Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) Page 4

  Her friends had tried to break her loose, unwrap her, but Patsy Reynolds was a force to be reckoned with. Lacy, Jess, and Eden knew if they got too close they could be sucked into the undertow. Instead they used selective civil disobedience, sneaking around the behemoth that was Rosemary’s mother.

  “I’ll be fine, Mama. I’m a grown woman.”

  “I know that. But—”

  “My phone’s dying. Gotta go. Tell Basil I made it and the buildings are really tall.”

  “Rosemary, be careful. Don’t talk to strange me—”

  Rosemary clicked the END button, smiling at the 7 percent battery life. So she didn’t want to hear all the warnings her mother was sure to review for the umpteenth time?

  “I’m free,” she said to Moscow, who’d leaped down from his perch and was currently licking his haunch. He looked up with bright green eyes as if he understood exactly what it was to be coddled and smothered.

  “Meow,” the cat said.

  “Right on, brother,” Rosemary responded, jumping up to plug her phone on the charger.

  With her mother’s cutoff warning ringing in her ears, Rosemary walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower. She felt grungy after her sojourn to find the loft apartment. A hot shower would wash the day away, and then she could think about going out for dinner.

  Rosemary was hungry to experience all New York City had to offer . . . even if the news clippings kept popping into her mind like little cuckoo clocks chiming out warnings. She wasn’t going to sit in the apartment and order takeout when the world lay at her feet. After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

  Well, she could die.

  But was that worse than how she’d been living? At least at her funeral her friends could say that she’d lived for once. Lacy’s words kept floating back to her.

  Stop being scared, Rosemary. Stop treading water. There is a big world out there waiting on you to taste it. See it, bathe in it, breathe it in. And if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for me.

  Lacy had known what her friend needed better than anyone else. Rosemary needed to break out of the mold created for her and find out who she really was . . . even if those experiences bought her bumps and bruises. Life wasn’t made to be lived in the comfort of bubble wrap. Sometimes you had to do something scary. Something bold.

  Like ride the subway. Or have a torrid affair. Or visit that sex museum she’d read about. Or just spend two weeks in a strange, exciting city with only two indifferent cats for company.

  Rosemary was ready to jump in with both feet.

  But first she needed something to eat, and as she stripped and stepped into the full-body shower spray, the image of a sexy smile appeared.

  Maybe she’d start with Italian.

  Sal caught sight of the southern girl out of the corner of his eye when he checked to make sure Kyle wasn’t still flirting with the group of women clumped at the end of the bar.

  She no longer wore a fussy little sundress, but she still looked good as apple pie in a sleeveless silk tank paired with some tight red jeans. She sat alone.

  And that was a tragedy.

  “Pop, I’m taking a break,” he said, untying his apron and jogging toward the small bathroom next to the room where cardboard pizza boxes stacked nearly to the ceiling. She’d come back. Her maybe had turned into definitely.

  “You just took a beer break an hour ago,” his father called.

  Busted.

  “I only had one,” Sal said, sticking his head out and meeting his father’s gaze. Gus, who’d been slicing strips of dough, laughed beneath his handlebar mustache. The rest of the staff pretended they were busy. Donnie and Sal usually worked well together, but when they butted heads, no one wanted to be within firing range.

  His father tapped his nose. “This nose can smell a dog shitting a mile away.”

  “That’s really disgusting, Pop,” Sal said.

  “Eh, but it’s true,” his father said, jerking his head toward the dining room. “And I saw that pretty gal sitting by herself. I know my Sal. You ain’t supposed to be shopping around no more.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says that gal your ma found for you. That can be a done deal when you say the word.”

  A done deal. Like he was buying a house. Sal shrugged a shoulder. “Who said Angelina was a done deal? We’re not even technically going out.”

  “Yeah, tell yourself that, but that woman has already named your bambinos. She’s like your mother, and that ain’t a bad thing, Sal. That gal knows your world, unlike that other one. This one would be good for you.”

