by Liz Talley
Rosemary smiled, and damn if she wasn’t the prettiest—no, sexiest—thing he’d seen in forever. She said, “We won’t be lying. But to tell the truth, I’m dying for a drink. Dancing’s more of a workout than I remembered.”
“Let’s grab a table,” he said.
Rosemary limped toward the area crowded with tables and chatter. If he’d known her better, he might have teased her more, but she looked a bit embarrassed at the skipping hobble. “How am I going to make it home like this?”
Sal took her hand. “My steed, of course.”
“You’re taking this gallantry thing seriously, aren’t you?”
“Trying to be as courteous as the southerners you’re used to.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes. “You wanted to nail me for that earlier comment, didn’t you?”
Wanting to nail her? Was he that transparent? Maybe. He was a dude. “Hey, you threw down the glove. I’m merely picking it up and trying to prove I can be a gentleman. Sometimes.”
“I shouldn’t have implied only southerners were gracious when I helped Mr. Weingarten to his cab. Not well done of me.”
“It’s okay. We New Yorkers can be blunt, impervious, and smart-assed. Totally part of our charm.” He nodded at the hostess, who gave him a questioning arch of her brow. She jabbed a finger toward a small table sitting next to a window. Sal took Rosemary’s elbow and steered her toward the table with the flickering votive. She limped beside him, a flush staining her cheeks. “I feel like such a dork.”
“But you’re a cute dork,” he said.
“Bet you say that to all the girls who break their shoes dancing with you.”
The hostess handed him a cocktail menu and disappeared. Sal remembered to pull out her chair. His dating skills were a bit rusty, since they pretty much consisted of buying drinks at the clubs and waiting for a tipsy girl to fall into his lap. He’d forgotten what a date was. He’d forgotten about romance, the art of small talk and subtle flirting.
Rosemary sank into the chair, letting loose a breath. “Made it.”
He handed her the menu. “What would you like to drink?”
She stared at the words. “Well, I’m fine with a glass of iced tea.”
He couldn’t hold back the laugh.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. You’re just . . . cute.”
She blushed again. “You keep saying that. Is ‘cute’ code for lame?”
He laughed.
“Well, maybe I am,” she said. “I don’t drink much except for special occasions.”
“And this is . . .”
“Right.” Rosemary looked back down at the menu. “Hmmm . . . this Ruby Slipper looks good.”
He took the menu and eyed the description. “Yeah, that’s what me and the guys call a ‘panty dropper.’”
“In that case I’ll take a glass of white zinfandel.”
Laughing had become a habit around Rosemary. Another thing he liked about her. As his laughter died, a waitress appeared. Seconds after he ordered her a glass of wine and a domestic beer for himself, he took her hand. Her fingers were soft, with manicured nails painted the color of the lining of a seashell. Very ladylike.
She looked at him questioningly.
“I’m not feeding you a line when I say this, okay?”
“Okay,” she said looking perplexed.
“Thank you for coming with me tonight. I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”
“You said that before. What do you mean by someone like me?”
“You’re just different. Lately I’ve been surrounded by women who seem one thing but then they’re not as billed. Thing is, you seem like a person who isn’t afraid to be herself.”
She made a face. “Well, I don’t know who else to be. I’d like to pretend I’m worldly and sophisticated, but we both know I’d fall as flat as I nearly fell out there.” She jerked her head toward the dance floor.
“Who needs sophistication? So overrated.” His mind flipped to Hillary, to the way she’d ordered drinks with bitters and stalked about in heels that cost as much as a small island. She’d had money and absolute control . . . and she’d never given his broken heart a second glance. Because to her, he’d been something to play with. When it came down to cutting bait, Hillary had chosen to please her Fortune 500 CEO daddy by not slumming with a greaseball from Brooklyn.
