Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (10 page)

“People pay to see your parents’ house?”

“It’s on the historic register. Living in an old house is all I’ve ever known.”

“So, like, there are tours through your house and stuff?”

“Not so much the house as the grounds, though we do serve high tea in the parlor.” She waved her hand. “It’s an experience type of thing.”

An image of the grand old South like he’d seen on Turner Classic Movies paraded through his mind. He saw an older woman in a hoop skirt with Rosemary standing next to her holding a teapot and wearing those damn pearls. “Do you work there, too?”

“Not anymore. When I was in high school, my friends and I gave tours and helped with serving tea. I own my own shop, remember?” she said, wiggling a finger at a small girl who sucked on her thumb and clung to her mother’s bare legs in the line next to them. “That’s what these are for.” She opened her shopping bag and tugged out a faded pillowcase. Little satin flowers dotted the edge.

“You sell pillowcases?” he asked.

“No, but I use them along with other vintage fabrics to make decorative pillows. I love taking fabrics and trimmings and piecing them together to make something new. Old lace and embroidery are perfect for shabby-chic pieces. There’s something so soft and timeless about things from the past,” she said, stroking a hand across the pillowcase before tucking it back into her bag. He noticed at that moment how different her hands were from Angelina’s. Angie had long fingers with viperous nails, but Rosemary’s slender fingers and short, rounded nails seemed elegant.

He imagined Rosemary’s hands on him, hesitant but eager. She’d not be as practiced as some women, but she’d be passionate. Like an enigma—untouchable, yet at the same time so approachable. Ageless, timeless . . . beauty and elegance. She was a Rod Stewart song, and he wanted her so much he could hardly stop himself from tossing her over his shoulder and sprinting for the nearest exit.

Instead, he said, “I can see you love what you do.”

“That’s why I was excited about coming to New York. Y’all have a plethora of vintage thrift shops. I order online, but nothing is better than putting your hands on the fabric and seeing the colors.”

They purchased the tickets and waited for the elevator.

“So tell me about your family. Your sister was . . . interesting,” Rosemary said, making a silly face at the toddler who’d been flirting with her the entire time they stood in the queue.

“Sorry about her attitude. Frannie is the hard one to deal with,” he said.

“Every family has one. Ours is Baz. He’s special needs.”

Sal didn’t want to talk about his family. Or hers. Somehow it poked the bubble of happiness he’d conjured around them. They had a connection and he was unwilling to let it be broken by the reality check of his family. “That’s hard, I’m sure, but if it’s okay with you, I don’t want to talk about my family. They’ve been difficult lately.”

Rosemary nodded. “Preaching to the choir. This little vacation is my break from reality.”

He nudged her toward the elevator that opened. “Is that what this is? A break from reality?”

Rosemary stepped into the elevator and held out her hand as if asking him to take a journey with her. “Isn’t that what it is for you, too?”

The question seemed rhetorical . . . or more like a statement of what this was between them. This wasn’t about building toward something. It was about being in the now.

He took her hand and stepped into the elevator beside her. Others crowded in and the attendant clad in a smart uniform said, “Everyone ready for the experience of a lifetime?”

His gaze met Rosemary’s, and something profound moved.

“I’m ready,” Rosemary said, her gaze moving toward the cheerful attendant.

“Me, too,” Sal said.

The Empire State Building had over a hundred stories, with two observation decks, and Rosemary planned on going to the tip-top, but after ten seconds on the lower observation deck, she decided eighty-six floors was high enough.

The wind blew her hair into her face as she clasped the railing and wagged her head, taking in the sight of half of Manhattan laid out below her. Sal placed a hand on the small of her back, making her feel both protected and excited at the same time. “Look over there.”

She followed the line of his finger with her gaze.

“Brooklyn. See, there’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Oh, I’ve seen it in so many movies,” she said, noting it seemed so romantic . . . even from hundreds of feet in the air. “Where’s Central Park?”

He tugged her elbow and took her to the other side.

“I always wanted to ride in one of those carriages,” she said, smiling at the huge green space in the middle of the concrete jungle.

“Then we’ll do it,” he said.

Rosemary couldn’t believe she stood here at the top of the world with a sexy man promising to take her on a carriage ride. She almost pinched herself but decided she’d forgo looking like a fruit loop.

