by Liz Talley
“You didn’t know?”
Sal shook his head as a flash of guilt hit him. He’d call Frannie later. His sister had been pretty damn good to him when Hillary had broken his heart, bringing him his favorite beer, refusing to say she’d told him so. Frannie had liked Hillary, so when Sal got dumped, she’d taken it personally. Which was probably why she’d been so overly protective when she met Rosemary. Sal owed his sister the same commiseration. Once Rosemary left, he and Frannie could drown their sorrows together.
He glanced at his phone, noting the time. Rosemary would be there in ten minutes. He needed to get rid of Angelina, but the woman was too busy yapping rather than drinking the expensive vintage she’d requested. “You like the wine?”
Picking up the glass, she sipped, wrinkling her nose slightly. “It tastes like cherry cobbler.”
“That’s why I like it,” Sal said, pulling Angelina’s glass away and sliding the jar of liqueur she’d come for over to her. “Here you go.”
“I wasn’t finished with the wine, you rude ass,” Angelina said, her brown eyes flashing.
“You said you didn’t like it. Figured you weren’t going to finish it,” he said.
“That didn’t mean you could take it from me and pour it out.” Her face grew as tight as the skirt she wore. The blouse she wore was sheer enough to show her bra. Wasn’t very professional to him, but the yahoos she sold real estate to probably ate it up.
“Thought my ma was waiting on you? It’s nearly five o’clock and the train will be slammed.”
“You’re right,” she said, snatching the jar and shoving it into her purse. She didn’t look happy.
Yep, friendly as a viper, and nothing in her demeanor suggested she had the hots for him. Hopefully, she’d turned a corner. Because after this thing with Rosemary, he’d decided while he might give in to some things life pushed him toward, he wasn’t letting anyone pick a woman for him. No damn way. And he didn’t give a rat’s fart what anyone thought, Angelina would never be the woman wearing his ring, bearing his children, and sitting in the rocking chair with him fifty years from now. If he even got married.
Running a deli and living in Brooklyn wasn’t a bad life. He could negotiate the menu with his pops so that he had more control of the Mama Mello’s uptown. And one day, maybe he’d fall in love again. Hey, he’d fallen twice before. Surely, he could do it again.
But as Rosemary walked in, his heart shattered against his ribs and he forgot to breathe.
Yeah, he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel this way again.
And the thought of her walking out of his life made him feel desperate.
Rosemary looked at Angelina and he saw the suspicion in her eyes.
“You should get going,” he said, ripping his gaze from Rosemary and glancing at Angelina.
“You know her?” Angelina asked, narrowing her gaze. He could almost see the cogs of her mind turning, inputting the situation, analyzing the emotion, and drawing the conclusion. “Wait. You’ve been seeing that woman?”
Angelina spoke the question like his interest in Rosemary was an insult to her, as if she thought Rosemary far beneath her. But women like Angelina—with her fake boobs, tight clothes, and gym-honed body—never understood the attraction of fresh, natural beauty . . . and would never get the concept that Sal thought Rosemary was the most desirable woman he’d ever seen. Hillary included.
Sal pulled away from the bar. “Later, Angie.”
“Seriously?” she called.
He ignored Angelina and made his way to the door. The guys who’d hit on Angelina a few weeks ago spilled in, loosening their ties, looking ready for Friday night.
“Rose,” he said, taking her elbow and spinning her back toward the open door.
“Hey,” she said, craning her head to look at the empty tables that would soon be filled with a Friday night crush. “I thought I was having the meatballs.”
He’d forgotten she wanted to eat. “I’ll grab some from the back and we’ll go to my place. You said you wanted to see where I live, right?”
“Well, yeah, but I thought we were going to go to that club you’d tried to take me to that night. The one with the good cocktails?” Rosemary didn’t look upset about his scrapping the plan that had sounded good the day before. Merely confused.
