Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1)

by Liz Talley

  Sal turned her, pinning her to the wall next to the loft door. His lips moved hungrily over hers and his hands weren’t idle, stroking down her sides, grazing the sides of her breasts before meandering down to tease her thighs. Rosemary wrapped her arms around him, kissing him with every ounce of desire she had, giving back what he gave, tongue meeting tongue, teeth nipping, as desire spun out of control.

  No more teasing. No more games.

  Like an uppercut from a prize fighter, need belted her. Long-forgotten warmth uncurled in her stomach, sinking into her pelvis and coating her with deliciousness.

  “Mmm,” she groaned, tilting her head as his mouth moved down the column of her neck. “You’re driving me crazy.”

  “Good,” he said, one hand rising to cup her breast through the material. His thumb brushed over the hardened nipple, strumming her, making liquid heat flood her again.

  “Oh, that’s nice,” she groaned, arching her back, offering herself to him.

  Vaguely in the back recesses of her mind she felt the door beside her open. Desire had her in its grip, but still the squeak, the rush of air, the concept of a presence registered.

  “Rosemary Marie!”

  She froze. Then pushed Sal back.

  Turning, she registered two things at once—the pink rollers and her turquoise undies dangling from fingertips.

  “Mama?”

  Chapter Nine

  Standing in a SoHo hallway sans panties and bra with her mother looking at her like she’d lost her mind was so not the way her evening was supposed to end.

  “What are you doing here?” Rosemary asked, scurrying so Sal stood behind her. She gaped at the older woman framed in the doorway of her cousin’s loft. Her mother wore metallic Daniel Green slippers and held Rosemary’s panties between the thumb and finger. They dangled like a surrender flag . . . only turquoise with lace.

  “Obviously I’m saving you from a horrible decision,” her mother said, closing the gap in the fluffy pink robe Rosemary had given her for Christmas two years ago. It matched the pink foam rollers perfectly.

  Her mother’s gaze flicked to Sal, who stood bare chested, looking like a kid who’d been caught flipping through a dirty magazine. She lifted both eyebrows. “I’m assuming this is your new . . . friend?”

  Her mother hadn’t dropped the undies, so Rosemary snatched them from her fingertips, looking around for her bag before realizing she’d left it on the steps. Crazy desire made people do things like that. No doubt shopping bags sat orphaned all over the world because making out with a hot guy took precedence over a new blouse or a bottle of peach body lotion. Or maybe that was just Rosemary. After all, she’d suffered a drought of sexy men for the past five years. Unless one counted the sheriff’s son Teddy Grantham as a drink of water. Which many did not.

  Sal swallowed, blinked, and then looked from Rosemary back to Patsy. “Uh, is this your mother?”

  Rosemary turned to Patsy Reynolds and asked again, “What are you doing here?”

  “I was worried about you up here alone. Thought I’d come give you some needed company,” Patsy said, arching an eyebrow she’d had tattooed on in a Jackson salon. She dared Rosemary to deny her words.

  “Well, you thought wrong,” Rosemary said, doing just that as the shock of her mother standing in the loft doorway dissipated. Outrage replaced it. “When did you get here? Wait, how did you get inside?”

  “I flew on an airplane,” her mother said, giving Rosemary the same look she’d given her when her dog Pretzel had dug up the prized rose in the west garden. Needless to say, her dachshund had found a new home down the street within the week. “As to getting inside, you did not answer the many calls I made to your cell phone, which forced me to phone your cousin, waking her. She called the building superintendent, and he let me inside.”

  Rosemary’s thoughts grappled, trying to gain a foothold, to cling to reason and make sense of what had just happened to disrupt making love with Sal. Her mother stood there in a bathrobe. She’d come to New York City. She wasn’t a figment of Rosemary’s imagination. Her mother was real. Her emotions unwound like a reel of old film pooling onto the floor.

  For a few seconds no one said anything.

  Finally, Sal said, “I should probably go.”

  Good thinking. Wasn’t like they could ask Patsy to stand in the hall while they got busy in the loft. Night over.