Sal watched the guileless Rosemary in the flickering candlelight. Outside the window, Manhattan lay glittering like a backdrop in a movie. Inside he wondered if he’d indeed jumped track. Or was he lying to himself? The conflicting parts of his psyche twisted around each other, each struggling for a foothold. This wasn’t about Rosemary. This was about his life.
After a few seconds she said, “Tonight feels surreal, like I’m a different person. I know it sounds like I’m beating a dead horse, but I’m amazed at myself.”
“Do you have a boyfriend back in Mississippi?” he asked, not even knowing why that popped into his mind. Maybe because she’d said she felt not herself when all he could see was someone so genuine.
Rosemary shook her head with a wry smile. “My hometown’s not exactly wriggling with eligible bachelors.”
“You’d like to think NYC would be an easier place to find the right person, but it’s not. So what do you do back in—where was it?”
“Morning Glory. We’re not too far from Jackson.”
He tried to remember where Jackson was.
“It’s in Mississippi. That’s the state between Louisiana and Alabama,” she said, reading his mind.
“I know.” Though he didn’t. He’d kicked ass in math, but geography was always a weakness. The South was an area he had little cause to know much about. His world consisted of five boroughs. And maybe New Jersey when he wanted to go to the shore.
She grinned. “I’m teasing. I own a fabric shop called Parsley and Sage.”
“Like you sell material for sewing?”
“And supplies for knitting, quilting, and crafts.”
“My grandmother likes to knit,” he said, understanding now why Rosemary seemed old-fashioned. It’s because she was. Not in a grandmotherly way, but in a way that made her startlingly unique.
“My grandmother taught me how to knit when I was eight years old. I became obsessed with making things. Still am, I guess.” She blushed after she blurted that out. “Jeez, I sound so lame. Hi, my name is Rosemary. I’m a backwoods hick who doesn’t dance and sews pillows.”
“You’re not a hick. Besides, what’s lame about loving what you do?”
“I don’t know. Most people hate their jobs,” she said, giving a little shrug. “Living in Morning Glory can be a pain in the behind, but when it comes down to it, I fit there.”
Her words smacked him, leaving behind a sting. I fit there. Rosemary knew who she was, but he couldn’t say the same. Over the past few months he’d started losing the part of himself that wanted to break away from his world. He hadn’t the energy to second-guess his mother’s choice for him even though he didn’t want Angelina. Nor had he questioned his father buying a deli in the theater district he wanted to hand over to Sal like an inheritance.
So what was his true passion?
Well, he liked making food people came back for time and again. Sal had put several dishes on the menu at Mama Mello’s, and his pizzas made must-dine lists across the city. He loved experimenting with different toppings, pairing the unexpected with the traditional. But his pops didn’t like anything too different. Donnie was a red sauce kinda guy, and he’d nixed half of Sal’s suggestions for the pizza pie menu at the new location they’d open in late fall.
Beyond knowing cooking was his thing, Sal hadn’t discovered much else.
Before Hillary broke his heart, he’d vowed never to be like his brothers. Both Dom and Vincent had fallen in line with being part of the business, accepting it the same way they’d done as children when their mother had heaped peas on their plate. Eat what is given to you. Sal didn’t
like peas and he’d been determined not to toe the line for his pop. No living in the city or working for someone else. He’d dreamed of opening his own Italian place in a coastal town or even a place in the mountains. He’d have a house with a yard. Maybe a dog. At night he’d hear crickets, and when he walked outside, the stars would glitter, unfazed by the glow of a city.
“Guess I’m passionate about cooking,” he said finally.
“You should be,” Rosemary said, accepting the glass the waitress handed her. The light pink wine bubbled on the top and she sighed when she sipped it. “I would have stabbed someone if he’d tried to take one of my meatballs.”
He smiled, set a twenty-dollar bill on the tray, and took a long draw on the cold brew. “That’s why we don’t leave sharp knives out. Too many instances of death by meatball.”
Rosemary rolled her eyes then took another sip of the wine. “This is good. Reminds me of home.”