“If you really want to go we can, but I’d much rather spend time with just you.” Some frantic feeling drove him to squire her away, hiding her from anyone who would demand a crumb of attention. Ticking seconds.
“No, I’d rather do that, too,” she said with a smile, her gaze once more flickering back toward the bar. The tip of her tongue touched the arched bow of her top lip as she nervously looked around. Probably waiting for Frances Anne to pop out and karate chop her or something.
He wanted to kiss her, but something held him back. Maybe it was Frances Anne, who passed them, sending him a look as she brought water to a couple sitting near the window. Or maybe it was Angelina, no doubt staring daggers at them. Or maybe the truth was he didn’t want everyone seeing how vulnerable he was . . . how much he’d fallen for Rosemary. He felt naked, anxious for more time, dreading the end of them. Made him feel protective of himself.
“Good. Let me go back in the kitchen and grab some dinner.”
“Want me to wait at the bar?” Rosemary asked.
He glanced back and caught Angelina watching them. “No. Why don’t you run across the street and get dessert? Don’t tell my ma, but Joey Cigar makes the best tiramisu.” He didn’t want her anywhere near potential drama with Angelina. No telling what the dark Italian woman would do to his sweet southern girl.
Rosemary glanced out the large window and pointed toward the bakery kitty-corner from Mama Mello’s. “That place?”
“Yeah. Oh, and get one of their raspberry tarts, too.”
He watched her go and then grabbed Jean, their newest waitress, as she passed by. Giving her his order, he jogged back toward the bar. He ignored Angelina, who still sat there with her mouth half-open, and grabbed a bottle of white zinfandel.
“Sal, you’re joking, aren’t you? She looks like a child and she’s not even—”
“Don’t say it, Angie. This is none of your business,” he warned before showing the bottle to Kyle so he’d mark it off inventory. Kyle made a face like he couldn’t believe he wanted white zinfandel.
Didn’t Kyle know he’d do anything to please his Rosemary . . . even drink sweet pink wine?
“I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon,” Sal said, giving his sister a slap on her rear as he rounded the bar.
“You owe me for taking your shifts,” Frances Anne called.
“I gotcha. And we’ll share some beers. My treat,” Sal said, taking the bag and pushing out the door into the late afternoon of Little Italy. His sunshine girl waited for him in the bakery across the street and for the next thirty-something hours he wasn’t going to think about anything but her.
Rosemary ran her finger over the curve of the white rose in the bouquet on Sal’s table and took another bite of the delicious meatballs over spaghetti. The plates and silverware didn’t match and the table had seen better days, but the pressed tablecloth and earnest expression on Sal’s face warmed her heart.
“Sorry about the glasses. I had some nice ones, but they went missing during a Super Bowl party I threw a few years back. I usually drink beer from the can and rarely have anyone over.” Sal waggled the iced tea glass filled with the pink wine.
“It’s fine,” she said, spearing an Italian sausage–stuffed mushroom from the foam container sitting between them. “Who was that woman you were sitting with at the bar?”
“What woman?”
Rosemary wrinkled her nose. “The one who was drop-dead gorgeous and somewhat irritated you left her for me.”
“Oh. She’s a family friend. I’ve known her forever.”
“She looked upset.”
“That’s her problem,” he said with a shrug. Sal didn’t look concerned about the
woman. “You want more wine?”
“I’m good.”
Rosemary fell silent, something pressing uncomfortably on her. The woman had looked possessive, like Sal belonged to her. And he’d been talking to her, sharing a glass of wine. Not to mention, he’d hustled Rosemary out of the restaurant quick as spit, sending her on an errand rather than risking her sitting at the bar. Like he wanted to hide her.
He hadn’t even kissed her hello like he had for the past couple of weeks.
So odd.