  “You, too, Pop? You gonna be like Ma and try and decide my life?” Sal ducked back in the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He felt like he wore his shoes on the wrong feet. Maybe talking to the pretty girl out front was merely an excuse to pull away from the direction his life was heading. Or maybe her coming back was fate. Or maybe he didn’t know anything anymore . . . except he needed something more than what he had now.

  He had to stop the slide toward something he didn’t want. Dig his heels in fast, or it would be too late. He’d end up like his brothers, locked into life. He knew Dom and Vincent were happy most of the time. Dom’s wife wasn’t as controlling as his brother made her out to be. Dom liked his life simple—run the Brooklyn restaurant and go home to the little wife. Nothing wrong with that world. Sal just didn’t know if it was the world he wanted . . . if it was the world he ever wanted.

  Sal smiled, double-checking his teeth. No pepper or oregano lurking. He huffed into his hand and sniffed. Thankfully he’d stayed away from garlic today. He dug a mint out of his pocket and tugged a piece of dark hair out of his eyes. He looked good even with the nose Frankie Pasco had broken during senior year. He’d been working out harder and his arms looked bigger, his stomach tighter, and he felt good from all the water he’d been guzzling lately. He narrowed his eyes. What did the southern chick see when she looked at him?

  He hoped she saw a guy who wanted to be something more than what he’d presented to the world thus far. At one time he’d believed in himself. He’d had a plan, a future he’d chosen to blaze on his own. But then Hillary had wiped it away, the way he wiped the daily special from the placard out front each morning. Somewhere inside, he was there, beneath all the expectations everyone heaped on top of him. He wanted Rosemary to see the real Sal, the Sal who wasn’t just another Genovese.

  He shook his head. What was he doing? Talking to a chick was just talking. No big deal.

  He popped the mint in his mouth and slipped out of the bathroom, twirling his baby sister Brittany around when she tried to pass him, leaving her with a grin.

  Rosemary sat alone near one of the columns his mother had painted to look like marble. A half-eaten salad sat near her elbow and she looked like she was checking her Facebook status or scrolling down a Twitter feed on her phone.

  He pulled out the chair across from her and sank down. “You order the meatballs?”

  She dropped the phone, one hand going up to clutch her chest. “Oh God, you scared me to death.”

  Sal grinned. “Sorry. I thought you looked too good to sit here alone.”

  “Do I look that pathetic?” she asked, her nose wrinkling adorably as she placed the phone near her elbow.

  Rosemary’s brownish-red hair had been swept back in a ponytail, but her face was framed by bangs. He knew what bangs were and who could wear them from growing up with sisters. Rosemary wore hers well, reminding him of Emma Stone with the same smattering of freckles, soft lips, and rounded face. Her gray eyes weren’t of the stormy variety, more clear and intelligent, and he wondered how they looked when she laughed . . . when she was pissed . . . when she made love.

  And he knew he wanted to see all those things in those gray depths.

  Damn. The vibe he’d felt earlier when she flirted with him outside the restaurant was back. Not some figment of his imagination, but real. Something pulled them toward each other. Had nothing
to do with being attracted to the wrong kind of girls . . . or the fact he was running scared from the woman his mother had handpicked for him. Or maybe it did. At the moment he didn’t care.

  “I don’t think anyone could attach the term pathetic to you,” he said, picking up a roll from the bread basket and ripping off a piece.

  “Are you joining me . . . or feeding me lines you’ve practiced on a dozen other dumb tourists?”

  Sal placed a hand over his chest and mimicked outrage. “You think I’d treat you like any other tourist? Please.”

  Rosemary grinned. “I think you see opportunity.”

  “Yeah?”

  “To talk me into spending an obscene amount of money on this delicious food. God, it’s so good.”

  He glanced down at the half-finished salad and hooked an eyebrow.

  “So I’m not a salad girl,” she said.

  And that’s when he knew this girl was the kind of girl he needed at that moment. She didn’t waste time on salads. Didn’t wear low-cut shirts that showed her tits. Didn’t play with a guy. Honesty was like an aphrodisiac to him. That and the sensual base of her throat that had to smell like—he sniffed—lavender? “I could tell this about you. You don’t dillydally with useless stuff, do you?”

