Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1)

by Liz Talley

  She hung on to the open door because she might possibly still be drunk. Could a gal be both drunk and hungover at the same time? She didn’t know.

  “Are you wasted?” he asked.

  Rosemary swallowed the dryness in her mouth, noting the strong taste of cherry sewage. “I think so.”

  He drew back. “Huh.”

  “I had too much champagne punch with Trevor.”

  “Trevor?” His chocolate eyes turned to stone . . . or something really hard and dangerous and not so gooey. “Who the hell is Trevor?”

  “Why don’t you come inside before we wake everyone?” she asked.

  But Sal crossed his arms and glared at her. “Did you go out with another guy today? And get drunk?”

  She reached out and clasped one of his arms. “Don’t worry. He’s gay.”

  Sal looked at her like she’d undergone alien possession . . . and after four glasses of that delicious punch, she rather thought she had.

  Tugging his arm, she pleaded, “Just please come inside. I’ll explain.”

  Begrudgingly he stepped inside and shut the door.

  “Lock it,” she said. Or maybe she slurred the command.

  He did.

  “I need water.” She padded into the kitchen and fetched a glass from the cabinet. Two glasses of water later she felt like she could possibly talk. Sal followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the counter, looking as disapproving as her father. No, her mother.

  Rosemary took a deep breath, which somehow made her butt cheek hurt worse. What in the hell was causing that infernal pain?

  And then she remembered.

  “Oh my God.” She hiked up her dress and jerked her pink panties down and screamed.

  “What the hell?” Sal said, coming around the counter and seeing the paper covering her right butt cheek. He reached out and pulled the paper off. “You got a tattoo?” he asked.

  “I—I—oh shit,” Rosemary breathed running a finger over the actually quite gorgeous rendering of a compass rose on her butt. “Jeffery.”

  “And who’s he?”

  “The tattoo artist.” Images came flooding back. At first the champagne punch had made her tipsy, not drunk. She’d left the restaurant, telling Trevor she needed the fresh air and a walk. And there had been a tattoo parlor on the edge of Chinatown. She’d told him to give her something that represented being bold and finding new direction. Give her something that had led her to Sal.

  The tattoo artist suggested a compass rose. She’d said, “Perfect,” and then gritted her teeth as the man swabbed her butt and subjected her to, on a pain scale of one to ten, a solid eight.

  But Jeffery had told her she had a gorgeous ass. Which made her sorta smile through her clenched teeth. After all, the man had probably seen his fair share of bottoms.

  “The view is nice,” Sal admitted, his eyes taking in the red skin beneath the new tattoo.

  Carefully, Rosemary pulled her panties over the tender flesh and dropped her skirt. Then she tried not to vomit.

  “Maybe you better sit down,” Sal said. He wrapped an arm around her waist, but when she leaned into him, she caught a whiff of tomato and garlic.

  “I’m gonna throw up,” she gasped and lurched toward the metal door, trying to push it closed before emptying her stomach into the thankfully clean toilet.

  “Aw, jeez,” Sal said, grabbing a washcloth and turning on the water. Rosemary assumed that’s what he was doing since she heard the closing of the cabinet and the running water. She was too busy retching her guts up. The words of her father rang in her ears: “Beware champagne. It goes down like butter and comes back up like sewage.”

  “Here,” Sal said, patting her back and handing her the blessedly cool damp cloth.

  “Thank you,” she breathed, brushing inadvertent tears from her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I’ve never had champagne before. It was so bubbly and sweet. And I was celebrating.”

  “Here, let’s get you into something more comfortable.”

  “I want to brush my teeth.”

  “Of course,” he said, helping her stand, pushing her sweaty hair from her cheeks.

  A few minutes later, Rosemary was clad in her white lawn nightgown that covered her from head to toe. She sipped the ice-cold water Sal had poured her.

  “Better?” he asked, sinking down onto the arm of the chair.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, lowering herself on shaking legs into the cow-patterned chair. She felt horribly embarrassed at having tossed her cookies in front of the man she had the hots for, but at least she’d made it to the toilet. “I’m sorry you had to see that. Guess I’m not much for alcohol.”