It had never occurred to her that Sal might be seeing someone else. During their first date on the rooftop of the hotel, he’d asked her point-blank if she had a boyfriend, but she’d never asked him. She’d gleaned from his comment about the difficulty of finding the right girl in Manhattan, paired with his availability to take her out on the town, that he was totally single. But something about that woman and the way she’d looked at Rosemary was unsettling. Of course if Sal was dating the woman, it would have been a different scenario, right? He wouldn’t have left with Rosemary. He wouldn’t have even acknowledged her. He’d left the sophisticated brunette to come to her, so there was that.
But still, the woman weighed heavy on her mind.
“You don’t have a girlfriend, do you?” Rosemary asked, setting down her fork.
He jerked his gaze up. “No. That’s nuts.”
“Well, there was this weird vibe with that woman at the bar.”
Sal shook his head and picked up his empty plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s just that woman—”
“Are you trying to pick a fight or something?” he grumbled, running water over the plate.
“No.” Rosemary stood up and took her plate to the trash can in the corner of the tiny kitchen, sliding the remaining food into the depths. “It was a question. Not an accusation.”
Sal’s shoulders sank. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m a bit on edge.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re leaving Sunday and we’re spending the last few days together and I’m not ready for . . .” He trailed off. Grabbing the half-filled bottle of wine, he said, “Want to go up to the roof?”
“The roof?” she asked, wanting to continue the conversation they were having, but unwilling to let something unpleasant in to stomp on their evening. She should leave it alone. Sal said he was single. End of story.
“Yeah, there’s a patio that overlooks the city. It’s why I rent this dump. In the summer it’s fun to go up, take a beer and hang.”
“Can I sing ‘Up on the Roof’?” she asked, trying to put aside the heavy stuff and enjoy the evening Sal had created for them. His small apartment smelled like Pine-Sol and he’d taken extra care to buy flowers and pull out his great-aunt’s napkins. In a few days she wouldn’t have to worry about Sal and gorgeous women. She’d be back in Morning Glory. Back to being Rosemary Reynolds, owner of Parsley and Sage, alto in the church choir, and chair for the Junior League Fall Bazaar. Her two-week fling would be over.
Her heart throbbed like an open wound, but she shut the door on it and followed Sal out the door and up the stairs. After climbing the five stories to her cousin’s loft for fifteen days straight, she didn’t need an EMT to climb the three flights.
The sultry night had nothing on Mississippi, but the sparkling view took the breath away.
“Whoa,” she said, walking toward the edge of the small patio clustered with potted plants. Fat lemons hung on one of the plants, and someone had strung up Christmas lights. “This is so cool.”
“Yeah,” he said, following her to the edge, placing his hands on her bare shoulders. And like every other time he touched her, tiny chill bumps appeared and warmth curled round her heart. “Here is where I appreciate living in the city.”
She turned to look up at him. “Have you always wanted to live here?”
He shrugged. “When I was a kid, my parents sent me to a camp upstate. We canoed, shot arrows, and roasted weenies over a fire. The woods were so scary to me, unknown and full of things that had teeth. The first year I hated it. But funny thing, after I stopped being so scared of bears and snakes, I liked it. Begged my ma and pop to go every year. I ended up being a camp counselor until I was twenty. Made me want to live somewhere up there. But I never did anything about it.”
Rosemary didn’t say anything, because she knew what he meant. When she was in college, she’d planned on living in Jackson. Felt like it was close enough to Morning Glory but would give her more things to do . . . more guys to date. But after graduation, she couldn’t find a job. She moved back home after her dad renovated the carriage house. Two months later, she got the financing for the fabric store. She never thought about moving away again.
Because she’d bloomed where she’d been planted.
But Sal’s words made her wonder.
Was love enough of a motivator to give up all she knew?
Could she look at the Manhattan skyline every night?
“So you went to work for your father and never looked back?” she asked.
Sal stepped away. “I don’t know. At one point I had a different plan, but that was over a year ago. There was someone—” He took a deep breath. “Well, I was engaged, and things didn’t work out.”
“You were engaged?”
He gave her a sheepish look. “Was is the key word.”
“That woman I saw tonight?” That would explain the peculiar vibe.