A week ago she’d feared going to the city alone. She’d begged Eden to take a much-needed vacation and come up for at least a few days, but with her mother being ill and having taken off a week when Lacy passed away, she couldn’t get away. Jess’s finances were stretched after the divorce, and she was in the middle of looking for a better job. She’d contemplated asking her older next-door neighbor, Mimi, but knew it would be a burr under her mother’s saddle. Yet, today, she’d had a wonderful time alone.

Alone.

Not something Rosemary was unaccustomed to being. Even though she lived in the carriage house in back of her parents’ estate, she was seldom by herself. Her parents’ plantation home was a busy place nearly every month of the year thanks to her mother’s creative horticulture displays and themed teas. And when people weren’t poking about the grounds of Meadowlark, her parents had a constant influx of neighbors and friends who came for coffee, cocktails, and gossip. Not to mention her fabric shop was situated on Morning Glory’s town square, which meant a constant coming and going of friends, relatives, and customers.

So wandering around Manhattan, poking into small shops and riffling through thrift stores had been exactly what she needed. No one poked his nose into her business suggesting she eat lunch because it wasn’t good for her to go so long without food. No one suggested she buy shoes that were sensible. No one pointed out the right way to fold a pair of pants when she’d tried some on at a boutique. Her mother’s nagging voice had faded away under the bustle now sprawled out beneath her feet.

“I had forgotten how cool it was to see the city this way,” Sal said, his hand stroking her back ever so lightly.

“It’s almost too much to take in,” she said, noting the way the fading sun turned everything a softer gold.

She felt his whiskers catch her hair and so she turned to him.

People moved all around them, laughing, pointing, complaining about someone taking too long at the binocular things that dotted the perimeter. Yet it all went away when she looked up at Sal.

His thick hair rippled at the tips like grasses waving in a pasture, which was a not-so-romantic image, but dang if the man didn’t make her heart go thumpety-thump and her palms itch to run her fingers through those inky locks. And his mouth. Oh man, was it a study in sensuality. Dramatic arch on the top and just a hint of plumpness on the lower. His jaw was angular and a small crevice graced his chin. Total bedroom eyes beneath dark slashing eyebrows. If he had been wearing a white linen shirt, a riding coat, and breeches, she might have thought him her own Mr. Darcy. As it was, she’d take him for her own Sal Genovese.

At that moment he was looking at her lips like a starving man eyes a T-bone steak. Again, not romantic. But true. Totally true.

“You’re so pretty, Rosemary.”

“And you have such pretty words,” she said, her voice growing soft. She lifted her hand to touch his white shirt, to draw a finger along the seam at his shoulder, to feel the warmth of him.

“Only the truth,” he said, tilting her chin to redirect her attention back to his gaze.

Then he kissed her.

If kisses were food, this one would be a slice of Italian cream cake—sweet, substantial, and layered with promise.

She let her lips soften against his and kept her eyes open, because she wanted to recall this moment for the rest of her life. The way she felt atop the iconic building, kissing a man who made her heart drum, her toes curl in her sandals, and her stomach flood with warmth. If ever a moment needed capturing, it was this one.

Sal broke the kiss and said, “Wow.”

Rosemary giggled.

“What?” he asked, smiling at her.

“I had been trying to think of a word to describe how I felt this very moment and I think ‘wow’ is really the only way.”

“Yeah, that’s all I had, too,” he said, stepping back, keeping his arm curled around her waist.

Sliding her hand underneath, she wrapped her arm around his waist so they stood facing the northeast, the glow of the sinking sun warm on their shoulders. With her hair tickling her shoulders, Sal’s warm presence beside her, and a new world spread before her, the moment stilled. Life rarely slowed down enough for a person to think,
This is the stuff that makes life worthwhile
, but at that precise second, Rosemary knew the profundity of being right where she was.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” someone said.

Rosemary turned to find a harried-looking woman clutching the hand of a boy. “Yes?”

“Would you mind taking a picture of us?” The woman held out a phone.

Moment over.

“Sure,” Rosemary said, taking the phone from her and stepping back. Sal didn’t seem to want to let go, but he did.

“Thank you so much,” the woman said, tugging her kid to her and demanding that he “smile big.” The boy managed a cheesy grin, and Rosemary clicked several for them.

