Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1) by Liz Talley

would say he needed a decent haircut, but Rosemary liked the way it lazily skimmed his brows. She also liked his crooked nose and his toothy smile. And the five o’clock shadow had made him more approachable. But the thing she loved almost as much as the kiss he’d given her was the way he’d sung the lyrics from the old standards in her ear as they moved against each other on the dance floor. Nothing was sexier than a man who knew all the words to “At Last” and “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.”
    Snapping the travel book shut, she made a snap decision. She’d go by Mama Mello’s first and leave Sal a note with her number. Maybe even ask him out. In her other life it would have felt too forward, but after enduring her mother’s rant, she felt even more determined to be the other half of herself—the half who wanted to lock her ankles around Sal’s neck . . . the half who wasn’t about to let the boy get away.
    “Good enough, Lacy?” she asked the empty room.
    No response, but Rosemary smiled anyway. She already knew the answer.
    Today Rosemary would take the next step toward being a modern woman. She was going to be bold and forward. But she’d do it wearing her pearls like a good southern girl. Of that, her mother could at least approve.
    An hour later, she sat outside a small café eating a bagel that wasn’t too different from the ones she bought at the Lazy Frog—Sassy must be doing something right. Fifteen minutes after smiling hello at a dozen strangers who looked uncomfortable smiling back, striking up a conversation with an older woman who walked a poodle with matching bows on her ears—the poodle, not the woman—and refraining from licking the cream cheese off her plate, Rosemary headed toward Mulberry Street and Mama Mello’s.
    She felt good. The day wasn’t as humid, so she wore her hair down and pulled on a new Katherine Way tunic dress she’d found in a boutique in Jackson on the not so ill-fated but still knuckle-gripping trip. In her crossover bag she carried a thank-you note for Sal. Thankfully, she’d stashed a monogrammed note in the side pocket before she left home so she had personal stationery on which to write her number.
    And the last line stated very plainly that she wanted to see him again.
    Applying a coat of lip gloss, she congratulated herself on finding the restaurant without getting turned around. A good sense of direction wasn’t on her short list of talents, so she’d studied the map of SoHo, Little Italy, and Nolita that morning.
    The tables that had sat outside Mama Mello’s yesterday were noticeably absent, and the sign in the window told her in fancy cursive that the place was closed.
    Huh. She hadn’t thought about that.
    Rosemary tried the door but it was locked.
    So . . . what to do?
    The old Rosemary would have chalked it up to fate or slid the note under the door hoping for the best. She glanced down at the flush threshold where the note would never fit. But no matter. Because the new Rosemary had long tired of playing the role of shrinking violet. She wasn’t about to be thwarted by a C LOSED sign.
    So she knocked on the glass, cupped her hands around her face, and peered inside.
    A young woman stopped setting cutlery on the tables and squinted at Rosemary. Making an annoyed face, she headed toward the front and unlocked the door, pushing it open. “Deliveries over there.” She jabbed a finger to the right.
    Rosemary leaned back and noted the door. “I’m, ah, not here for a delivery.”
    “Then we don’t want any,” the younger woman said, pulling the door toward her.
    Rosemary caught the handle before it closed. “Wait.”
    “What? We open at eleven. Come back then.”
    “No.” Rosemary jerked the door open. “If you’d let me speak, I’ll tell you why I’m here.”
    The woman looked about Rosemary’s age. Maybe younger. She wore a white shirt and trim black pants, and her dark hair hung in a low ponytail. Her chin was