Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (21 page)

“What woman?”

Rosemary wrinkled her nose. “The one who was drop-dead gorgeous and somewhat irritated you left her for me.”

“Oh. She’s a family friend. I’ve known her forever.”

“She looked upset.”

“That’s her problem,” he said with a shrug. Sal didn’t look concerned about the woman. “You want more wine?”

“I’m good.”

Rosemary fell silent, something pressing uncomfortably on her. The woman had looked possessive, like Sal belonged to her. And he’d been talking to her, sharing a glass of wine. Not to mention, he’d hustled Rosemary out of the restaurant quick as spit, sending her on an errand rather than risking her sitting at the bar. Like he wanted to hide her.

He hadn’t even kissed her hello like he had for the past couple of weeks.

So odd.

It had never occurred to her that Sal might be seeing someone else. During their first date on the rooftop of the hotel, he’d asked her point-blank if she had a boyfriend, but she’d never asked him. She’d gleaned from his comment about the difficulty of finding the right girl in Manhattan, paired with his availability to take her out on the town, that he was totally single. But something about that woman and the way she’d looked at Rosemary was unsettling. Of course if Sal was dating the woman, it would have been a different scenario, right? He wouldn’t have left with Rosemary. He wouldn’t have even acknowledged her. He’d left the sophisticated brunette to come to her, so there was that.

But still, the woman weighed heavy on her mind.

“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?” Rosemary asked, setting down her fork.

He jerked his gaze up. “No. That’s nuts.”

“Well, there was this weird vibe with that woman at the bar.”

Sal shook his head and picked up his empty plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s just that woman—”

“Are you trying to pick a fight or something?” he grumbled, running water over the plate.

“No.” Rosemary stood up and took her plate to the trash can in the corner of the tiny kitchen, sliding the remaining food into the depths. “It was a question. Not an accusation.”

Sal’s shoulders sank. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m a bit on edge.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re leaving Sunday and we’re spending the last few days together and I’m not ready for . . .” He trailed off. Grabbing the half-filled bottle of wine, he said, “Want to go up to the roof?”

“The roof?” she asked, wanting to continue the conversation they were having, but unwilling to let something unpleasant in to stomp on their evening. She should leave it alone. Sal said he was single. End of story.

“Yeah, there’s a patio that overlooks the city. It’s why I rent this dump. In the summer it’s fun to go up, take a beer and hang.”

“Can I sing ‘Up on the Roof’?” she asked, trying to put aside the heavy stuff and enjoy the evening Sal had created for them. His small apartment smelled like Pine-Sol and he’d taken extra care to buy flowers and pull out his great-aunt’s napkins. In a few days she wouldn’t have to worry about Sal and gorgeous women. She’d be back in Morning Glory. Back to being Rosemary Reynolds, owner of Parsley and Sage, alto in the church choir, and chair for the Junior League Fall Bazaar. Her two-week fling would be over.

Her heart throbbed like an open wound, but she shut the door on it and followed Sal out the door and up the stairs. After climbing the five stories to her cousin’s loft for fifteen days straight, she didn’t need an EMT to climb the three flights.

The sultry night had nothing on Mississippi, but the sparkling view took the breath away.

“Whoa,” she said, walking toward the edge of the small patio clustered with potted plants. Fat lemons hung on one of the plants, and someone had strung up Christmas lights. “This is so cool.”

“Yeah,” he said, following her to the edge, placing his hands on her bare shoulders. And like every other time he touched her, tiny chill bumps appeared and warmth curled round her heart. “Here is where I appreciate living in the city.”

She turned to look up at him. “Have you always wanted to live here?”

He shrugged. “When I was a kid, my parents sent me to a camp upstate. We canoed, shot arrows, and roasted weenies over a fire. The woods were so scary to me, unknown and full of things that had teeth. The first year I hated it. But funny thing, after I stopped being so scared of bears and snakes, I liked it. Begged my ma and pop to go every year. I ended up being a camp counselor until I was twenty. Made me want to live somewhere up there. But I never did anything about it.”

Rosemary didn’t say anything, because she knew what he meant. When she was in college, she’d planned on living in Jackson. Felt like it was close enough to Morning Glory but would give her more things to do . . . more guys to date. But after graduation, she couldn’t find a job. She moved back home after her dad renovated the carriage house. Two months later, she got the financing for the fabric store. She never thought about moving away again.

Because she’d bloomed where she’d been planted.

But Sal’s words made her wonder.

Was love enough of a motivator to give up all she knew?

Could she look at the Manhattan skyline every night?