  “So why were you drinking champagne with a gay guy named Trevor? And why do you have a tattoo on your ass?”

  Rosemary launched into the tale about Gilda and her connection to Trevor Lindley. Sal had vaguely heard the name of the designer but seemed to glean from her excitement that lunch with Trevor was a big deal.

  “So he wants to sell your pillows?”

  “That’s the thing, he wants prototypes and a marketing plan for them. Five different patterns that would be customized with reproduced vintage fabrics. He’s doing custom work for bedding and drapery in his Nolita store, and if his team likes my pillows enough, he’ll contract me to create more. He’ll even feature them in his catalog. Once I create five prototypes, he wants me to bring them to his offices next week. This is like having a treasure chest buried in my backyard—totally unexpected, but I ain’t complaining.”

  “That’s a pretty incredible opportunity.”

  “I know. Thank goodness I rented that sewing machine and found some workable materials. But I need more. I’m going shopping in the morning.”

  “And the tattoo?”

  Yeah, the tattoo. “I guess I’m not accustomed to drinking and Trevor kept ordering champagne punch. Weirdly enough, I couldn’t taste the alcohol. I was a bit woozy when I left lunch, but not drunk. The champagne sort of snuck up on me. When I saw the tattoo place, it seemed like a good idea. You have a few, and they’re so sexy. I wanted to have one, too. One that reminded me of you and how the wrong direction is sometimes the right direction. Or at least that’s how I saw it in my drunken state.” She gave a wry smile. Thank God she’d had it placed somewhere where her mother was unlikely to see it. She couldn’t imagine the comments that would come out of Patsy’s mouth about how trashy it was on an upstanding girl like Rosemary. Of course, she hadn’t been standing when she got the tattoo. She’d been lying down, butt waggling in the air while Jeffery bit his own tongue in concentration.

  “But it can be your secret, huh?” Sal asked, his dark eyes twinkling. “A forever reminder of your time here in SoHo.”

  “Or rather, Chinatown,” she said, wishing she’d found a jewelry store instead of a tattoo parlor. Buying the charm for the bracelet would have been less expensive, less painful, and could be removed from her body. “And I’m sorry I didn’t make it by the restaurant. Guess after the tattoo I was too out of it. It’s a wonder I made it back here.”

  “You had a compass,” he joked.

  Rosemary shrugged. “True, and now I guess I always will.”

  “Tattoo regret?”

  She twisted her lips and thought about having the reminder of this time with her always. “I don’t think so. Just surprised by myself, that’s all.”

  “It’s late. I should go.”

  But she didn’t want him to go. Of course, she had just puked her guts up and probably smelled like back-alley Chinatown, but those precious seconds ticked by, never to be gathered to her again. “You don’t have to.”

  “But I know you don’t feel well.”

  “We can just sleep.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting otherwise,” he said, giving her a smile.

  “Stay with me,” she said, feeling a little needy and a little emphatic.

  “Okay,” he said, turning off the lamp and unbuttoning his shirt. In the dimness she could s
till see how incredibly hot he was—the laser-etched abs, the broad chest with the more complex ink trailing down one shoulder. The belt came off and trousers dropped, revealing toned thighs and rock-hard butt encapsulated in the tight boxer briefs. Even though she still felt slightly nauseated, a hot flash of desire mixed with appreciation stirred in her gut . . . along with the remnants of too much champagne.

  They were going to sleep together, but not sleep together. Totally new to her. Who was she kidding? This was all new to her.

  The guys she’d dated in college didn’t inspire any sort of domestic, I’m-comfortable-enough-with-you-to-traipse-about-naked-or-lose-my-lunch-in-front-of-you type of relationship. And the one guy she’d dated in Morning Glory, before he married a topless waitress from down in Mobile, had never stayed at her place. Sex with him had been like a drive-by shooting.

  With a really small gun.