“How?”
“Well, my friends Eden, Jess, and La—” She stopped and swallowed hard. “My friends and I drink this when we’re hanging out. It’s kind of girly and I know hardly any self-respecting wine enthusiast would drink it, but it fits us.”
“Bubbly and pink?”
“And sweet as sugah, darlin’.” Rosemary tilted her head and batted her long eyelashes.
“God, you’re good at that.” Sal held his beer aloft, waiting for her to clink her glass to his. Finally, she took the hint. “To a southern girl learning how to be a little bad in New York City.”
“Here, here,” she said with an impish twinkle in her eye. “And to an Italian guy who’s helping her take the plunge.”
Chapter Five
Flip-flops had never been her favorite shoe choice. The slap-slap-slap of them against her foot set her teeth on edge. But that was all that was available at the bodega right outside the hotel’s back door.
Unfortunately they were a bright yellow with a neon-orange flower. They looked like a nuclear explosion of sunshine.
“They’re not that bad. I kinda like them,” Sal said as they exited the store, her broken sandals swinging beside her in a plastic bag.
“You either have appalling taste or are color-blind,” she said.
“There’s an insult hidden in there somewhere. I’m going to plead color-blind . . . even though I’m not,” he said, looking around. “You want to go do something else?”
“It’s nearly midnight,” she countered. She didn’t want the night to end, but she could feel exhaustion descending. Flying solo to JFK, surviving the subway, and dancing beneath the Manhattan sky with a hot guy she’d met only hours before was quite an adventure for a gal who went to bed at ten o’clock every night.
“Been a long day for you, I suppose. Probably need to get you home and in bed.”
Her stomach flipped over at the thought of bed. And Sal.
He’d look good sprawled on the white sheets her cousin had put on the queen-size bed. The image of his tan skin and inky hair, mussed from a night of lovemaking, made Rosemary swallow. Hard.
She wasn’t the kind of girl who picked a guy up for a one-night stand. On the contrary, she’d made Judson Hall, her college boyfriend, wait for three months before she’d even let him slide a hand into her jeans. It had taken six months and a pack of birth control pills before she’d gone all the way with him in his room at the TKE house, door barred and triple locked. Sex was a big deal to her and she didn’t need his scuzzy roommate trying to catch a glimpse.
Still, Sal would look really, really, REALLY hot wrapped in those sheets.
“Ugh, yeah, it’s been a long one. I flew out of Jackson at six a.m.”
“I know. Jackson’s in Mississippi.”
She smiled, lifting her gaze to his. “Thank you for bringing me here. I’ll never forget tonight.”
And she wouldn’t. When she was on her deathbed, she’d probably remember the way he smelled, the way he held her, and the way they’d talked for hours. The impromptu date had been magical from the moment she’d stepped inside Mama Mello’s until the purchase of her ugly flip-flops.
“Yeah, me, too,” he said, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear.
Oh God. Was he going to kiss her?
Part of Rosemary wanted to step away, because a woman like her had no business kissing a guy like Sal. The other part wanted to jump into his arms and say to hell with being proper. This was why she’d come to New York City, why she’d gone dancing with a perfect stranger. This was the part of herself she was here to unleash.
Her heart pounded in her throat, and suddenly her mouth went dry. She licked her lips. He watched her lick her lips.
Slowly he leaned toward her.
Time stood still.
He was going to—
Suddenly he pulled back.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Weren’t you going to kiss me?”
He gave a self-conscious laugh. “Well, I was, but I wasn’t sure.”
“About what?”
“Whether you wanted me to or not. I mean, you’re a nice girl.”
Rosemary sighed. “Nice girls like kisses, but if you’d rather not, I under—”
She couldn’t finish because his lips had covered hers. Then his arm swept her to him, enveloping her in his total maleness. His other hand cupped her jaw, tilting her head.
The kiss was sweet, nearly innocent, but she felt it all the way down to the toes beneath the orange daisy.
