Prince Not Quite Charming: A Morning Glory Novella

by Liz Talley

  PRINCE NOT QUITE CHARMING

  Copyright ©2017 Liz Talley

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The use of locations and products throughout this book is done so for storytelling purposes and should in no way been seen as advertisement. Trademark names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Edited and formatted by Victory Editing.

  Cover design by the Killion Group.

  For Kendall

  Sometimes the heart must look in other directions to find a meant to be.

  Enjoy the journey.

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Want More?

  About the Author

  Also by Liz Talley

  Frances Anne Genovese sat at a table on the perimeter of the rose garden and wondered if she should film the wedding reception happening around her. She was certain that between the Elvis impersonator and the woman who was doing the Wobble—not to mention her tutu-bedecked wiener dogs—that the video would go instantly viral or, at the very least, get a ton of likes. But since it was her brother’s wedding reception, she probably shouldn’t showcase the crazy.

  “You going to eat your cake, Frannie?” her brother Vinnie asked, shoving the last bite of his wedding cake into his mouth. Frances had worked in the restaurant business since she was twelve years old and had never heard of a hummingbird cake. Her new sister-in-law Rosemary said it was a Southern thing, but it looked like Italian crème cake to her … if Italian crème cake had bananas and pineapple in it. No thanks.

  “No,” she said, sipping the last of the champagne in her glass, wincing when she saw her mother and father sampling something called Natchitoches meat pies and making a face. The reception was being held in the gardens of Briarcliff, an antebellum house in rural Mississippi, which might as well have been Mars to the Genovese family. “I’m cutting out carbs.”

  “Can I have your piece?” Vinnie asked, sliding the cake her mother had brought her toward him. “I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving.”

  “And you’re always on a diet. Why do you think I sit next to you?”

  Frances’s younger brother, Sal, had married a Mississippi girl he’d met a few months ago when she was visiting New York City. Frances couldn’t believe the idiot had fallen for a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Southerner who lived on, of all things, a plantation. Sal was a New Yorker through and through. But he’d dumped his gritty urban world along with the new deli her father had pretty much given him to move to Bumfuck, Mississippi, to open his own pizzeria and marry Rosemary. The whole thing made no sense to Frances. Who in God’s name fell in love in a couple of weeks’ time? And then gave up his whole world?

  It was a concept Frances couldn’t imagine, mostly because she had more sense than her brother.

  “I’m going to find a bridesmaid to dance with. You’re boring the hell outta me,” Vinnie said, licking his fork and drawing the attention of Rosemary’s mother, who issued a quick frown at his lack of manners.

  “What about Jenny?” Frances asked, knowing Vinnie’s jealous fiancée wouldn’t appreciate her handsome brother chasing either one of the pretty bridesmaids.

  “We’re gonna dance, not screw,” Vinnie quipped, wiping his mouth and smoothing down his inky hair, which was a tad too long.

  With that he was gone, grinning like the handsome Italian man he was. He veered toward the tall bridesmaid, Jess, who’d skipped out of the reception for a while. She’d returned with the Elvis impersonator and a guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. His green eyes were so vivid she could see them from fifteen yards away. Vin would do better going after the short, dark bridesmaid who stood quietly assessing the crowd.

  Frances saw her parents heading back toward her, so she stood up and moved toward the herringbone brick path that led toward the tables laden with the Italian specialties her mother had put together. Frances and her father, Donnie, had been at odds for the past month and a half. He’d refused to allow her to run the new deli in Sal’s place, and thus things had been very awkward. Mostly because she refused to speak to him after the huge shouting match they’d engaged in three weeks ago. She just didn’t understand why he wouldn’t listen to her. Why her own father didn’t respect her enough to discuss a different vision for the place a few blocks off Times Square. If she were being truthful, it hurt more than it frustrated her.

  So instead of faking pleasantries with her parents as they dissected the other table, which was filled with Southern fried catfish and black-eyed-pea dip, among other things, she looked for Sal and his new bride. Her brother had said he needed to speak with her … if she could find him. And really, how hard could it be to find the happiest fool this side of the Mississippi River?

  Gag.

  Not that Frances was bitter. It was merely that she didn’t understand why Sal had given up all he was for someone he didn’t know that well. But she was happy for him. Maybe she’d feel more optimistic if she hadn’t just split with Michael a few months ago. Frances had spent three years waiting on the handsome stockbroker to put a ring on her finger, only to have him tell her he wasn’t ready for commitment … and he might never be. Kinda made a gal jaded when it came to tossing bouquets and vowing forever.

  Frances scoured the crowded reception, noting Vinnie dancing with the quiet bridesmaid, but she didn’t see Sal or his new bride. Rosemary should be easy to find in her vintage Chanel straight out of the 1950s. With a matching cap and accompanying veil, she looked like Grace Kelly or one of the actresses from Mad Men. It was a look Frances could never pull off but suited Rosemary with her white gloves and pearls. Frances had elected to wear a pale blue Rebecca Minkoff strapless dress with her silver Jimmy Choo sandals. She looked like exactly what she was—a city slicker.