“So you went to work for your father and never looked back?” she asked.

Sal stepped away. “I don’t know. At one point I had a different plan, but that was over a year ago. There was someone—” He took a deep breath. “Well, I was engaged, and things didn’t work out.”

“You were engaged?”

He gave her a sheepish look. “
Was
is the key word.”

“That woman I saw tonight?” That would explain the peculiar vibe.

“No,” Sal said, his hands gripping the ledge. She could tell this was hard for him to talk about—his knuckles grew white. “Water under the bridge, but the short of it is she married someone else. Lives in Connecticut. Plays tennis and hosts parties. I was a break from her snooty world . . . or her last attempt at rebellion before settling into the life she was born into.”

His words were an uppercut, snapping back her head.

Wasn’t that what she’d been doing? Using Sal for her wild fling?

But then she saw Sal realize what he’d made it sound like. “Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that—”

“But that’s what I’ve been doing, right? Taking a break from my narrow world, making a last-ditch effort to do something more than watch the grass grow in the town square. Do you feel used?”

His dark eyes said it all. “No. I don’t feel used. From the very start I knew the score. You knew the score. This wasn’t a repeat of what happened with Hillary. Don’t think that.”

Rosemary turned away, emotion plugging her throat. She could see the hurt in him. Bitch Hillary had broken his heart and perhaps that’s why he wouldn’t let himself crash into love with her. He’d been there, done that with another woman. She couldn’t blame him for protecting his heart. “I’m sorry that woman hurt you, Sal. You deserve to be loved. You shouldn’t be anyone’s fling.”

He gathered her into his arms, setting his chin atop her head. Words weren’t spoken. They were content to hold each other, wrapped in thought, unable to say things they wanted to say.

So much bottled up. So much left on the table she’d walk away from in a few days.

But such was life.

Her entire life her mother had protected her from mosquito bites and unwrapped Halloween candy, but no one could protect her from the broken heart she’d go home with. Not even Patsy Reynolds could save Rosemary from heartache.

“Let’s go back, get naked, and do things to each other that could be illegal in twenty states,” Rosemary said.

He shook with laughter. “In only twenty states?”

“Well, I know it would be illegal in Mississippi. God-fearing people and all,” she said into his shirt. Which smelled like him—woodsy cologne, fresh-baked bread, and Sal. Wonderfully delicious Sal.

He pulled back and looked down at her. The city sat behind him, twinkling against the obsidian sky, horns honking, traffic swooshing. His world moving around him. But Sal’s face was in soft contrast to the hard angles.

Brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes, he kissed her much as he had the night they met—sweet, reverent, and somehow fixed with all his intent.

And for a moment she believed he loved her.

Chapter Nineteen

This time a horrid buzzing woke Rosemary.

She opened her eyes and blinked, not knowing where she was, but noting the ceiling had a two-foot crack near the whirring fan. She rolled over and caught a specific scent. Sal. She reached out to find she was alone in his bed.

The buzzing was as incessant as a woodpecker, so she sat up, looking down to find Sal’s imprint on his pillow and a note propped against the lamp.

Out for coffee and bagels. BRB.

XOXO,

Sal

A rose from the arrangement on the table lay beside it. White with a pink center. Innocence blushing.

Rosemary struggled to free herself from the tangled sheets. They’d spent a lot of time making sure the bedding got good and twisted last night, causing Sal to pull a soft, worn quilt over their sated bodies before they fell into sleep. Pulling on the maxi dress she’d left crumpled on the floor, she hurried to the door, thinking Sal likely balanced coffee and bagels so was unable to fetch his key from his pocket.

Throwing open the door, she pasted on a sunny smile. “Hey . . .”

Her mouth dropped open when she found the woman from the bar, clad in a perfectly tailored linen pantsuit. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a messy bun that looked somehow glamorous and the silver-blue silk tank she wore beneath the suit clung spectacularly to her breasts. Her makeup was flawless, her jewelry a bit over-the-top, and her perfume overwhelming. Burgundy lips tilted down as her amber eyes crackled. She took a step toward Rosemary. “You.”

Rosemary stepped back. Mostly because the woman didn’t give her any room to do anything else. “Uh, I’m not sure I’m supposed to let—”

“Where’s Sal?”

“He went out for coffee.”

The woman turned, crossed her arms, and raked Rosemary with a cold glance. “You know, I should have expected as much. This is typical of him.”

“Typical?” Rosemary repeated, the niggling feeling that had bothered her yesterday back full force. This woman meant something to Sal. This woman barely held her anger in check.