The woman took the phone, tapping to make sure the pics were good enough, and then said, “I’ll be happy to take one for you.”

Rosemary glanced at Sal.

“Sure,” he said, digging his phone out of his back pocket.

He and Rosemary angled so the city lay behind them. He wrapped his arm around her and they tilted their heads together. Right when the woman took the pic, Sal looked down at her, grinning like a naughty boy. She jabbed him in the ribs, and he straightened for the second one, giving the camera his smile.

“Wow, y’all are a gorgeous couple,” the woman said, handing the phone back to Sal.

“Oh, she’s my sister,” Sal said, pointing to Rosemary.

The woman’s eyes popped. “But I saw you kissing.”

“We’re from Mississippi,” Sal said, looking dead serious.

Rosemary pinched him.

“Yeow,” he yipped, twisting away, laughing like a lunatic.

Rosemary looked at the woman. “He’s joking. I’m from Mississippi, where we
do not
kiss our siblings like that.” She gave Sal a withering look, her lips twitching despite her fussing.

The woman laughed; the kid stuck his tongue out. “Well, thanks for the picture. Come on, Joshua. Are you sticking your tongue out? Cut that out. You know . . .” She wandered away, sounding like every mother of an eight-year-old boy, and Rosemary turned to Sal, crossing her arms. “Very funny.”

“I thought so.” He grinned and pulled her back into his arms, dropping a kiss on her nose. “Let’s go grab some grub, southern belle. I’m starving.”

“I’m not a southern belle,” she protested.

“Oh, baby, you are, and let me just say, I totally dig it.” He lifted her pearls and then pressed a soft kiss against her lips. “I’m seriously digging it. Never knew I had a thing for
y’all
.”

Chapter Eight

Sal took her to one of his favorite places in the Flatiron District. Eataly was one of those hybrid places that was both marketplace and restaurant, serving products both from Italy and from the farms surrounding the city. The food was fresh, creative, and a bit trendy for his tastes, but fantastic. He purchased some of his favorite olive oils here, and the Italian coffee was the best in the city.

“Oh my gosh, I love this place,” Rosemary said, dipping her focaccia into the red pepper oil before plucking another piece of prosciutto from his plate. “It’s so modern and traditional at the same time.”

“I knew you’d like it. And they have a bottle shop around the corner. We can grab some wine for later.”

She hooked an eyebrow, popping the last of the bread into her mouth. True to form, she’d skipped the salads in favor of the meats and cheeses, further proof she was absolutely what he looked for in a woman. “Where are we going later?”

He wanted to say, “Back to your place,” but she might not be ready for that. Still, the knowledge Rosemary would only be in Manhattan for another two weeks knocked on the door of his mind. If they both wanted each other, which he assumed they did, they’d have to settle for a microwave relationship rather than the oven.

A crappy way to start.

But better than not starting at all. He wasn’t willing to walk away from her at this point. Despite the misgivings expressed by those closest to him, despite the fact he and Rosemary were worlds apart, he couldn’t run from the way she made him feel. Like an addict, he edged ever closer to that feeling he’d vowed never to chase again. When he’d jumped into love with Hillary, he’d not looked to see where he might land. Recovering from the ensuing splat had made him cautious, but apparently not nearly careful enough. Because the way he felt with Rosemary made him scared, excited, and free all at the same time. “We can go wherever you want. Carriage ride, stroll, drinks, dancing. Name it, Rosemary.”

She picked up the wine he’d suggested. The pinot grigio was slightly sweeter than the dry he preferred but it had a soft finish. Rosemary had smiled her approval when she tasted it. He’d be damned if she ordered sweet tea to pair with the house-made mozzarella served here. Not that he was controlling or anything. Just some things were meant to be done right. “I want to see as much of the city as I can, but honestly, my feet are tired, and I’d love to go somewhere where we can sip wine and talk.”

“There’s a great lounge in this area, which has the twenties art deco feel and old-fashioned cocktails. We can—”

“What about my place? I mean, my cousin’s place?” Rosemary asked.

Something inside surged at the thought but he played it cool. “You sure you don’t want to try the Flatiron Lounge? It’s upscale but we—”

“You don’t want to go back to the loft?” She licked her lips nervously.

And it struck him.

She wasn’t asking him back so much for drinks as for drinks and something else. But was his sweet small town girl ready to get down and dirty in the city? “You sure?”

