Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1)

by Liz Talley

  “I don’t know. Let’s try it. Look around and pick someone you want to take out,” he said, stepping back so she could enter first.

  “That can’t be true, can it?” she said, laughing.

  “No. Some kid made that up. But I thought it was a penny,” he said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

  “You don’t have to pay for me,” she said, before pointing to the sign that contained the rules for going to the observation deck. “And we aren’t allowed to throw anything.”

  “Darn. I was set on showing off my spitting abilities,” he joked, pulling several twenties from his wallet. “And this is my treat. I picked the place.”

  She gave a lift of her shoulders. “If you insist.”

  “I do,” he said, stepping into a queue. “Looks long.”

  “I’m game if you are. I have nothing better to do than—”

  “Me?” he finished for her.

  “You were waiting for that, weren’t you?” she said.

  “I like to watch you turn red. Besides, it was either that or waiting to use an innuendo when you said you were coming,” he said, curling an arm around her waist, enjoying the way she felt beside him. Last night hadn’t been an anomaly. The teasing banter and long looks between them made him happy. How long had it been since he’d truly felt happy?

  Easy answer—last night.

  “You’re a dirty boy,” she said, laughter in her voice.

  “Damn straight. I figured that’s why you agreed to go out with me in the first place. Every flower needs dirt.”

  “You calling me a flower? ’Cause I’m an herb.”

  He looked down at her. “Huh?”

  “Rosemary’s an herb. My brother’s name is Basil.”

  He moved them forward. “Your parents sound interesting.”

  “Not really. My dad has a strange sense of humor. He had a friend who died in Vietnam and insisted they name my brother after him. Then when my mother had my sister, he suggested Sage. Said herb names were trippy—his words, not mine. Now he’s just an old goat who putters about the grounds helping my mother with her gardens. They have a huge antebellum home surrounded by heritage roses that daffy old ladies across the South pay to see on church trips.”

  “People pay to see your parents’ house?”

  “It’s on the historic register. Living in an old house is all I’ve ever known.”

  “So, like, there are tours through your house and stuff?”

  “Not so much the house as the grounds, though we do serve high tea in the parlor.” She waved her hand. “It’s an experience type of thing.”

  An image of the grand old South like he’d seen on Turner Classic Movies paraded through his mind. He saw an older woman in a hoop skirt with Rosemary standing next to her holding a teapot and wearing those damn pearls. “Do you work there, too?”

  “Not anymore. When I was in high school, my friends and I gave tours and helped with serving tea. I own my own shop, remember?” she said, wiggling a finger at a small girl who sucked on her thumb and clung to her mother’s bare legs in the line next to them. “That’s what these are for.” She opened her shopping bag and tugged out a faded pillowcase. Little satin flowers dotted the edge.

  “You sell pillowcases?” he asked.

  “No, but I use them along with other vintage fabrics to make decorative pillows. I love taking fabrics and trimmings and piecing them together to make something new. Old lace and embroidery are perfect for shabby-chic pieces. There’s something so soft and timeless about things from the past,” she said, stroking a hand across the pillowcase before tucking it back into her bag. He noticed at that moment how different her hands were from Angelina’s. Angie had long fingers with viperous nails, but Rosemary’s slender fingers and short, rounded nails seemed elegant.

  He imagined Rosemary’s hands on him, hesitant but eager. She’d not be as practiced as some women, but she’d be passionate. Like an enigma—untouchable, yet at the same time so approachable. Ageless, timeless . . . beauty and elegance. She was a Rod Stewart song, and he wanted her so much he could hardly stop himself from tossing her over his shoulder and sprinting for the nearest exit.

  Instead, he said, “I can see you love what you do.”

  “That’s why I was excited about coming to New York. Y’all have a plethora of vintage thrift shops. I order online, but nothing is better than putting your hands on the fabric and seeing the colors.”

  They purchased the tickets and waited for the elevator.