  With no luck locating Sal, she headed for the open bar.

  Two men stood in front of her, arguing good-naturedly about the SEC. Took her a minute to realize they weren’t talking money but rather football. The consensus seemed to be that while the West was stacked, the East was putrid. The shorter man was whip-thin and wore a seersucker suit and bow tie. The other wore a navy sports coat a size too small and dwarfed the other man. He had big, callused hands he used to make his points.

  “Well, heeeell, Chris. That ain’t gonna happen. Florida ain’t got the quarterback to run that kind of offense,” the big man said, stepping back and clipping her pinky toe.

  “Ouch,” she yipped.
>
  “Aw, damn, I’m sorry,” he said, turning around and putting his big paw on her upper arm. “You all right, darlin’?”

  Frances brushed his hand away. “Fine. I just lost a toe, that’s all.”

  He looked down at her foot. “Looks like it’s still attached. Want me to take a peek at it?”

  The eyes he squinted while assessing her foot were a warm brown, the exact color of amaretto, and he hadn’t shaved in a few days, though on second thought the look was probably intentional. His jaw was wide and his nose sharp. Altogether he was emphatically masculine and more than slightly handsome.

  “No,” she said, stepping away, trying to ignore the throb in her pinky toe. “It’s fine.”

  The man raised his gaze to her face, taking his time on the way up. “I’m Clem. I don’t remember seeing you around. And trust me, I’d remember you, darlin.’”

  Frances narrowed her eyes, seeing right through his drawl and aw-shucks demeanor. This man was a shark and she the slick seal that had wandered away from safety. “That’s because I’m not from here.”

  “You’re Sal’s sister, I bet,” the man with the bow tie said, his accent as thick as the late-afternoon humidity surrounding them.

  Frances shifted her gaze to the smaller man. He had a neat moustache and wore a pocket square. She didn’t know anyone under seventy who wore an actual pocket square who wasn’t …

  Okay, if her gaydar was still working, slim and dapper played for the other team.

  “I am Sal’s sister,” she said, nudging her head toward the bar as the person in front of them slid away. “Your turn.”

  The two men swung back toward the bar and gave their orders, allowing Frances to study their backsides … not that she could tell much of anything. And not that she wanted to actually check either of them out. She’d felt no inclination to mingle with the opposite sex since her split with Michael.

  One of the catering staff hoisted a tray of flutes filled with champagne and moved past. She snagged one and then searched for an inconspicuous spot to endure the reception. She felt guilty for not being able to cut loose and celebrate her brother’s nuptials, but the past month had been nearly intolerable. She couldn’t go on living with her parents—while not speaking to one of them—and she’d have to figure out if she wanted to continue working for the family business or search for a new job that would allow her to use her degree in marketing and restaurant management. ’Cause obviously her stubborn, traditional, Italian Catholic father wasn’t going to roll over.

  Spying a nice alcove by one of the flickering tiki torches, she headed that way.

  Elvis was going strong, singing “Blue Suede Shoes,” and people were shaking their rumps on the dance floor. Fun happening without her. She edged back and sighed as a mosquito landed on her shoulder. She smacked it, whipping her head around to look for more of the bloodthirsty insects.

  And that’s when she smelled it, a scent that reminded her of her curling iron.

  Burning hair.

  And then she realized exactly what it was.

  Her hair was on fire.

  Clemson Todd Aiken III had already danced with two attractive ladies, including his ex-girlfriend Eden Voorhies, when he spied the knocked-out pretty filly in the light blue dress and fancy silver shoes. She had smooth golden skin and hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She hadn’t cracked a smile once, and something about that seemed a travesty in the midst of such happiness.

  She intrigued him.

  Seemed obvious she was the groom’s sister, so why wasn’t she enjoying the fact her brother had gotten the hell out of New York City with one of the prettiest, richest girls in Rankin County? Maybe sister wasn’t a fan of the summer fling turned marriage. Or maybe she was just sour grapes about life in general. Clem wanted to know why. And he didn’t know why he wanted to know. He just did.

  So when he found her in line behind him in his quest for another Jack and Coke, he’d tried to bump into her. Hadn’t worked because he’d accidently stepped on her foot. His aw-gosh boyishness didn’t seem to work on her. Of course, it could be that her toe hurt. Either way, she was a prickly pear who wasn’t interested in him in the least.

  Nothing Clem Aiken liked better than a challenge.

  As he chatted football with Chris Haven—who covertly checked out the way Clem’s shirt stretched across his chest—he kept an eye on the aloof beauty.

  So when the city girl caught on fire, Clem was the first to notice.

  Grabbing the pitcher of ice water sitting on the end of a table by the punch bowl, he jogged past a gaggle of fluffy-looking women wearing too much makeup and made his way to where the intriguing woman swatted at mosquitos, unaware of the smoke billowing behind her.

