon 5? That’s sacrilege.” She pouted pretty lips and crossed her thin arms.

“Color me sacrilegious.”

“But I already asked your father if you could have the day off,” she said, running a long polished nail along the edge of the bar. Around them the early dinner crowd chatted, glasses clinked, gray heads bobbed. A few young guys, shirtsleeves rolled after a long day, analyzed Yankees stats at the other end of the bar.

“I’m sorry, Angelina. I’m not interested in going to the concert with you, but I appreciate you inviting me first,” he said, wiping his hands on a bar towel while checking out his watch. Nearly five thirty. His shift had ended an hour ago, and he champed at the bit to get out the door. Rosemary said she’d meet him at the Empire State Building at six o’clock. But first he had to get rid of Angelina.

“How do you know you were first?” Angelina quipped.

Sal shrugged. “Guess I don’t.”

“Of course you were first,” she said, brushing his arm with her long nails. She cast a look at the Wall Street guys, noting their interest. “Your mother said you liked them. I paid a lot for the tickets.”

“See, that’s the problem. You’re relying on my mother. She wouldn’t know Adam Levine if he walked up and kissed her on the mouth.”

“Well, I sure the hell would,” she laughed, with another slide of her eyes toward the guys watching her. “You know, I’d know what you liked more if you would open up. I thought we had something, you know?”

“Look, Angelina, you know I have a lot of respect for you and the friendship between our families, but I’m not sure you got the right idea.”

“What idea did I not get when your tongue was down my throat? Don’t act like you didn’t like it. I know what a turned-on guy feels like, Sal.”

“I’m a guy and you’re a beautiful woman, but this isn’t about attraction, Angie.”

Her brow lowered and her mouth flattened. “What is it then?”

He didn’t know. Wasn’t like he could tell her about Rosemary, because Rosemary wasn’t going to be around next week. Or maybe she was. He wasn’t sure. But he knew Rosemary was temporary. Would there be another girl like her down the road? Or was this a onetime ships-passing-in-the-night sort of thing? After Rosemary left and he faced his inevitable future, he might find Angelina to be part of it. Maybe when he signed the contract his father had attorneys drawing up regarding Mama Mello’s deli, he’d succumb to Angelina, too. Just marry her, go to work every day, and accept his lot in life. Go the easy way. “How about we work on being friends?”

“Are you joking?” her voice rose. A few diners paused mid-bite and craned their heads.

“Shh,” he said, pressing his hands in the air.

“Don’t you shush me, Salvatore Genovese. I’ve been doing all the work here and you’ve been leading me on a merry chase, but I’m getting sick and tired of running after you,” she said, folding her arms across generous breasts he happened to know she still made payments on.

“Look, Angie, I’m not leading you anywhere. I’m trying to be up front with you. I’m not sure we’re in the same place.”

Her dark eyes flashed hot enough to melt paint off the walls before she blinked it away, donning a smile. Then she lifted a finger to his chin and tipped it up. “We’ll see about that, Sal. There’s one thing I always get, and that’s the man I want. I know who you are and what you need. And your family wants what I want—a man who’ll grow up and stop playing at being a petulant boy.”

She dropped her finger and stepped around him, following the bar down to the three suits who had eyed her earlier. Sliding onto a stool, she tossed back her long hair. “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?”

“Look as good as you,” one of the men said, smiling like an alligator as he slid onto the stool next to her.

Angelina tossed Sal a triumphant look. “Well, I suppose I’m going to get that drink, aren’t I?” She turned her attention back to the businessman, leaning forward so he received a view to her belly button before trailing her fingers along his wrist, tapping the expensive-looking watch. Making her point.

It was a point Sal didn’t care about. He had a date with a woman who made him feel like he wasn’t a shell of a man.

Saying nothing more to Angelina, he pulled his apron overhead, weaving through the diners, heading to the back. “I’m outta here, Pops,” he said to his father, who sat in the office, tapping at a calculator.

“Oh, you got plans or something? I saw your girl out there,” his father said, lifting his head and squinting at Sal through his readers.

“She’s not my girl, and I don’t have plans with her.”

His father made a face. “Don’t tell me you’re still chasing that southern piece of ass?”

“Really, Pop?”

Donnie shrugged. “I’m not saying she’s a loose girl, Sally. I’m just saying. What’s wrong with Angelina? She’s a good girl.”

“Oh yeah? Right now your good girl’s out there showing those suits from Barney’s her tits and angling for free drinks. It’s my punishment for not being into her. Thing is, Pop, I don’t give a good goddamn what she does, because I’m not ready for that kind of trouble.”

“Eh,” his father said, shaking his head. “Your sister said something earlier. She’s right. That girl you’re chasin’ in her pearls and fancy purse ain’t your speed. You tried that and spent four months moping around acting like you was dying or something. You want things you can’t have ’cause you’re not made for them. It’s that square peg and round hole thing.”

“You give me the same ol’ song and dance every time, Pop. You should get a record.”

“I should, ’cause I can see the painting on the wall.”

“You mean the writing,” Sal said, shaking his head. He didn’t understand why his pop and the rest of his family wanted to trim his wings. This wasn’t what a family was supposed to do. They were supposed to cheer you on when you jumped from the nest.

“Whichever. All I know is you are who you are. Just like I was who I was. What’s wrong with that?”