  “So tell me about your family. Your sister was . . . interesting,” Rosemary said, making a silly face at the toddler who’d been flirting with her the entire time they stood in the queue.

  “Sorry about her attitude. Frannie is the hard one to deal with,” he said.

  “Every family has one. Ours is Baz. He’s special needs.”

  Sal didn’t want to talk about his family. Or hers. Somehow it poked the bubble of happiness he’d conjured around them. They had a connection and he was unwilling to let it be broken by the reality check of his family. “That’s hard, I’m sure, but if it’s okay with you, I don’t want to talk about my family. They’ve been difficult lately.”

  Rosemary nodded. “Preaching to the choir. This little vacation is my break from reality.”

  He nudged her toward the elevator that opened. “Is that what this is? A break from reality?”

  Rosemary stepped into the elevator and held out her hand as if asking him to take a journey with her. “Isn’t that what it is for you, too?”

  The question seemed rhetorical . . . or more like a statement of what this was between them. This wasn’t about building toward something. It was about being in the now.

  He took her hand and stepped into the elevator beside her. Others crowded in and the attendant clad in a smart uniform said, “Everyone ready for the experience of a lifetime?”

  His gaze met Rosemary’s, and something profound moved.

  “I’m ready,” Rosemary said, her gaze moving toward the cheerful attendant.

  “Me, too,” Sal said.

  The Empire State Building had over a hundred stories, with two observation decks, and Rosemary planned on going to the tip-top, but after ten seconds on the lower observation deck, she decided eighty-six floors was high enough.

  The wind blew her hair into her face as she clasped the railing and wagged her head, taking in the sight of half of Manhattan laid out below her. Sal placed a hand on the small of her back, making her feel both protected and excited at the same time. “Look over there.”

  She followed the line of his finger with her gaze.

  “Brooklyn. See, there’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen it in so many movies,” she said, noting it seemed so romantic . . . even from hundreds of feet in the air. “Where’s Central Park?”

  He tugged her elbow and took her to the other side.

  “I always wanted to ride in one of those carriages,” she said, smiling at the huge green space in the middle of the concrete jungle.

  “Then we’ll do it,” he said.

  Rosemary couldn’t believe she stood here at the top of the world with a sexy man promising to take her on a carriage ride. She almost pinched herself but decided she’d forgo looking like a fruit loop.

  A week ago she’d feared going to the city alone. She’d begged Eden to take a much-needed vacation and come up for at least a few days, but with her mother being ill and having taken off a week when Lacy passed away, she couldn’t get away. Jess’s finances were stretched after the divorce, and she was in the middle of looking for a better job. She’d contemplated asking her older next-door neighbor, Mimi, but knew it would be a burr under her mother’s saddle. Yet, today, she’d had a wonderful time alone.

  Alone.

  Not something Rosemary was unaccustomed to being. Even though she lived in the carriage house in back of her parents’ estate, she was seldom by herself. Her parents’ plantation home was a busy place near
ly every month of the year thanks to her mother’s creative horticulture displays and themed teas. And when people weren’t poking about the grounds of Meadowlark, her parents had a constant influx of neighbors and friends who came for coffee, cocktails, and gossip. Not to mention her fabric shop was situated on Morning Glory’s town square, which meant a constant coming and going of friends, relatives, and customers.

  So wandering around Manhattan, poking into small shops and riffling through thrift stores had been exactly what she needed. No one poked his nose into her business suggesting she eat lunch because it wasn’t good for her to go so long without food. No one suggested she buy shoes that were sensible. No one pointed out the right way to fold a pair of pants when she’d tried some on at a boutique. Her mother’s nagging voice had faded away under the bustle now sprawled out beneath her feet.

  “I had forgotten how cool it was to see the city this way,” Sal said, his hand stroking her back ever so lightly.

  “It’s almost too much to take in,” she said, noting the way the fading sun turned everything a softer gold.

  She felt his whiskers catch her hair and so she turned to him.

  People moved all around them, laughing, pointing, complaining about someone taking too long at the binocular things that dotted the perimeter. Yet it all went away when she looked up at Sal.