“No,” Sal said, his hands gripping the ledge. She could tell this was hard for him to talk about—his knuckles grew white. “Water under the bridge, but the short of it is she married someone else. Lives in Connecticut. Plays tennis and hosts parties. I was a break from her snooty world . . . or her last attempt at rebellion before settling into the life she was born into.”
His words were an uppercut, snapping back her head.
Wasn’t that what she’d been doing? Using Sal for her wild fling?
But then she saw Sal realize what he’d made it sound like. “Oh, I don’t mean to suggest that—”
“But that’s what I’ve been doing, right? Taking a break from my narrow world, making a last-ditch effort to do something more than watch the grass grow in the town square. Do you feel used?”
His dark eyes said it all. “No. I don’t feel used. From the very start I knew the score. You knew the score. This wasn’t a repeat of what happened with Hillary. Don’t think that.”
Rosemary turned away, emotion plugging her throat. She could see the hurt in him. Bitch Hillary had broken his heart and perhaps that’s why he wouldn’t let himself crash into love with her. He’d been there, done that with another woman. She couldn’t blame him for protecting his heart. “I’m sorry that woman hurt you, Sal. You deserve to be loved. You shouldn’t be anyone’s fling.”
He gathered her into his arms, setting his chin atop her head. Words weren’t spoken. They were content to hold each other, wrapped in thought, unable to say things they wanted to say.
So much bottled up. So much left on the table she’d walk away from in a few days.
But such was life.
Her entire life her mother had protected her from mosquito bites and unwrapped Halloween candy, but no one could protect her from the broken heart she’d go home with. Not even Patsy Reynolds could save Rosemary from heartache.
“Let’s go back, get naked, and do things to each other that could be illegal in twenty states,” Rosemary said.
He shook with laughter. “In only twenty states?”
“Well, I know it would be illegal in Mississippi. God-fearing people and all,” she said into his shirt. Which smelled like him—woodsy cologne, fresh-baked bread, and Sal. Wonderfully delicious Sal.
He pulled back and looked down at her. The city sat behind him, twinkling against the obsidian sky, horns honking, traffic swooshing. His world moving around him. But Sal’s face was in soft contrast to the hard angles.
Brushing a stray strand of hair from her eyes
, he kissed her much as he had the night they met—sweet, reverent, and somehow fixed with all his intent.
And for a moment she believed he loved her.
Chapter Nineteen
This time a horrid buzzing woke Rosemary.
She opened her eyes and blinked, not knowing where she was, but noting the ceiling had a two-foot crack near the whirring fan. She rolled over and caught a specific scent. Sal. She reached out to find she was alone in his bed.
The buzzing was as incessant as a woodpecker, so she sat up, looking down to find Sal’s imprint on his pillow and a note propped against the lamp.
Out for coffee and bagels. BRB.
XOXO,
Sal
A rose from the arrangement on the table lay beside it. White with a pink center. Innocence blushing.
Rosemary struggled to free herself from the tangled sheets. They’d spent a lot of time making sure the bedding got good and twisted last night, causing Sal to pull a soft, worn quilt over their sated bodies before they fell into sleep. Pulling on the maxi dress she’d left crumpled on the floor, she hurried to the door, thinking Sal likely balanced coffee and bagels so was unable to fetch his key from his pocket.
Throwing open the door, she pasted on a sunny smile. “Hey . . .”
Her mouth dropped open when she found the woman from the bar, clad in a perfectly tailored linen pantsuit. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a messy bun that looked somehow glamorous and the silver-blue silk tank she wore beneath the suit clung spectacularly to her breasts. Her makeup was flawless, her jewelry a bit over-the-top, and her perfume overwhelming. Burgundy lips tilted down as her amber eyes crackled. She took a step toward Rosemary. “You.”
Rosemary stepped back. Mostly because the woman didn’t give her any room to do anything else. “Uh, I’m not sure I’m supposed to let—”