  “You see what the thought of getting into bed with you does to me?” he said, gesturing to his crotch as they padded toward the bed. Rosemary caught sight of the hardness taking shape in his briefs. “And you’re wearing a gown straight out of The Waltons.”

  Rosemary smiled. “This isn’t off The Waltons. How do you know what the Waltons are, anyway?”

  “I watch a lot of TV.”

  Rosemary pulled back the coverlet and climbed inside, choosing the right side of the bed. Sal did the same on the other side, switching off the lamp and gathering her to him.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever spent the night with a woman and not had sex. Other than my sisters.”

  “’Cause you’re not from Mississippi?” she joked, curling into him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Funny girl,” he said with laughter in his voice.

  “I so am,” Rosemary said, though no one other than her closest friends would say that about her.

  His warmth seeped into her, relaxing her, and she fell asleep in the arms of her Italian sex slave with the sounds of New York City in the background.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sal had never felt as miserable as he had during Louisa Grimaldi’s funeral. And it wasn’t because the service was particularly sad, though there were plenty of tears. Nor was it because his wingtips pinched his toes. No, it was because everyone there treated him like Angelina’s boyfriend. And it wasn’t like he could come out and say, “This bitch be crazy.”

  Because it was a funeral and Father Pinada would have rapped his knuckles like a medieval nun if he’d dared to be so disrespectful.

  Then when they went to the graveside services—which Sal had tried to beg off but failed—Angelina pulled him to her, wrapping her arm through his, rooting him to the spot with her family. He’d had to stand beside her while everyone in the community paused in front of her, paying their respects.

  So, yeah, another nail in the coffin of his future.

  His mother had beamed at him, giving him that nod again. Good boy, Salvatore.

  The whole thing had made him feel like he couldn’t breathe. He’d clawed at his necktie and tried to remember how lovely Rosemary had looked when he slipped out of her bed in the quiet dawn light. She’d snored like a lumberjack, but she’d looked like an angel. He’d left her with a soft kiss atop her head and a note for her to call him later.

  She hadn’t called yet.

  “Sal,” Angelina’s father, Leonard, said, clasping him by the shoulder. “I’m so glad you were here with us today. It has been hard on my wife and daughters, but you have been a faithful friend to our family.

  “Thank you, Mr. Vitale.”

  “I hear work on the deli is going well. Brilliant idea. You can catch the theater crowd. Your father has a lot of faith in you.”

  “That’s the plan,” Sal said.

  “You’ve grown into a solid young man. I’m proud you are in my daughter’s life. A bright future ahead, no doubt about it,” Leonard Vitale said, his hand heavy on Sal’s shoulder.

  Jesus Christ. Even Angelina’s father put pressure on him. Hadn’t anyone realized he and Angelina weren’t even dating? He’d yet to take her out to dinner. They saw each other only during prearranged instances. Not that Louisa Grimaldi’s dying was prearranged or anything. “Thank you, Mr. Vitale.”

  “Come by the house more often. I’m surrounded by women and appreciate a little male companionship every now and then. You play poker?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’ll teach you,” Leonard said, slapping him on the back.

  “My father likes you,” Angelina said, her dark eyes softening, as her father moved on to talk to several other people. Her hand stroked his biceps.

  “I better go. You have family to visit with and all,” he said, feeling like he might hyperventilate. Did dudes even do that?

  “Sal,” his mother called, beckoning him with a hand. “Come ride with me in Brit’s car.”

  He’d planned on taking the train back into the city. Using the leverage of the funeral and the extra hours he’d worked last night, he’d managed to get the rest of the afternoon and evening off. He planned on spending every single second with Rosemary. “I can take the train.”

  “No, come with me. I haven’t had a chance to visit with you, and you know I need a good navigator when I drive.”

  “What about Pops?”

  “He’s going with Dom and Rachel.”

  Sal looked over to Angelina. “I’ll see you later.”

  “Will you?” she asked, her hands crossing a chest accented nicely in the sleeveless classic black dress. Ironically a strand of pearls sat against her collarbone, giving Angelina a striking Audrey Hepburn look. Dressing for a funeral agreed with her.