  His thick hair rippled at the tips like grasses waving in a pasture, which was a not-so-romantic image, but dang if the man didn’t make her heart go thumpety-thump and her palms itch to run her fingers through those inky locks. And his mouth. Oh man, was it a study in sensuality. Dramatic arch on the top and just a hint of plumpness on the lower. His jaw was angular and a small crevice graced his chin. Total bedroom eyes beneath dark slashing eyebrows. If he had been wearing a white linen shirt, a riding coat, and breeches, she might have thought him her own Mr. Darcy. As it was, she’d take him for her own Sal Genovese.

  At that moment he was looking at her lips like a starving man eyes a T-bone steak. Again, not romantic. But true. Totally true.

  “You’re so pretty, Rosemary.”

  “And you have such pretty words,” she said, her voice growing soft. She lifted her hand to touch his white shirt, to draw a finger along the seam at his shoulder, to feel the warmth of him.

  “Only the truth,” he said, tilting her chin to redirect her attention back to his gaze.

  Then he kissed her.

  If kisses were food, this one would be a slice of Italian cream cake—sweet, substantial, and layered with promise.

  She let her lips soften against his and kept her eyes open, because she wanted to recall this moment for the rest of her life. The way she felt atop the iconic building, kissing a man who made her heart drum, her toes curl in her sandals, and her stomach flood with warmth. If ever a moment needed capturing, it was this one.

  Sal broke the kiss and said, “Wow.”

  Rosemary giggled.

  “What?” he asked, smiling at her.

  “I had been trying to think of a word to describe how I felt this very moment and I think ‘wow’ is really the only way.”

  “Yeah, that’s all I had, too,” he said, stepping back, keeping his arm curled around her waist.

  Sliding her hand underneath, she wrapped her arm around his waist so they stood facing the northeast, the glow of the sinking sun warm on their shoulders. With her hair tickling her shoulders, Sal’s warm presence beside her, and a new world spread before her, the moment stilled. Life rarely slowed down enough for a person to think, This is the stuff that makes life worthwhile, but at that precise second, Rosemary knew the profundity of being right where she was.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” someone said.

  Rosemary turned to find a harried-looking woman clutching the hand of a boy. “Yes?”

  “Would you mind taking a picture of us?” The woman held out a phone.

  Moment over.

  “Sure,” Rosemary said, taking the phone from her and stepping back. Sal didn’t seem to want to let go, but he did.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said, tugging her kid to her and demanding that he “smile big.” The boy managed a cheesy grin, and Rosemary clicked several for them.

  The woman took the phone, tapping to make sure the pics were good enough, and then said, “I’ll be happy to take one for you.”

  Rosemary glanced at Sal.

  “Sure,” he said, digging his phone out of his back pocket.

  He and Rosemary angled so the city lay behind them. He wrapped his arm around her and they tilted their heads together. Right when the woman took the pic, Sal looked down at her, grinning like a naughty boy. She jabbed him in the ribs, and he straightened for the second one, giving the camera his smile.

  “Wow, y’all are a gorgeous couple,” the woman said, handing the phone back to Sal.

  “Oh, she’s my sister,” Sal said, pointing to Rosemary.

  The woman’s eyes popped. “But I saw you kissing.”

  “We’re from Mississippi,” Sal said, looking dead serious.

  Rosemary pinched him.

  “Yeow,” he yipped, twisting away, laughing like a lunatic.

  Rosemary looked at the woman. “He’s joking. I’m from Mississippi, where we do not kiss our siblings like that.” She gave Sal a withering look, her lips twitching despite her fussing.

  The woman laughed; the kid stuck his tongue out. “Well, thanks for the picture. Come on, Joshua. Are you sticking your tongue out? Cut that out. You know . . .” She wandered away, sounding like every mother of an eight-year-old boy, and Rosemary turned to Sal, crossing her arms. “Very funny.”