“Unless you don’t want me that way?” She looked surprised at herself for asking . . . but not regretful.

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve wanted you since I first laid eyes on you,” he said.

And of course her cheeks bloomed. “Okay, but I’ve been thinking all day about something.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“Well, we both said we were looking for something to pull us away from reality for a little while. So I suggest for the next two weeks, we do that. We go where whatever this is between us goes, but when I leave, we’re over.”

“Like a clean break?”

She nodded. “We’re from two different worlds. I’m going home to Mississippi, and your life is here. It will be like summer camp or something. You know—good, sweet, and temporary.”

“You have a contract or something I have to sign?”

Rosemary gave a nervous giggle, but he liked that she wanted parameters. She liked things nice and neat. Probably made her comfortable. “We can call it a verbal agreement. A two-week love affair, mutually beneficial for both parties. We can shake on it.” She put out her hand.

“Hell, no,” he said, leaning forward. “We kiss on it.”

He kissed her, tasting the saltiness of the prosciutto mixed with the sweet grapefruit of the wine. Then he slid off the brushed metal stool parked at the stand-up counter table they’d claimed in the busy restaurant. The white marble and gold art deco surroundings paired with the contemporary metal and large, round lampshade chandeliers made a statement . . . almost as strong as the one Rosemary had made when she had invited him back to her cousin’s place. “Let’s go.”

“What about dessert?” she asked, a twinkle in those gray eyes.

“We’ll grab some chocolates at the pastry bar to have with the wine.” He glanced over to where decadent chocolates and other confections could be purchased.

Rosemary stood and drained the wine left in her glass. “Sounds perfect.”

Fifteen minutes after sampling hazelnut candies and debating wines, they headed to SoHo, snagging the subway since they were now in a hurry. Seeing the metro through her wide eyes was actually cool. When people moved through the car, she studied them, her body language betraying her anxiety.

“Do you think someone’s going to mug you or something?” he leaned over and whispered in her ear.

She gave a nervous laugh. “You cannot imagine how many guidelines my mother sent me on safety in New York City. She even clipped articles and taped them to the fridge.”

“Seriously?”

“She has issues,” Rosemary said, leaning against him but keeping her arm hooked through her shopping bag. He inhaled the scent of her hair. It smelled like something he couldn’t place, but he’d be happy to be buried in. “It’s not really her fault, though.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Remember I told you how my brother is special needs? Well, there were complications during birth that caused developmental issues.” Rosemary quieted, her fingers knotting together. “And a few years later my sister, Sage, circumnavigated the childproof lock on the back door and ended up in the swimming pool. She drowned. Both were accidents that my parents had no control over and happened before I came along, but those tragedies molded them into super overprotective parents.” Those words given so matter-of-factly, as if she’d said them a hundred times, but the fingers she twisted, the slight edge in her voice, told him her childhood had not been easy.

“Whoa, that’s really heavy,” he said, hating that the mood had shifted to something serious but now understanding Rosemary’s situation better. “I’m so sorry about your sister.”

“Thank you, and I wouldn’t bring it up other than I’ve spent my whole life being the thing my mother had to control so nothing bad would happen to me. Just some context. Not trying to ruin the mood.”

Sal shook his head at the pain Rosemary’s parents had endured. Now he understood why Rosemary seemed cautious and hyperaware of situations. The woman had been smothered her entire life.

And like the proverbial penny dropped from the top of the Empire State Building, something struck him.

Was Rosemary a virgin?

He couldn’t imagine a woman in this day and age being . . .

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twenty-seven. I’ll turn twenty-eight in November. How old are you?”

“Thirty.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“March ninth.”

“I’m not a virgin,” she said.

He jerked his gaze back to hers. “I didn’t—”

“But you were thinking it. I could totally see it in your whole demeanor,” Rosemary said, her hand stroking his thigh in a nonsexual way. But it still revved him, reminding him how much he still wanted to get her naked.

“That talk about your mother’s apron strings made me a little nervous. I imagined you locked in your room or something.”