  “Dillydally?” She choked down a laugh but her eyes danced. “You sound like my gram.”

  He almost blushed. “Eh, my grandmother likes that term, too.”

  “Of course I got the meatballs. They came highly recommended,” she said, lifting her wineglass, which had pink stuff in it.

  “What are you drinking?”

  “White zinfandel.”

  He tried not to make a face. “You need a good red.”

  Rosemary’s cheeks pinked. “I know, but I like this wine. It’s sweet.”

  She was so not Italian. “Okay, Mississippi girl, what brings you to our bright, noisy city . . . by yourself?”

  Rosemary leaned back. “My mother told me—”

  “We’re not strangers anymore. Remember? I’m Sal. You’re Rosemary. We’re old friends.”

  “For all of two hours,” she said, waving Kyle away when he approached with a fresh bread basket.

  At that moment, old man Weingarten rose from his regular table and ambled over with the assistance of his ivory-handled cane. “This schmuck giving you the what for, Rosemary?”

  Sal made a face at the old man, wondering how he’d already managed to hit on Rosemary. The old man didn’t miss any opportunities but usually he’d lay off the tourists.

  Elijah Weingarten had been dining at Mama Mello’s three times a week ever since his wife had passed away. The elderly pipe fitter ordered the same pesto linguini every meal before practicing his rather ancient moves on any ladies under the age of eighty. He never let his stooped posture, caterpillar eyebrows, and untrimmed whiskers deter him from even the youngest of patrons. Both of Sal’s sisters knew to be quick in setting down Mr. Weingarten’s plate and to give wide berth around his wandering hands.

  Rosemary gave Mr. Weingarten a sugarcoated smile. “Well, look at you, Mr. Eli, being so sweet and protective of me.”

  “Actually Rosemary and I are old friends,” Sal said.

  “Yes. Very old friends,” she said, patting the older gentleman on the arm. “Mr. Eli was so sweet to invite me to join him for dinner, but he was already finished. And everyone says New Yorkers aren’t friendly.”

  “He’s friendly, all right,” Sal said, trying to maintain a straight face.

  “If you’re sure you’re okay, my dear,” the older man said, his beady black eyes fastened on Rosemary, his gnarled hand lifting her hand and cradling it. “A girl such as you can’t be too careful. I wouldn’t trust Sal with my cousin Ethel, and she’s a vegetable in the nursing home.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about your cousin, but I can handle Sal.”

  “Guten abend, beautiful.” He lifted her hand to his lips, lingering a second too long before moving at a turtle’s pace toward the door.

  Rosemary looked at her hand and then sheepishly wiped it on her napkin.

  “Oh, you can handle me, huh?” Sal teased.

  Rosemary arched her brows comically. “Well, I couldn’t have the old guy trying to defend my honor.” She rose and dropped her napkin beside her plate.

  “Where you going?”

  “Someone needs to help that sweet old gentleman to his cab,” she said, her gaze following old man Weingarten’s progress. He’d not even made it halfway to the door.

  “I don’t think you want to do that,” he said.

  “Where I live we see our elderly out the door and make sure they get home safely.” She didn’t exactly frown when she imparted that tidbit of information, but she looked a bit self-righteous. Like only southerners had manners.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  “I always do,” she said with a quasi-smile that made him think perhaps she rarely suited herself. A woman who would leave bad wine, delicious food, and a man who had all his shiny teeth to escort an old rascal who probably hadn’t seen his real pearly whites in over three decades to his cab probably rarely thought only of herself.

  So she definitely wasn’t like Hillary.

  He watched Rosemary hurry to catch up with Mr. Weingarten before rising. The poor woman didn’t know what she’d gotten herself into. Eli had once cornered Brittany and copped a feel before Big Donnie had come out and threatened to toss him out the door. Eli hadn’t accosted anyone since, but the gleam in his dark eyes at the attention paid to him by southern belle served as a harbinger.

  Sal watched Rosemary take Mr. Weingarten’s arm as he crossed the threshold. The old devil pretended to stumble and wrapped a steadying arm about Rosemary’s trim waist.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Jeez,” Sal muttered under his breath, shooting a grin at Kyle, who stood with Rosemary’s meatballs and Italian gravy.