“Bringing home one-night stands just to irritate me,” she said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Irritate you? Wait, I’m not a one-night stand. I’m—” She snapped her mouth shut because she’d been about to say
a two-week stand
. Wasn’t like she could say she was something more. They were, after all, no strings and all that. “Wait, who are you?”

“Angelina Vitale,” the woman said, her lips curving in an unpleasant manner. “He didn’t tell you about me, did he?”

Nope.

“Why would he?” Rosemary asked.

Angelina gave a fake
ha-ha-ha
laugh. “Only because I’m the woman he’s going to marry.”

Rosemary felt her stomach hit her toes. “Marry? He’s not engaged.”

Was he? Rosemary felt like she’d been tossed off a ship into shark-infested waters without so much as a how-do-you-do.

“Yet,” Angelina said, walking into the kitchen and setting the bag she’d been carrying on the small counter beside the sink. “But he will be.”

Rosemary’s mouth went dry. “He never said anything about you or marriage.”

“And why would he? He was interested in getting in your pants . . . or under your skirt. He wasn’t going to tell you he had been contemplating settling down with me, now would he?”

Angelina had a point. If Sal were engaged or heading toward engagement, he likely wouldn’t have told Rosemary. He’d made a comment about having his life planned out for him. So was this what he meant?

She’d assumed he referred to the pressure from his father regarding the deli, not settling down with the beautiful woman standing before her, looking as if she might slap Rosemary silly. Still, Rosemary couldn’t reconcile the Sal she’d known and loved for the past few weeks as some philandering, mustache-twirling villain who lied to a dumb-ass country girl in order to land her in his bed. “So you’re saying you’re his girlfriend?”

Angelina didn’t say anything. Just looked at her as if Rosemary was the biggest whore this side of the Hudson River.

“If that’s true, why didn’t you say something yesterday afternoon when I came to the restaurant? I saw you there, drinking with him at the bar,” Rosemary said.

Angelina shrugged. “I assumed you were a friend from culinary school. Sal said he had a friend who wanted to go over the menu and make some suggestions. Now I feel ridiculous. After all, you weren’t exactly dressed for business.” She looked down at Rosemary’s rumpled dress.

“He told you I was a friend from culinary school?”

“Why would I lie? Especially to the woman who just fucked my fiancé.”

Rosemary clutched her stomach and tried not to choke on nausea. “But you said y’all weren’t engaged yet.”

Angelina sniffed. “Semantics.”

Crazy thoughts ballooned in her head. Sal agreeing easily to her two-week affair verbal contract. Sal begging her not to say she loved him. Sal practically shoving her out of Mama Mello’s to fetch tiramisu. So many things he’d done to allay his guilt and hide her, including staying almost every night at her place and avoiding Little Italy if she suggested going there. Rosemary hadn’t seen his true motivation because she hadn’t been looking for it.

Shame burned inside her. She was the other woman. Sal had cheated on Angelina with her the same way Benton had cheated on Jess. Rosemary had spent many a night calling Brandy Robbins a slut, a homewrecker, and a fat-tittied cow. And now
she
was Brandy Robbins.

Her stomach rolled over.

“So why are you so matter-of-fact about this?” Rosemary whispered, tears springing into her eyes. “I
slept
with him.”

Angelina shrugged a shoulder. “How do you know I’m not crying inside? Like I would give you the satisfaction of knowing you hurt me?”

“Oh my God,” Rosemary whispered as she looked past Angelina to the still-rumpled bed where she and Sal had made love into the wee hours of the morning. She felt like she was going to be sick.

“Even so, I can forgive Sal. He’s always been a sucker for a pretty face. I wouldn’t say you’re his usual type, but you
are
pretty. And besides, he forgives my flirting. When we get married, things will change, of course, but for right now, we’re a bit more open in our relationship. Suits us both until we make our vows before the church.”

Rosemary grappled with the idea of having an open relationship. Sure, she’d known some couples who weren’t exclusive. She’d even heard of married couples who were swingers. Heck, there were shows on TV about all sorts of strange relationships. But she couldn’t see Sal living that way.

Angelina tapped the bag she’d set down. “Tell Sal I’ve left him some of the tart I made with his mother. It’s his favorite and now so appropriate, don’t you think? Tart.”

Her words were meant to confirm who Angelina was in Sal’s life. She cooked with his mother. She obviously came to his apartment. Angelina was in his life, that much Rosemary could be certain about.

“Why don’t you wait for him? Sal will be back soon,” Rosemary said, searching for her purse. For some reason she couldn’t breathe. She needed to go back to Halle’s place. She needed to think. She needed to cry. Vomit. And cry some more.