Rosemary smiled. “She’s not that bad. Well, she can be. She’s like a bull terrier, latching on and shaking until you go limp. But I manage to pry those teeth apart sometimes. Like now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Mama was against me going away to college, against me moving in with a male roommate even though it was totally platonic, and she was emphatically against me coming to New York City alone. Her tight grip on me has been the biggest obstacle in our relationship since I went through puberty.” Rosemary brushed her hair back and sighed. “I love my mother, but sometimes I need to be away from her. And that’s why I’m here.”

He pulled her to him, dropping a kiss on her temple. “Odd that both of us are running from our families.”

Rosemary turned, her eyes questioning. “You, too?”

Might as well be honest about what he had been facing for the last six months. “My pop’s pushing me to run the deli he’s opening in the theater district, and my ma’s breathing down my neck about getting married. Parading good Italian girls in front of me.”

“Married? Like she wants to pick out your wife?”

“Natalie Genovese is an Italian mother who gives the Jewish ones a run for their money. She wants all of us paired up and popping out babies for her to feed
pan di Spagna
to. My family seems to think they know what is best for me.”

Rosemary picked up his hand and stroked it. “Is that why your sister acted the way she did? She thinks I’m a road bump or something.”

He curled his hand around hers and tugged her up. Their stop approached and he didn’t want to talk about the reality they were avoiding. Their families didn’t matter. At least not at that moment. “You’re the sexiest damn road bump I’ve ever seen.”

“Never been called a sexy road bump before, but I’ll take it,” she said, leaning up to brush a kiss across his jaw.

The doors swooshed open and they spilled from the car, hurrying up the steps into the warm June night. They held hands like two teenagers in love, years falling away the way they do when something feels so good, so right . . . so perfectly designed in the stars.

“Which way?” she asked, her breath coming faster from her jog up the stairs.

“What street again?”

“Spring.”

“You realize Spring runs through lots of neighborhoods?” he said, spinning her around and pulling her into a kiss. The bag she held bumped his leg making the wine clink against the side of the building he pressed her to. He kissed her until they were both breathless.

“Uh, what were we talking about?” she asked, her eyes hazy, her breathing ragged.

“I don’t remember,” he said, kissing her again before grabbing her hand and walking toward the intersection. “I think it’s something to do with getting back to your place before we start leaving our clothes all over SoHo.”

She gave him the address.

“How did you manage to get to Little Italy the other day? Your cousin’s place is eight blocks away,” he asked.

“I asked a man who didn’t speak English very well for directions.”

Sal couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

“What? My town has only six thousand people living in it. We know where everything is.”

He looked over at her as they jogged to make the light. Her hair bounced on her shoulders, a bit frizzy from the humidity rolling in with the night air. Her light makeup had long since worn off, making her look even younger. He thought about her embroidered pillows and the way she only drank sweet wine . . . oh, and tea. She made him ache for her. “You’re killing me, Rosemary.”

“Why? ’Cause I’m a goober?” she laughed.

“Because you’re freakin’ incredible. Because you make me feel like I’m a teenager again. It’s crazy.”

She stopped walking, suddenly sober. “It is. Totally crazy, but I’ve never wanted to do crazy more.” Her eyes glittered beneath the streetlights.

Sal paused beside her. Nothing like refreshing honesty. It’s what had attracted him in the first place. It’s what made him more determined than ever to take the moments he had with her. “I know the verbal agreement back there sounded good, but can we handle this?” Not you, but
we
. Because moments ago he’d stopped sliding toward complacency and embraced something that could be dangerous, something that dragged his heart along for the ride.

He gave himself a mental shake. No, he wouldn’t risk his heart again. That was why they needed the agreement. At the end of two weeks, Rosemary would go back to her world and he’d be stuck in his.

This woman, a beauty who’d wholly captured him, turned, her features softened by the darkness. “If we walk away from each other right now, we might miss two weeks of something wonderful. I don’t want to give that up because I’m scared of . . . you know.”

He knew. The big
L
word.

“But we know this going in, right?” he asked, begging his mind to take a memo, because he tilted dangerously close to going in that direction. He’d been there. Knew all the signs. The euphoria, the horniness, the invincibility.

Treacherous waters to tread.

He didn’t want to believe his sister was right—that he had a type—but he couldn’t deny he’d gone as eagerly to Hillary. And that crash and burn had rendered him heartbroken for a good couple of months. His ego had been pancaked, his confidence shaken. So if Rosemary said it was only a two-week love affair, he would guard his heart.