  Kyle shook his head. “Want me to save her from the octopus?”

  “I got it,” Sal said, following them out, grinning when he saw Mr. Weingarten’s hand slide south toward a very appetizing derriere.

  Rosemary quickly reached around and tugged his hand up. “Here we go.”

  “You’re such a nice girl,” Mr. Weingarten said, sliding his hand back down and giving her a pat on her backside.

  Rosemary spun and caught the older man’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure my father would appreciate your kind words on my upbringing.”

  Nicely played. Not only had she prevented old Weingarten from copping a cheap feel, but she’d brought her father into the equation. Mr. Weingarten looked frustrated if not slightly guilty as he stared at the cab.

  “You have a good evening, Mr. Eli. I have those meatballs waiting,” she said, opening the door for the older man, careful to sidestep another roving hand.

  Nothing for Weingarten to do but climb inside and accept defeat. Rosemary closed the door and gave the older man a cheerful wave as the cab pulled away from the curb. She squeaked as another car roared into the spot, nearly falling back over the curb. Sal clasped her elbows, preventing her from stumbling any farther.

  “Whoops,” she said, regaining her balance.

  He didn’t want to pull away. He’d been dying to touch her again, but he dropped his hands from her smooth skin because she’d spent the past few minutes dodging the advances of an old dude. No need to creep her out.

  Rosemary brushed her bangs out of her face.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, moving back toward the restaurant. Twilight softened the garishness of Mulberry Street, making Little Italy look softer in the glow of the moon. Rosemary turned to him and gave him a crooked grin that made his insides gelatinous. “You totally knew he was going to feel me up.”

  “Yeah, he’s all hands,” Sal said, opening the door for her, proving that southern dudes didn’t have anything on a guy from Brooklyn. “But I was going to make sure it didn’t get out of control.”
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br />   “A knight in shining armor?”

  “Only if I were still wearing my apron and carrying a spatula. You don’t want to know how I can mess a guy up with a spatula.”

  Rosemary laughed and he reveled in those gray eyes shining with delight. Sal had accomplished the first of the things he wanted to see in her eyes. But there were more . . . and something compelled him to say, “Let’s go dancing.”

  Rosemary’s eyes widened. “Dancing?”

  “I know this place on a rooftop where you can dance to Sinatra and Bennett. Let’s go tonight.”

  “Together?” she asked, her face puzzled.

  Asking her out had been simmering on the back burner of his mind all evening. And why not? He might never lay eyes on Rosemary again. So he couldn’t let her go on her way without spending a little more time with her. “We could go separately and meet there, but we might as well walk over together.”

  “You know what I mean. You want to go with me? Dancing?”

  “I’d be willing to bet you my grandma’s Italian gravy recipe you’re the perfect girl to take dancing.”

  She looked at him as if he were deranged.

  Part of him wanted to rewind and snatch the offer off the table, because it was crazy, but something stronger inside pushed him toward this girl who’d come back to try the meatballs, this girl who’d wryly admitted to having sweaty hands, this girl who knew how to sidestep an old lecher’s hands while still smiling sweetly. Hell, maybe he was crazy. Or maybe it was the way she twisted the pearls at her neck. Most probably it was those blessed eyes that showed her every thought.

  He could get lost in those eyes while dancing at the Morey Hotel beneath the twinkling sky.

  “But I don’t know you,” she said, looking skittish. “Not really. My mo—” She snapped her mouth shut.

  “You know me. I’m Sal. You’re Rosemary. And I’m asking you to dance with me. Nothing more.”

  Her gaze shifted, softening, and it was as if she slipped somewhere else in her thoughts. Swallowing, she looked back at him. Determined. “Dancing sounds like a great way to meet New York City. Am I dressed nice enough for it?”

  “You’re dressed perfectly.” He waved her inside the restaurant he worked in nearly every day of every week, the family business he was expected to expand like his brother had in Brooklyn. “Now you go try my grandmother’s meatballs and gravy while I finish up. Can’t leave my pops shorthanded.”