  Regret prickled in her gut, fueling hot anger. “I’m so sorry about this, Sal. I had no idea.”

  His brown eyes looked soft with understanding. “Me, too. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  “Yes. I’ll call you.” She reached out and touched his forearm. “Thank you. I had a great time tonight.”

  Her mother looked like someone had given her a lemon to suck. “Nice to have met you, Mister . . . ?”

  “Genovese. Sal Genovese,” he said, stepping away. “I’ll leave you two to . . . catch up.” Then he started down the stairs, pausing on the fifth one to lift the bag she’d forgotten. Her polka-dotted bra hung drunkenly over the side. He didn’t say a word as he turned and handed it up to her.

  Rosemary met him halfway and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

  He stepped up and kissed her. Hard. Like he meant it. “Later.”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth as she watched him jog down the steps. He glanced up at her when he turned the corner and she waved. Then she turned back to her mother.

  “Really, Rosemary?” her mother said, eyeing the dangling bra. “This is exactly why I didn’t think it a good idea for you to come here alone. You’ve always had self-control issues.”

  “Are you joking?” Rosemary said, stooping to pick up the bag Sal had been carrying. The bottle of wine sat inside, looking lonely. They’d had such plans for it and the chocolates nestled at its side.

  “I am most certainly not. What nearly happened here is proof enough you shouldn’t be left unsupervised.” Her mother stepped back so Rosemary could pass through the doorway.

  Rosemary set the package on the bar and turned to study her mother as she dead-bolted the door. “I don’t want you here.”

  Patsy Reynolds wasn’t a woman who cared what her daughter wanted. And that was the true problem. “I’m sorry you feel that way. I came to keep you company.”

  “I don’t want company.”

  Her mother arched an eyebrow.

  “I don’t want your company.” Rosemary felt something inside her break loose. She was done with her mother running roughshod over her. For years she’d let things slide. She’d convinced herself Patsy meant well. That it was easier to overlook her interference. But no more. “I didn’t want you to come with me for a reason, Mother. I need to be away from you.”

  The hurt in her mother’s eyes allowed guilt to rear its sneaky head. But Rosemary stamped it down quickly. Her entire life had been lived this way—her wants and dreams sidelined by her mother’s insistence of what was appropriate. The whole fact she’d allowed her mother to manipulate her for so long embarrassed her. She should have put a stop to this long ago. Why had she lived this way? So resigned.

  Lacy had been right.

  Patsy drew herself up. “You were about to have sex with a man you’ve known less than forty-eight hours. And you’re mad because I busted up your kinky little night of irresponsibility? Too darn bad, Rosemary.”

  “You know what? That’s exactly what I’m angry about. I’m a grown woman, Mother, who wanted to screw the brains out of that very available, very willing man. I don’t care if you think it was irresponsible or crazy. I want irresponsible and crazy. I deserve it for putting up with you. So I don’t need you to—”

  “Care about you?” Patsy asked, bringing out the big guns. Her mother had an arsenal full of guilt, shame, and indebtedness she carried with her, and she wasn’t afraid to employ any one of them at the exact right time. Patsy was an excellent marksman.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t make this about you and your love for me. This is about you trying
to control me . . . as usual.”

  “I’ve never tried to control you. Just because I have more life experience and know a girl like you shouldn’t be on her own in New York City doesn’t mean I’m trying to control you. I’m merely helping you see the danger in it. And that”—she jabbed a finger toward the door—“right there proved my point. What do you know about that man? He could have an STD. He could have a criminal past. He could be physically or verbally abusive. Have you ever heard of date rape?”

  Rosemary gave an incredulous laugh. “I can’t believe you. You’ve painted him into a criminal because I wanted to invite him in for a drink?”

  Her mother sniffed and tossed her head. “You can have a drink with your drawers on, Rosemary Marie.”

  That made her laugh. “Oh, come on, Mother, it’s just sex.”

  “Don’t be crass, Rosemary. I know what sex is, but I’ve always considered it something to be shared between two committed people. Not with some horny man you picked up God only knows where. Have some pride, dear.”