  He knew just the moment she realized she had a problem. She sniffed and made a confused face. Her eyes went wide as fifty-cent pieces and her mouth dropped open. He reached her right as a plume of smoke wafted from the brunette hair cascading down her back.

  Then he dumped the pitcher of water on her.

  She shrieked like she was auditioning for a horror film … right before she slapped the shit out of him.

  “Hey,” he said, jumping back and clasping his stinging jaw. The woman didn’t play when she hit a guy. “I was just puttin’ you out.”

  She blinked though the rivulets of water, shaking her hands. “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. That was so cold.”

  A few people had rushed over—he could feel them at his back. Clem didn’t want to lift his own hand to his cheek. No use in being a wuss about a little ol’ slap. “Sure it’s cold. Had ice in it.”

  Sputtering, she wiped her face and then swiped at the silk plastered to her bosom. The woman had a nice rack, um, décolleté. Hey, he appreciated nice assets on a woman. Hell, he even appreciated fair to middling assets on a woman.

  What he didn’t appreciate was one with nice assets slapping the crap out of him. For helping her.

  “My dress,” she said, brushing at the drenched silk. She glanced up, mascara streaking her cheeks, and her beauty sucker punched him. This was a woman with elegant edges, eyes so dark they seemed fathomless and lashes too thick to be real. The only softness was in the escaped tendrils plastered against her neck, the curve of her bottom lip, and the previously admired and very generous bustline. “It’s ruined … and I just bought it.”

  Rosemary Reynolds, newly Genovese, rushed over. “Don’t worry, Frances. We’ll give it a good soak in cold water and Woolite.” Rosemary shoved Clem back and plucked the silvery-blue fabric between her thumb and forefinger, eyeing it with concern.

  “She was on fire,” Clem said to everyone in earshot. Wasn’t like he was trying to ruin her dress or anything.

  Rosemary turned to him just as her new husband, Sal, arrived on the scene. “She was on fire? Like real fire?”

  “Oh God. My hair,” Frances said, pulling at her ponytail. “It’s singed.”

  “It was the tiki torch.” Clem pointed to the still-flickering torch that was emitting the citronella oils to keep the mosquitoes at bay. He felt like he was playing Clue. It was the butler with the candlestick in the library. “Probably all the stuff she put in her hair to make it look fancy. You know that stuff goes up like diesel fuel.”

  Rosemary spun Sal’s sister around and grabbed her ponytail. “Well, it’s a little burnt, but nothing a nice trim won’t fix.” She then turned to the gathering crowd. “Nothing to see here. Y’all go on back to the food and dancing. Sal’s about to cut his New York Yankees groom’s cake. Y’all will want a piece because Gigi made it.”

  “Guess I’ll have to stomach the Yankees for a piece of Gigi’s cake,” someone joked. A few people headed back to toward the festivities. A few hung around, maybe looking for another show.

  Clem waited a few seconds for Miss Priss to relay her gratitude for his saving her life or at least an apology for slapping him, but instead, Frances gave him a withering look. “Next time a word of warning would do better than soaking me w
ith an entire pitcher of water. You ruined my expensive dress.”

  “Wait, what?” he asked, stunned she would be critical of him after he’d—okay, not saved her life—but saved her hair at least. “You’re mad at me?”

  She made a face. “Well, you could have sounded an alarm rather than dousing me.”

  “You ungrateful little—”

  Rosemary pressed her fingers against his lips and stopped him. “Now, Frances isn’t used to our ways. She’s upset.”

  “But,” he started to mumble against her hand.

  She pressed harder, preventing him from saying anything else. “Thank you for being so sweet.”

  With that, the bride tugged Frances by the arm and steered her toward the small carriage house where Rosemary had lived since she’d moved back to Morning Glory. He assumed the damn Woolite was in there or something. Frances didn’t protest to her new sister-in-law, probably because she looked like a drowned cat. Something about that made him feel marginally better.

  Sal punched him on the arm. “Sorry about that, man. My sister’s usually not so prickly. She’s had it kind of rough lately. Lot of stuff weighing on her.”

  Clem bit down on the complaint he was about to make. Sal was a decent guy for a northerner, and a good customer. The man had awarded Clem the contract to remodel the old Morning Glory Bank and Trust, which had stood empty for nearly twenty years, into Sal’s New York Pizzeria. They’d already completed the heavy lifting on the remodel and now awaited finishing it out with flooring, lighting, and fixtures. “No harm done.”

  Except the slap. He probably had a handprint on his cheek.

  Sal watched the two women enter the double french doors of the carriage house. “Hey, I wanted to talk to you about the next week or two. I’m taking Rosemary up to Memphis tonight and then we’re flying out to Vegas for ten days. Frances has a few changes to our design plan. Just some superficial stuff. Flooring and paint.”