Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) (11 page)

“Right. That’s why I brought it up earlier,” she said, reaching up to stroke his cheek. “I don’t want to do the safe thing, Sal. I’ve spent my whole life going the speed limit, wearing my seat belt, sticking to the safest route. I need these two weeks to be . . . off-road. I need thrilling daredevilry and adventure. I promised someone I loved that I would live big because she couldn’t. Help me live big.”

He looked deep into those pretty eyes and saw the need there. Slowly she rose on her tiptoes and kissed him.

It wasn’t sweet the way he’d expected from her.

No, her kiss mimicked her words. Open, hot, and determined.

And when the tip of her tongue traced his bottom lip and then she nipped it with her teeth, his mind felt officially blown.

“Oh, Rosemary,” he breathed.

“That’s right,” she said with a smile. Taking his hand, she pulled him toward the next block, which housed her cousin’s place. She wasn’t taking no for an answer.

They didn’t talk as they walked, hands joined, convicted in conducting their own affair to remember. Perhaps it was selfish, reckless, and stupid, but Sal didn’t care. Not when gratification was so close.

Rosemary dug a key from the small bag she’d looped over her shoulder and unlocked the door. When they stepped inside the apartment building foyer, she pulled the door shut, making sure it clicked. Then she double-checked it . . . which made him smile. No doubt another bit of paranoia given her by her mother. The neighbors would definitely appreciate such conscientiousness.

“Hate to tell you, but it’s on the top floor,” she said, looking up the stairwell.

“Then we’ll have to reward ourselves after each flight.”

She smiled wickedly. “What did you have in mind?”

He kissed her, sliding a hand up the back of her thigh. “You’ll find out on the second floor.” Then he turned and jogged up the first set of stairs before ducking his head under the floor and grinning at her.

He heard the slap of her sandals fast behind him.

Rosemary had never had more fun going up stairs before in her life. Sal decided an article of clothing had to come off on each landing.

“I’m not taking my sandals off. The floor doesn’t look clean,” she said after he announced the kinky little game.

“As if I were interested in the sandals coming off,” he said, leering at her.

“But I’m not wearing anything else but my dress, undies, and bra. That’s only three things, and if you think I’m getting totally naked on the fourth floor, you’re nuts. I’ve seen the guy who lives in 4C. He probably doesn’t need much encouragement to join in.”

Sal kissed her and then started unbuttoning his shirt. “We’ll take turns. I’ll go first.”

“Okay.” She ran a hand over the undershirt that appeared when shrugged off the white oxford button-down. She could feel how flat his stomach was and there were small ridges that screamed
I work out
. And then there was the tattoo on his left shoulder—a cross and some other things she didn’t have time to contemplate. Sweet niblets, he was going to burn her corneas when he pulled that undershirt off.

“Third floor,” he called out, tossing the shirt over his arm as he jogged up the next flight.

Rosemary squeaked and followed him, reveling in the euphoric feeling of being young, crazy, and . . . well, not in love. But she felt something she’d not felt since she’d drunk too much jungle juice and participated in wet T-shirt contest on Panama Beach her freshman year of college.

He caught her as she came off the last step, wrapping her in his arms, nibbling a path up her neck. His breath was hot and her stomach flopped over as his hands slid up the back of her thighs again. “Your turn.”

Rosemary stepped back and stuck her purse in the bag she carried. Through her dress, she unhooked her bra. Quick as a cat, she wriggled and pulled her arm through the sleeve the way she’d done changing into her dance costumes as a girl. The bra dropped on one side and then she pulled it out of her corresponding sleeve like it was a magic trick. “Ta-da!”

Sal frowned. “Wait a minute. I didn’t get to see anything.”

“Fourth floor,” she said, slapping him lightly with her lacy bra and jogging up the next flight. She tucked the bra inside the shopping bag, glad she’d gone to Victoria’s Secret before coming to NYC. Her old bras weren’t nearly as pretty or as polka-dotted.

“Vixen,” he called, making her smile.

Her breath came faster now. Not from jogging stairs, but from being completely turned on. She
was
a vixen, a naughty seductress ready to toss out good sense for a shot at the sort of man she would never forget. Ever.

She turned and waited. Of course she didn’t have to wait long. Like last time, he swept her into his arms, his hand cupping her breast through the material. “If I can’t see, I’ll touch.”

“Oh,” she said, her mouth falling open. Sal took advantage, giving her a punishing kiss. Her blood sang, her body hungered, and she felt daring. Oh, so daring.

Pulling back, she plucked at the hem of his undershirt. “Off.”

Sal gave a throaty laugh. “Demanding, aren’t you?”

Her hands move to his waistband, sliding underneath the undershirt, stroking his firm belly. His stomach contracted and he ground his pelvis against hers, letting her know how much he wanted her. The hardness against her softness ratcheted the desire level up a notch. “Yes, now I need this off you. Play fair.”

Sal grabbed the hem and wrenched it overheard to reveal a drool-worthy set of abs and span of chest. Dark hair gathered between his pecs, trailing deliciously downward. He made his pecs dance. “You likey?”

Rosemary gave a light laugh and then ran a hand across his chest, then trailed her finger down to the clasp of his black pants. He had a tattoo of an eagle covering part of his chest; a ribbon with some words curled down his biceps and forearm. The bird looked as fierce as she felt. “I would say that’s a yes.”

He kissed her hard, then swooped down, snagging his shirts and tossing them over his bared shoulder. He had another tattoo on his back. She’d never thought tattoos were all that sexy. She’d been so wrong. “Follow me to the finish line.”

And he ran up the last set of stairs.

Rosemary followed, pausing five steps from the top. She waited for him to notice she wasn’t right behind him, then she set her shopping bag on the step next to her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his gaze devilish.

Rosemary hiked her dress to the top of her thighs and reached under to snag the waistband of her thong panties. “Getting more comfortable.”

“
You haven’t made it to the top yet,” he said, his gaze sliding down, watching as she shimmied the turquoise lace down her thighs.

“You complaining?” she asked, stepping out of them.

“Only about the fact you’re out of reach right now,” he said with a laugh.

He looked so damn fine standing atop those steps, shirts thrown over his broad shoulders, bare skin beckoning for her touch, his smile an encouragement.

She stood and twirled her panties around her finger. She was outrageous at that moment. She hadn’t won second prize in that wet T-shirt contest for nothing.

“Such a tease,” he said.

Rosemary made a slingshot out of her panties and launched them toward him. He reached up to grab them but missed. They hit the door to the loft and fell harmlessly to the floor. She laughed and jogged up the remaining steps to his waiting arms.

Sal pulled her to him, kissing her along her jaw, peppering her face with silly kisses as his hands started at her thighs and moved up. “Let’s see what you unwrapped for me,” he teased.

She wriggled away, slapping at his hands. “Now wait just a minute, mister. We’re out here in the hallway and I’m not the kind of girl who lets a man put his hands just anywhere on her body.”

“So you’re saying there are places I can touch and places I can’t touch?”

She didn’t know what had gotten into her. Wasn’t the wine. She’d had only one and a half glasses. Like that tattoo, she was bold, free, doing what she damned well pleased in this city teeming with so many people she didn’t have to worry about anyone knowing just how naughty Rosemary Marie Reynolds was. “You seem to like games. Maybe we’ll play—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I’m going to touch every inch of your delectable body.”

She tilted her head and pretended to think about it. “Hmm. Every inch?”

He nodded, his dark eyes intense.

Rosemary smiled. “Well, okay.”

Then she launched herself at him again, wrapping her arms about his neck, not even caring her new panties lay on the scuffed tile outside her cousin’s door. She had better things to do.

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.