  “I thought so.” He grinned and pulled her back into his arms, dropping a kiss on her nose. “Let’s go grab some grub, southern belle. I’m starving.”

  “I’m not a southern belle,” she protested.

  “Oh, baby, you are, and let me just say, I totally dig it.” He lifted her pearls and then pressed a soft kiss against her lips. “I’m seriously digging it. Never knew I had a thing for y’all.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sal took her to one of his favorite places in the Flatiron District. Eataly was one of those hybrid places that was both marketplace and restaurant, serving products both from Italy and from the farms surrounding the city. The food was fresh, creative, and a bit trendy for his tastes, but fantastic. He purchased some of his favorite olive oils here, and the Italian coffee was the best in the city.

  “Oh my gosh, I love this place,” Rosemary said, dipping her focaccia into the red pepper oil before plucking another piece of prosciutto from his plate. “It’s so modern and traditional at the same time.”

  “I knew you’d like it. And they have a bottle shop around the corner. We can grab some wine for later.”

  She hooked an eyebrow, popping the last of the bread into her mouth. True to form, she’d skipped the salads in favor of the meats and cheeses, further proof she was absolutely what he looked for in a woman. “Where are we going later?”

  He wanted to say, “Back to your place,” but she might not be ready for that. Still, the knowledge Rosemary would only be in Manhattan for another two weeks knocked on the door of his mind. If they both wanted each other, which he assumed they did, they’d have to settle for a microwave relationship rather than the oven.

  A crappy way to start.

  But better than not starting at all. He wasn’t willing to walk away from her at this point. Despite the misgivings expressed by those closest to him, despite the fact he and Rosemary were worlds apart, he couldn’t run from the way she made him feel. Like an addict, he edged ever closer to that feeling he’d vowed never to chase again. When he’d jumped into love with Hillary, he’d not looked to see where he might land. Recovering from the ensuing splat had made him cautious, but apparently not nearly careful enough. Because the way he felt with Rosemary made him scared, excited, and free all at the same time. “We can go wherever you want. Carriage ride, stroll, drinks, dancing. Name it, Rosemary.�
��

  She picked up the wine he’d suggested. The pinot grigio was slightly sweeter than the dry he preferred but it had a soft finish. Rosemary had smiled her approval when she tasted it. He’d be damned if she ordered sweet tea to pair with the house-made mozzarella served here. Not that he was controlling or anything. Just some things were meant to be done right. “I want to see as much of the city as I can, but honestly, my feet are tired, and I’d love to go somewhere where we can sip wine and talk.”

  “There’s a great lounge in this area, which has the twenties art deco feel and old-fashioned cocktails. We can—”

  “What about my place? I mean, my cousin’s place?” Rosemary asked.

  Something inside surged at the thought but he played it cool. “You sure you don’t want to try the Flatiron Lounge? It’s upscale but we—”

  “You don’t want to go back to the loft?” She licked her lips nervously.

  And it struck him.

  She wasn’t asking him back so much for drinks as for drinks and something else. But was his sweet small town girl ready to get down and dirty in the city? “You sure?”

  “Unless you don’t want me that way?” She looked surprised at herself for asking . . . but not regretful.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve wanted you since I first laid eyes on you,” he said.

  And of course her cheeks bloomed. “Okay, but I’ve been thinking all day about something.”

  He quirked an eyebrow.

  “Well, we both said we were looking for something to pull us away from reality for a little while. So I suggest for the next two weeks, we do that. We go where whatever this is between us goes, but when I leave, we’re over.”

  “Like a clean break?”

  She nodded. “We’re from two different worlds. I’m going home to Mississippi, and your life is here. It will be like summer camp or something. You know—good, sweet, and temporary.”

  “You have a contract or something I have to sign?”

  Rosemary gave a nervous giggle, but he liked that she wanted parameters. She liked things nice and neat. Probably made her comfortable. “We can call it a verbal agreement. A two-week love affair, mutually beneficial for both parties. We can shake on it.” She put out her hand.