by Liz Talley
But it didn’t have to.
Sal wanted to see her again.
That piece of knowledge settled inside her, hollowing out a warm place.
As buildings ricocheted by, she realized what Sal had done. He’d given her an out, allowing her to make the decision whether to see him again or not. He’d given her room to trust him, to know he wouldn’t treat her like a random hookup. And lastly, he’d given her privacy, allaying the 0.0001 percent chance he was a psychotic stalker who wanted to eat her liver with fava beans.
She issued a happy sigh.
“Yes?” the cab driver asked, his bushy brows high on his balding head.
“Nothing.”
“You not from here?”
“Nope. You?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said.
And that was her first cabbie conversation. Her cousin’s building appeared like a prayer granted, and she instructed the driver to drop her off in front rather the corner. She managed to use her credit card to pay the fare and make it inside the building with no incident.
She trudged up the five stories, calves and lungs screaming equally in protest, and unlocked the door to her cousin’s loft. When she pushed into the foyer, she found it pitch-black, which was confusing because she was certain she’d left a lamp on. But maybe not. It had been light outside when she’d left earlier. Moscow curled around her legs, issuing a yowl.
“Oh, so now you’re acknowledging me?” she asked, bending over to pet him after locking the door. Then, after double-checking the lock just like she promised her father she’d do each night, she set her hand against the wall and inched toward the opening to the loft.
“Meow, meow,” Moscow cried, twining around her legs, nearly tripping her. She kicked off the flip-flops, dropping the plastic bag with her broken sandals. Then she shuffled toward where she thought the lamp was, thankfully finding it before the cat managed to send her sprawling. She switched on the lamp and then nearly wet herself. A scream caught in her throat as a very naked man tumbled out of her cousin’s bed, cupping his genitals.
“What the fuck?” He blinked against the light.
Rosemary’s first thought was to grab the pepper spray her mother had bought her for the trip.
But it was in her purse, which sat on the shelf under the kitchen bar. She’d taken only her key, driver’s license, and a credit card in her pocket when she left earlier.
He advanced and she backed away, scrambling to her left, heart beating in her ears, legs threatening to buckle.
“Oh God, stay away from me,” she screeched, tripping over the fluffy shearling ottoman. She caught herself from falling and froze, crouching like a cornered animal.
The naked man stopped, rubbed a hand across his eyes like he could make everything clear before jabbing it through his inky hair. “Hold on. I’m Marco. Halle’s fiancé.”
“Halle doesn’t have a fiancé,” Rosemary said, scooting toward her burlap purse. She’d tucked the spray in an easy-to-reach pocket. Just seven more feet and she could clear it and douse the . . . burglar or whatever he was.
She couldn’t believe this was happening. Her mother had been right. She didn’t belong here and now she’d die . . . or be raped . . . or burgled . . . or . . .
“Okay, not yet, but I’m proposing when she gets back from Italy,” he said before holding up a hand. “Look, let me grab my pants. Okay?”
Rosemary swallowed and pressed herself against the stucco wall, trying to think what she should do. Her heart beat in her ears but she managed to say, “That would be a good idea.”
He turned, presenting an ass tight enough to bounce a quarter on. He looked like a model—too pretty for her bohemian cousin who’d always liked guys a little rough around the edges.
Halle hadn’t said anything about a boyfriend.
But Rosemary knew she’d locked the door when she’d left that evening. She’d checked it twice before leaving, and since the lock hadn’t been busted, this very naked and very nice-looking guy had to have used a key to get inside.
She relaxed a millimeter.
Marco walked over to the rumpled bed and picked up a pair of dark slacks; turning away from her, he stepped inside, hitching them up.
“Look, I’m sorry I scared you. I’m assuming you’re Halle’s cousin. I got here earlier and I was so beat I went to bed,” he said, rubbing his bared chest before shrugging back his shoulders like he worked out a kink. He liked to touch himself. A lot.