  He didn’t answer and instead moved away. He had no more words for Angelina. He’d gone above and beyond the call of duty over the last several days and didn’t owe her anything more.

  The crowd dissipated and he joined his mother, who looked good in her dark pantsuit. Natalie Genovese preferred glitz and bold color, but she’d settled for sedate when it came to funerals, pulling her hair back with jeweled pins. The strands of gray embedded in the dark depths reminded him she approached sixty-five years.

  “It’s been a while since it’s been just you and me, Sal,” his mother said, dangling the keys. “You wanna drive?”

  “No, you can,” he said, sliding in the passenger seat of his sister’s Honda, realizing it had been a while since he’d been alone with his mother. When he was young, she’d make a point to spend a day with each of her children every now and then. He’d loved being her sole focus.

  A few minutes later they climbed the on-ramp of Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. “So what’s this about?”

  “What do you mean?” his mother asked. “I haven’t seen you much. You’ve been preoccupied.”

  He wasn’t fooled. His mother had a reason for asking him to ride with her. He knew it was Angelina. Just a matter of how long his mother would beat around the bush. “Okay.”

  “The deli will be finished by fall. You have any ideas about the grand opening?”

  “Not really.”

  His mother sighed, pushing her sunglasses up her long nose. “You don’t want to run the deli, do you?”

  “I don’t know what I want.” And that was the truth.

  “Your father thought you’d be pleased with the idea, but you’re not.”

  Be honest or hedge? “It’s a generous thing he’s doing. But no one asked me.”

  “We have to ask you about giving you a gift?”

  “When the gift determines my future? Yeah.”

  “And you have a plan for that future?” his mother asked, laying on the horn when someone tried to swerve into her lane.

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You can’t go on working the way you are. Don’t you want more? You’re thirty years old. A man now.”

  Sal sighed. “This, I know.”

  “And Angelina? You’re not buying into her, either, eh?”

  “No. I’m not.”

&nb
sp; Natalie sighed. “Let me tell you something, okay?”

  He nodded. She would say it anyway. His mother wasn’t the kind to rest until all the wrinkles had been ironed, all the frayed edges trimmed.

  “When you were with that Hillary, I thought, Eh, he’s different from the others and that’s okay.”

  It was always that Hillary. As if she was subpar, which was ironic, since Hillary had thought Sal beneath her. Or so he assumed, since she cut off all contact and married a different guy the same day they’d chosen as their wedding date.

  “Ever since you were little, I knew this. You were rebellious. If your siblings wanted macaroni, you wanted a meatball sub. It’s your way. So I accepted that. But then that bitch broke you. I saw this, too. The way your shoulders slumped, the way you stopped fighting. That’s what heartbreak does. I understand.”

  “I didn’t stop fighting,” Sal said, flicking a piece of fuzz off his suit pants. “I hurt. But I got better.”

  “Yes, I remember the parade of women,” his mother said, her red-painted lips tilting down in disapproval. “But we had a talk. You remember?”

  “I wasn’t serious when I said find me a wife.”

  His mother’s eyebrows rose over the large sunglasses lens. “Maybe not.” She allowed a pause to play out. “You ever have friends, and you can see they’re about to slam into a concrete wall but they have no clue?”

  “What?”

  “Like people in your life, and you watch them make these decisions and you know they’re not good for them.”

  “Sure, I’ve watched people make bad choices before.”

  “Well, that’s how I feel when I hear you’re running around with some tourist, when you brush aside the gift your father gives you, when you try to give a good girl the boot. I feel like I’m watching you about to hit a big wall.”

  “You’re implying you know better than I do about my life.”

  She applied her brakes. Traffic had stacked up. “I’m not saying that. I’m saying I can see what’s going to happen. You’re chasing a life that won’t work.”

  Sal felt anger gurgle inside him. His mother had stopped with the passive-aggressive manipulation crap and laid it out. “Why not?”