“I have an appointment. Tell him I’ll catch up with him tomorrow at lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“We always eat at his parents’ after Mass,” Angelina said, walking toward her. She stopped in front of Rosemary, lifting a hand. Rosemary flinched, but Angelina merely tucked a strand of hair behind Rosemary’s ear. “Poor thing. I know this is shocking, but this is Sal. The man has such a weakness for a sweet face, but truly, you don’t belong in his world, now do you?”

Rosemary batted at Angelina’s hand and stepped away, trying to hide the tears trembling on her lashes. Pain roared in, flooding her, washing away common sense.

Angelina dropped her hand. “I understand. He’s a gorgeous man, full of soft words. But he belongs to me. So go back to wherever you’re from and leave Sal to a woman who understands him, to a woman his family already trusts and loves.”

Rosemary wanted to refute the ugly words that spilled from the woman’s lips, but she couldn’t. Because no matter what, Angelina was right. Sal belonged here. And Rosemary didn’t.

Without another word, Angelina walked toward the open door. Before she disappeared, she turned and gave Rosemary a small smile. “Perhaps it would be best if you left now. Anyone can see you’re already half in love with him, and that can only end badly for you.”

Then she shut the door, leaving Rosemary’s heart in ribbons on the floor.

“Oh my God,” Rosemary said to the empty apartment with its stupid flower arrangement and fanned sports magazines on the chipped coffee table.

Sal wasn’t who she’d thought he was.

But what did she expect, showing up in New York City acting like she was a worldly woman who had crazy flings with guys all the time? She had been such a blind fool. A big fat sucker.

Sal had used her desire to be bold and wild for his own purposes. She was a dumb rube who’d been easy pickings for a guy like him.

And the cherry on top of the disaster was her mother had been right—Rosemary hadn’t known enough about Sal for intimacy. Instead, she’d trusted untried instincts and jumped in without looking. And look what had happened.

She hurried into the bedroom and rooted around for the sandals she’d kicked off last night when Sal had tossed her onto his bed and beat his chest, doing a crazy Tarzan yell. Once she found them, she hurriedly pulled them on, shouldered the bag she’d stuck her change of clothes into, and finger combed her hair.

Then before she fled Sal’s bedroom, she grabbed the pretty rose he’d laid across the note. Tossing it to the floor, she ground her heel against it and whispered, “You effing bastard.”

Childish, but somehow it appeased the anger rising alongside the pain.

Soon to be engaged.

Oh, Lord Jesus, what had she done?

Rosemary ran to the front door and slipped into the hall. Banging down the stairs, she said a silent prayer she wouldn’t run into Sal.

Please, God, don’t let me see him. Don’t let me throw up. Don’t let me fall apart until I get back to Halle’s. I know I’ve been a sinner. I know I’ve been a fool. Just do me this solid, God.

The prayer partially worked, because she made it down the street and to the metro stop without seeing Sal. Or his effing fiancée.

Now she had to make it back to SoHo.

Then back to Morning Glory.

Back to the Rosemary who was sensible, safe, and not apt to get her heart torn from her chest and danced upon because she wanted to play
Sex and the City
.

Rosemary knew where she belonged and it wasn’t in the Big Apple. And it wasn’t with Sal.

Sal opened the door, frowning at the lock. He was certain he’d locked it on his way out to grab breakfast. He’d never leave Rosemary so vulnerable even if his building had never had issues with crime.

“Rose?” he called, setting the coffee on the counter. “Breakfast, baby.”

Then he noticed two things at once—the Feinstein Realty bag sitting by the sink and the smell of Angelina’s perfume.

Alarm snaked through his body.

Oh shit.

“Rosemary,” he called, rounding the corner and entering the bedroom.

The bed was still a snarl of twisted sheets and the bathroom lay open and dark. No Rosemary.

Irrational fear swept over him. Had Angelina hurt Rosemary in some way?

No. That was ridiculous. Angelina could be a manipulative bitch, but she wouldn’t stoop to anything violent. At least he didn’t think she would.

“Rosemary?” he called one last time as he walked around the side of the bed and lifted the note he’d written, thinking maybe she’d left her own note. But then his gaze snagged on the crushed rose.

“Oh shit,” he said, crumpling the note in his hand.

Sliding his cell phone from his pocket, he dialed Rosemary’s number. He drummed the seconds off on his fingers until it went to voice mail. He hung up. Called again. No answer.

Then he tried texting.

Where are you? Brought back bagels and cream cheese.