Rosemary still hadn’t moved an inch. Fading adrenaline made her thighs warm and woozy though her heart still beat a million times a minute. “So why didn’t she tell me about you? Why would—”
“I’m in special forces. Heading out for a training mission tomorrow. Halle probably got the dates mixed up and thought I wouldn’t be here. And I wouldn’t have, but I was in the city with friends and came here to sleep off the buzz I’d worked up. Honestly, I forgot you were here until I saw this.” He lifted the cardigan sweater her mother had bought her. It looked so weird in his hand. Like a little old lady’s sweater dangling in the paw of a cheetah.
Rosemary peeled herself from the wall but still eyeballed him with suspicion. “Okay, so do you have identification or something?”
He cracked a lethal smile. “And how’s that going to help?”
“I don’t know. They do that on TV,” she said feeling like a moron.
So far since stepping out of the subway, she’d gotten lost, danced with a hot Italian guy, and acquainted herself with her cousin’s soon-to-be fiancé a bit too intimately.
Wait. Presumed soon-to-be fiancé. She wasn’t a hundred percent on that one.
“Look, trust me, I’m her guy. See?” He picked up a photograph from the table beside the sofa and walked toward her. “This is when we went to Niagara Falls this past summer. That’s me.” He thumped the glass.
Rosemary hadn’t noticed the framed picture earlier, but then again, she’d not spent much time poking around. She’d been hungry and tempted by Sal. She glanced at the picture showing her cousin with Marco. They wore rain ponchos. “Okay, so . . . are you going to leave?”
He made a face. “Do I have to? We’re practically family.”
“I can’t stay here with a stranger. I mean, there’s only one bed.” She gestured toward the rumpled bed. The privacy screen had been rolled aside. Thank God . . . because if the light hadn’t woken him and she’d climbed into bed with the guy? Uh, total heart attack waiting to happen.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll be gone before you even wake up tomorrow morning,” he said.
Rosemary glanced around the loft. A metal door rolled into place to cover the bathroom and shower area, but that was the only other door in the place. Even with the screen rolled into place, she’d be able to hear him move while he slept. And at the right angle he’d be able to watch her. The whole thing felt super creepy, but if she pitched a fit she’d look like the bumpkin she was. “Uh, I guess that’s okay. You take the bed since you’re already there.”
Rude of him to plop in the bed in the first place. He knew she was staying there, but whatever. Wasn’t like she was going to sleep on sheets some naked guy had rolled around in. Future cousin-in-law or not.
“You sure?” he asked, his eyebrows tenting. “Halle would be pissed if I was rude to you.”
“It’s fine. You’re already, uh, comfortable there. I’ll grab a blanket and take the couch. No problem,” she lied, because everything about this situation was a problem. Sleeping in the room with a strange naked man was a good thousand miles away from her comfort zone. And if she were going to do that, she’d rather it be with Sal. Oh, the irony.
“Awesome,” Marco said, padding toward the bench at the foot of the bed. Lifting the lid, he pulled out a blanket and extra pillow. Then he returned, handing them to her. Rosemary tried not to look flipped out, but she knew she failed. “Hey, if this is freaking you out, I can go. I’ll find a hotel or something.”
But he didn’
t sound like he wanted to.
She glanced over again at the picture. Her cousin smiled goofily, wrapped in the arms of the guy standing in front of Rosemary. “Don’t be silly. It’s no big deal.” She managed a half smile.
Marco shrugged. “Cool.”
“Uh, I need to use the restroom. That won’t bother you?”
“Nah, I can sleep through a nitroglycerin plant explosion when I want to.” He turned and walked back toward the bed, plopping down and punching the feather pillow before pulling the covers over himself.
Rosemary stared at him for a second before setting the blanket on the couch. Switching off the lamp, she tiptoed toward the restroom, carefully sliding the metal door across the entrance, wincing when the wheels creaked. Took her ten minutes to take off her makeup and brush and floss just like Dr. Culpepper, Jess’s dad and her dentist, expected. Then she changed into a sports bra, T-shirt, and athletic shorts. No way was she letting the girls loose with a strange naked man sleeping fifteen feet away. Switching off the light, she slipped the door open and stepped out to Fred Flintstone.