Sal didn’t want to have this conversation. Again. For his parents, life began and ended in the five boroughs. They never saw life beyond . . . except on television. To them everything outside NYC was a vacation spot, not a place to live. Their sense of belonging to Mama Mello’s and the several miles’ radius around the restaurant was profound. The thought of any of their kids moving away from their world was beyond them. So telling his pop he didn’t feel the same way was banging his head on a cinder block. Nothing moved, and it gave him a helluva headache.

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong with what you believe.” And Sal meant that, but he wasn’t sure he believed it for himself. “I’m out.”

His father waved a tired hand. “Do what you must, Sally. Do what you must.”

So he did. Hurrying from the restaurant, Sal jogged to the subway, swiped his MetroCard, and slid into the train just as the doors shut. Ten minutes later he emerged with a crush of people into the blinding late-afternoon sun. Five minutes later he stood on the block of one of the most iconic American landmarks.

He hadn’t been in the Empire State Building since his great-aunt Lena had come down from Boston to visit when he was in high school. They’d stood in line to pay what his father considered the price of a kidney to ride the elevator to the viewing deck. He remembered his parents getting into an argument over his pop being so cheap. Aunt Lena had stomped to the counter, plopped down money, and said, “For Christ’s sake, Donnie, shut your piehole and get in the damn elevator. I’m too old to wait another forty years to do this.”

The incident still lived in the memory of the Genovese children, who loved to mimic their eccentric late aunt who didn’t take crap off her grumbly nephew. Big Donnie wasn’t too fond of the ribbing, but he’d managed a smile in honor of the woman who’d paid for him to go to business school.

Sal sidestepped a gaggle of tourists holding a map and waved away the man who sold some kind of ride experience at an IMAX and parked himself beside the heavy doors of the building. He waited for nearly ten minutes, watching interesting and not-so-interesting people stroll by.

Then he saw Rosemary.

She looked like a tourist, carrying a brown paper shopping bag, glancing about her as if she’d stepped off a spacecraft onto Mars. She looked down at her phone and then squinted at the street signs. Someone jostled her and she gave an apologetic smile to the creep, who didn’t even bother to excuse his rudeness.

Rosemary licked her lips, and then her gaze met his.

Her smile made his heart thump.

Damn. Such power in that smile.

Waving, she moved toward him. The light turned red and she kept coming. His face must have portrayed alarm because she paused. A taxi hurtled across the intersection, and Rosemary leaped back just as the bumper cleared his range of vision.

Her face registered shock and then embarrassment, almost matching the exact shade of pink in her bright dress. Her hand rose to clasp her pearls, a nervous habit he’d noticed. A group of college-age kids next to her noted the near miss. One girl reached out and patted her shoulder, giving her no doubt comforting words. Rosemary’s response was something no New Yorker would ever do—she hugged the stranger.

Her actions reminded him how different she was from any other girl he’d ever dated.

Had his dad and sister been right? Was he always chasing a woman he couldn’t have, setting himself up for heartbreak as some sort of self-flagellation? And if that was true, why in the hell would he want to do something like that?

The light changed, and Rosemary set her pace to match the crowd’s.

“Hey,” he said when she reached him. “Glad you’re still here. We almost got to play
An Affair to Remember
.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“We don’t have to worry about cabs in Morning Glory.” Fresh roses bloomed in her cheeks. “And you know that movie?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never watched it. I watched
Sleepless in Seattle
.”

“Is that why you chose to meet at the Empire State Building?” she asked, stepping closer to him so the streaming crowd could flow around her.

“Why? You want to be my Meg Ryan?”

Rosemary grinned. “Only if you’re my Tom Hanks.”

“I’m much better-looking than Tom Hanks,” he joked.

“But not nearly as humble,” she teased.

“True,” he said, tilting his head toward the entrance. “You want to go up and pretend to meet at the top?”

“Yeah,” she said, adjusting the bag she carried. “Is it true that if you spit off the building the velocity could make your saliva a weapon and kill someone?”

“I don’t know. Let’s try it. Look around and pick someone you want to take out,” he said, stepping back so she could enter first.

“That can’t be true, can it?” she said, laughing.

“No. Some kid made that up. But I thought it was a penny,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

“You don’t have to pay for me,” she said, before pointing to the sign that contained the rules for going to the observation deck. “And we aren’t allowed to throw anything.”

“Darn. I was set on showing off my spitting abilities,” he joked, pulling several twenties from his wallet. “And this is my treat. I picked the place.”

She gave a lift of her shoulders. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he said, stepping into a queue. “Looks long.”

“I’m game if you are. I have nothing better to do than—”

“Me?” he finished for her.

“You were waiting for that, weren’t you?” she said.

“I like to watch you turn red. Besides, it was either that or waiting to use an innuendo when you said you were coming,” he said, curling an arm around her waist, enjoying the way she felt beside him. Last night hadn’t been an anomaly. The teasing banter and long looks between them made him happy. How long had it been since he’d truly felt happy?

Easy answer—last night.

“You’re a dirty boy,” she said, laughter in her voice.

“Damn straight. I figured that’s why you agreed to go out with me in the first place. Every flower needs dirt.”

“You calling me a flower? ’Cause I’m an herb.”

He looked down at her. “Huh?”

“Rosemary’s an herb. My brother’s name is Basil.”

He moved them forward. “Your parents sound interesting.”

“Not really. My dad has a strange sense of humor. He had a friend who died in Vietnam and insisted they name my brother after him. Then when my mother had my sister, he suggested Sage. Said herb names were trippy—his words, not mine. Now he’s just an old goat who putters about the grounds helping my mother with her gardens. They have a huge antebellum home surrounded by heritage roses that daffy old ladies across the South pay to see on church trips.”