  “No,” Rosemary said, barely refraining from stamping her foot. “I don’t need him to be medically tested or take a lie detector test or want commitment. I need him to give me a no-strings-attached, headboard-knocking fucking. And I need you to call the airport and rearrange your flight out tomorrow.”

  Rosemary’s breath came hard and emotion made her legs tremble, but she crossed her arms. Like she meant it. ’Cause she did.

  On the other hand, her mother deflated like a balloon at the hands of a six-year-old boy. Her plump shoulders sagged and her blue eyes looked weepy. “So you really want me to leave? That’s really how you feel? Choosing sordidness over your own mother?”

  Another zinger of guilt. This time it missed its mark.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you, Mother. I love you, but I need to do this. I know you don’t understand. Just trust me on this. Okay?”

  “Is ‘all this’ merely having sex with a stranger? You could have done that in Jackson and saved yourself the plane ticket.”

  “No, it’s not about sex. It’s about making my own decisions. It’s about falling down. Getting hurt. I need to live messy and dirty and . . . just different. For a little while.”

  “I don’t understand,” her mother said, sinking onto the sofa, self-consciously checking the pink rollers in order to rein in any escapees.

  “You don’t have to.” Rosemary said, unfolding her arms but keeping her jaw flinty. “A few months ago I lost my best friend. Before she passed, Lacy reminded me of all the things I haven’t done with my life. I’ve been content to stay put, and while some people may think that’s okay—you included—I don’t. The life I have is not the life I want. Or maybe it is, but I needed to have other experiences in order to know. I needed a break from everything so I could get perspective.”

  Her mother said nothing. She studied her with eyes the color of irises, giving nothing away.

  Rosemary continued, “I’ve been living with blinders, but in the past two days my eyes have been opened to a whole new world. And, sure, Sal was a happy surprise. But I need him, too. I need someone who doesn’t wear seersucker, have monogrammed luggage, and own a Labrador retriever named Drake.”

  “So you’re indulging yourself in some fantasy?” Patsy eyed her as if she’d never seen her before. Rosemary liked that idea, because her mother had been wearing blinders, too. She still saw Rosemary as a little girl, not as a grown woman hungry for experiences Morning Glory couldn’t give her.

  “Maybe it is a fantasy, but it’s mine to live. If I don’t fall down, I won’t know how to get back up. You can’t protect me from the world, Mama. It’s a messy, dangerous, wonderful place I want to dive into.”

  “I’m not trying to deny you, Rosemary. I just love you and want the best for you,” her mother said, hands out, seemingly helpless to understand why her daughter didn’t want a rope looped about her neck so she could be dragged to heel.

  “And I love you, but you have to stop putting your thumb on me. No other mother would climb on a plane, probably paying a small fortune, to rescue her daughter from . . . going on a date in New York City.”

  “Well, I always have money tucked away for emergencies such as this.”

  “This is not an emergency. It’s me getting away and being someone different. Don’t you understand wanting something more than small-town Mississippi, pruning roses and managing me? Isn’t there a tiny piece inside who wishes you would have stepped outside the expectations your mother set for you? Don’t you wonder what it would have been like to chase something wonderful?”

  Her mother said nothing.

  Rosemary sighed. “So this is not an emergency. I don’t want you here.”

  Teardrops perched on her mother’s thin lashes. “I see.”

  “You probably don’t, but you don’t have to understand. Just call the airport and get a flight back home.”

  “But I’ve never visited this city before,” her mother said, tucking her robe around her knees. “I can fly back on Sunday. You can give me one of your fantasy days, surely?”

  Rosemary didn’t want to give up even one day. She’d already missed a night of passion with Sal. But her mother had never been to NYC, and though she was mad as hell at Patsy, she didn’t want her to leave with this between them.

  But that would be giving in. Letting her mother get what she wanted. “No, you can come back another time.”

  “Please.” Her mother spread her hands, looking so not like typical Patsy Reynolds. Somehow she looked human. “Just a day. It would make me feel better about leaving you here.”

  “No.”

  Her mother sighed. “Fine. I’ll have your father call and get my ticket rebooked.”