Yeah, if curtains had been at the large windows, they would have been sucked in and out by the god-awful snoring coming from her cousin’s bed.
Great.
Even if she had felt comfortable sleeping in the same room with a man she didn’t know, she wouldn’t be able to sleep with the award-winning snorer sawing logs or whatever the heck they called it in the background.
Rosemary sat on the couch, fluffed the pillow behind her and lay back, clutching the soft quilt like a five-year-old listening for monsters. Shadows flickered on the wall, and outside the loft, New York refused to sleep. Or maybe the city could hear Marco snoring. Either way, horns tooted, lights stayed on, and the occasional shriek of laughter shouldered its way into the tiny loft.
She put her back to the room and snuggled into the sofa. She’d planned to call Eden or Jess and tell them about her first day, but now she couldn’t. Not with that snoring.
So she pretended to tell Lacy.
“Did you see what I did?”
Pretend Lacy high-fived her. “You rocked it, Rosemary. See? I told you underneath the pearls lay a feral wildcat ready to sink her claws into a delicious Italian.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“True.” Pretend Lacy grinned. “But still, you knocked it out of the park. He’s cornea burning. So now what?”
“I don’t know. Should I go to his restaurant tomorrow? Or is that too forward? Wait a few days?”
“Tomorrow. But make it afternoon . . . or even evening. You’re gorgeous, wonderful, and totally not desperate. Oh, and by the way, you don’t have to whistle to get a cab. Just jut out that hip and do your pageant wave.”
“I’ve never been in a pageant.”
Pretend Lacy rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to be Miss Morning Glory to do the pageant wave, sugar.”
“This conversation is ridiculous. You’re not real.”
Pretend Lacy shook her head. “Sure I am. Didn’t I tell you the last time I saw you that I would always be here? I’m your guardian angel, chickadee. You can count on me.” Pretend Lacy hopped on a cloud and floated away to the sound of . . . snoring.
Fresh pain flooded Rosemary’s heart at the thought of her vivacious friend. Lacy would have loved dancing on a rooftop, and she wouldn’t have said only two or three words to the cabbie. By the end of the ride, Lacy would have known about his kids and the tiny village he’d been born into. Her friend had been like that—easy to talk to. Rosemary swiped the wetness from her lashes, thinking about the last words her friend had said to her.
You gotta get out of here, Rose. Life is too short to spend it eating pancakes at Dean’s Diner or shopping for dresses at The Fashion. Promise me you’ll go somewhere fun. That you’ll wear ridiculously high heels and drink gin straight up. Meet a guy and kiss him without knowing his name. Take a chance. Skydive. Snorkel. Bike. Swim. Dance. Laugh. Make love.
Lacy had been lying in her hospital bed, hair unbrushed, eyes sunken when she’d uttered those words. The happy blonde had been but a shadow of her former self, no longer bothering with the irreverent blue wig she’d sported just to bug her mother. Still the fire had burned in her eyes. So much living left to do. No body left to do it in.
Rosemary clutched her chest, stamping down the infernal sob that was always ready to rise when she thought about her late friend and all the missed memories they’d never share.
Rosemary was doing her damned best to bust out of the straitjacket of her life. Of course, not even Lacy would likely approve of sleeping on the couch while a naked stranger snored nearby.
But Sal?
Sal was something Lacy would have stamped with a giant check mark. Which meant Rosemary was going back to Mama Mello’s. Not for Lacy . . . but for herself.
Chapter Six
Sal blearily regarded his cup of coffee. He’d gotten home at one o’clock that morning, forgetting he’d traded out the lunch shift with his brother a week ago. His niece had inoculations or something that morning, and Dominic wasn’t missing a single fart given by his newborn daughter, much less a doctor appointment. So Sal had to hoof it back to Mama Mello’s, fighting the morning commute.
“Why you look like something the dog barfed this morning? You left early last night,” his father said, refilling Sal’s coffee cup before tying an apron around his waist. The tiny office/storage room off the kitchen housed a messy desk, a rickety table with a coffeepot, and shelves of stuff his father refused to toss out in case they needed it one day.