He lifted his head and met her gaze, his dark eyes questioning, revealing a teeny flash of something. Something she wanted to know more about.
But he lowered his head again, capturing her lips, nudging them apart so he could taste her better.
Liquid warmth pooled in her belly, drenching her in sweet instantaneous desire. Maybe it was the wine. Or the fact she’d danced to Etta James and Nat King Cole standards. Or maybe it was the seduction of the city, but she’d never felt such an immediate flash of all-out need.
She needed this man.
His tongue moved against hers, giving her a taste of the yeasty beer he’d drunk earlier.
“Mmm,” she murmured, sliding her hands up his shoulders, brushing the dark hair at his collar. His hand cradled her waist then dipped several inches lower to the rounding of her butt, pressing her closer to his hardness.
After a few seconds, he broke the kiss.
If his gaze and kicked-up breathing were any indication, Sal was as turned on as she was.
“Damn, I’m glad nice girls like kissing,” he said, still holding her. She wanted to stay in this moment forever.
“Nice girls love kissing,” she said eyeing his lips again. “In fact, if you want to come—”
“Better get you home,” he interrupted.
The invitation she’d been about to extend died on her tongue. Disappointment nudged desire out of the way. Managing a nod, she said, “That’s probably a good idea.”
He released her, stepping away. He put two fingers against those delicious lips and did that whistle thing she had never mastered, though she’d tried to learn it when she was twelve. A cab pulled up less than ten seconds later. He was as magic as Carrie Bradshaw. Had to be a New Yorker thing.
Sal pulled open the cab door, standing back so she could slide inside.
She hesitated, narrowing her eyes at the idling cab.
“It’s easy. Just tell him where you need to go,” Sal said.
“You’re not coming with me?”
He paused, casting a questioning glance her way.
Oh.
She could see his thoughts. He thought she’d asked him something she wasn’t asking. Or rather something she’d decided against asking. Seconds ago it had been a possibility. But it was midnight and her pumpkin idled. Cinderella out. “Are you staying here or something?”
“I live in Brooklyn. It’s that way.” He pointed over his shoulder.
The cab driver made an impatient noise in the back
of his throat and then flicked a bunch of switches on the dashboard, making the meter light up.
“Yeah, of course, I knew that.” But she hadn’t wanted the evening to end this way. And besides, she’d never ridden in a cab before. Did she pay the driver first or when they arrived at her cousin’s walk-up? How much was she supposed to tip? And did Sal want to see her again? Or was this it?
“So I hope you’ll come by the restaurant again,” Sal said.
To eat? Or for something more?
“I’ll try to,” she said. What else could she say? Don’t end it this way? Stay with me? I’ll forget about being exhausted and we’ll keep the night going?
He’d kissed her and she’d thought it had been good. But maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she sucked at kissing. She sat down in the cab a little too hard.
Sal watched her before he leaned in. His kiss was short, sweet, yet somehow a balm to her torn thoughts. “You’re beautiful. I want to see you again, but I don’t want to freak you out or make you feel pressured. The ball is in your court, southern girl.”
Then he closed the door and thumped the cab on the top twice. The cabbie pulled away from the curb. Rosemary turned her head and watched as Sal stood on the corner lifting his hand in silent farewell.
She lifted her hand, her heart clenching at the sight of him fading behind her.
“Where to?” the man said in a guttural accent she couldn’t place.
“Uh, SoHo. Um, it’s the red building on Spring Street. Think the number starts with a five. Five twenty . . . no, maybe twelve? Oh crap, I can’t remember.” Panic tore at her. How could she forget the address?
The man glanced up at her, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “I drop you off at corner. Good?”
“Sure,” she said, taking a deep breath and pulling the seat belt across her body, chancing one last glance back. Sal and the Hotel Morey had been obscured by other cars and the corner of the adjacent building. Like a dream, her night faded behind her.