  Exactly. Her mother clung to old mores—her father dealt with the finances, put gas in her mother’s car, and always led them in grace. “Why does Dad have to do it? You have a phone and credit card.”

  “Because he always deals with the airlines.”

  Rosemary shook her head. Rome wasn’t built in a day and her mother couldn’t jump into 2016 with one leap. “I’m going to bed.”

  “I already put my satin pillowcase on the pillow on the left.”

  Rosemary glanced at the only bed in the loft. She was not going to sleep on the couch another night, especially when she’d already given up wine, chocolate, and a sexy Italian. “I’ll take the right side.”

  Trudging to the bathroom, Rosemary wondered if Sal would bother calling her to pick up where they’d left off. She wouldn’t blame him if he ignored her calls or texts. No doubt he’d never had to deal with a crazy woman in rollers interrupting foreplay and asserting he was a bad decision.

  She’d text him later and pray he would want to see her again. That he’d want to finish their kinky little stripping game.

  Because as soon as she got rid of Patsy, she would jump back in with both feet. Bra and panties optional.

  Chapter Ten

  Sal sipped the spicy cabernet and prayed a TARDIS would appear so he could go back to Friday night and the kinky stripping game he’d played with Rosemary. Because sitting at the dinner table with his entire family and Angelina had turned into medieval water torture.

  Yes, Angelina again.

  His mother hadn’t been subtle in her attempt to integrate the woman into his life. She’d been at the last two Sunday lunches, charming his family with her silly anecdotes, hoodwinking his grandmother with her devoutness.

  “So, Sal, the contractor needs you to go down to the deli and see about the meat display. He needs to know where you want it so he can install the counter. Let’s get that checked off,” his father said, passing the platter with the pork roast to Brittany, who took a healthy serving. His sister was whip thin and ate like a horse.

  Sal craned his neck, because his collar suddenly felt too tight. “It’s wherever you want it, Pop.”

  His father glanced up. “What do I care where you keep the meat? It’s yours to decide.”


  “But it’s your place, Pop,” Sal said.

  Dominic jabbed a finger at him. “Stop playing dumb. You know Pop’s gonna retire soon. He’s doing that deli for you. I run the main restaurant, Vince is over in Brooklyn, and you got the deli. What’s so hard to understand about Pop wanting you to take some interest in something that will be yours?”

  Dominic was the oldest, which meant he was the enforcer of his parents’ directives. Like Himmler to Hitler, not that his parents were as bad as Hitler. Much. Dom had bought into the Genovese way with nary a thought of any other career. Vincent, on the other hand, had expressed an interest in medicine, even getting accepted into medical school, but once Big Donnie handed him the keys to the Brooklyn restaurant, Vinnie couldn’t justify years upon years of schooling when he could marry his high school sweetheart and buy a place in Brooklyn. Sal was always odd man out.

  “And what about me and Brit? What, ’cause we’re girls we’re shut out?” Frances Anne chimed in, her expression showing she wanted a fight. Frances took more interest in the small Mama Mello’s empire than anyone else. After attending business school and getting a degree in marketing, she had ideas about social media, advertising, and branding that often pitted her against her too-traditional parents. As much as Frances aggravated him with her overly protective nature, she was the sibling he related most to. They were both frustrated.

  “We’re not having this discussion today,” his father said, glancing over at Angelina. “We have company.”

  “All I’m saying is I’m not sure running the deli is what I want.” Sal took another swig of wine. He didn’t want to gulp it but God help him, he needed more booze to deal with the family theatrics that were inevitable around the table. Last week it was over the christening of the new Genovese and who would be the godparents. The week before that it was over the Yankees’ midseason trade. Always fireworks at the Genovese table.

  “And why don’t you?” his mother asked, her fork pausing in midair. Her dark hair had been secured in the familiar bun she always wore, and the diamond loops his father had given her for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary sparkled beneath the extravagant chandelier. Natalie had insisted they needed the garish light fixture in their formal dining room, but it looked incongruous in the cramped space, which was made even smaller by his boisterous family packed in at the table. “Your father is handing you a future and you treat the opportunity like it’s garbage?”