“I went out.”
“With who? That girl you talked to last night? Sally, Sally, that girl’s not for you. She’ll be back whistling ‘Dixie’ by the end of the week.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, I’m a single guy. Not tied down. Yet.” He sipped the coffee his father bought special for his staff. Good stuff. Hearty Italian roast.
Big Donnie Genovese made a face. “Now don’t you go screwing things up with Angelina. She’s a good girl. From a good family. I went to school with her uncle Mikey, and they’re a stand-up bunch. Good jobs. Own a lotta rental property in the Bronx. You could do worse.”
“Do worse? That’s a crappy way to look at falling in love, Pop.” Sal cradled his cup and wondered if he should sneak up front and add a shot of booze. This conversation called for something stronger. Course, it hadn’t even hit eight o’clock yet.
His father drew his bushy eyebrows together. “Eh, love, what a crock. All them card people got us believing in magic and butterflies.”
“You’re blaming the greeting card industry?” Sal snorted, watching his old man as he bumbled around. Big Donnie had a lot of opinions his boys ragged him about. Blaming Hallmark for heightened romantic expectations just got added to the list.
“Sure. Them and others. And look what happened with Hillary. She was like this girl. She didn’t know you or your world. Looks fade,” his father said, turning and jabbing a finger at Sal.
“Just because things with me and Hillary didn’t work doesn’t mean I stop looking for love, Pops. I can’t pick a girl based on her ethnicity, family connections and—”
“Why not?” Big Donnie interrupted. “’Cause if you want to know the truth of it, that’s what I did with your ma. I looked at her and she looked good, you know? And then I tasted her cooking, met her family, took her to church. That’s all it took. Love comes after nursing a sick babe through the night, after getting the crap scared out of you with that heart thing I had, after living your life together. All this romantic stuff? Bah. Choose a girl who suits you. A girl who suits your life.”
Sal stared at his father. “Are you telling me you weren’t in love with Ma when you married her?”
The older man shrugged. “Eh, more like I loved the thought of her. But the most important thing was I knew we would work. I had this place to run. I needed someone to stand here with me.”
“You make it sound like a business
arrangement,” Sal said. He knew his parents loved each other. No doubt about that. He’d seen his mother’s careworn hands wrapped in prayer at his pop’s bedside, tears streaking her cheeks. He’d seen his father carrying breakfast to his ma’s bed when her back was so bad she could hardly move. They were devoted to each other.
“I’m not saying it is or isn’t. All I’m saying is be careful about chasing a feeling. Being practical about who you’re supposed to be with isn’t a bad thing. Now that’s it. I’m outta advice. We got a kitchen to run. Hungry people will be banging at the door in a bit.”
Sal sighed and drained the last of his coffee. Rising from the banged-up stool, he looped a clean apron over his head.
His father believed what he said, and part of Sal understood. Finding someone who fit you was pretty damned important, but what if he didn’t fit the world he lived in? That was the thing that kept pirouetting through his mind like a tipsy ballerina.
Shit, most of the guys he knew would kill to have the life his parents were handing him—a new deli located near the theater district with a ready-made name? Why was he balking? Why was he being so stubborn about falling into line?
Sal walked out and looked around the kitchen with its gleaming stainless steel prep area, large pots awaiting savory sauces, and Gus’s crack as he bent over to grab a can of shortening. And it hit him—this was his world and would always be. He’d tried to break out with Hillary, allowing her to fill his head with ideas, with the thought he could be more than Big Donnie Genovese’s youngest boy.
So he should shut up and put his foot in the shoes handed to him like he’d shoved his foot into the lace-up oxford shoes his mother had bought him for Easter when he was nine years old. Stick your foot in and shut up. This is what you’re wearing. Got it?
Christ, he’d hated those shoes. They pinched his toes, and the slick bottom made them hard to run in. Too bad. He hadn’t had a say-so.
But he wasn’t nine years old anymore.
He didn’t have to wear shoes that didn’t fit, did he?