pointed, eyes dark, and the curve of her face looked familiar. Rosemary would bet her new Tory Burch flats that this girl was Sal’s sister.
“So what’s this about?”
“Sal,” Rosemary said. “Is he here?”
The woman broke into laughter. “Oh God. You’re joking, right?”
“No,” Rosemary said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Let me guess, you left your panties at his place,” the woman asked.
“What? No.” Rosemary let go of the door, shocked the woman would even think something like that.
Sal’s sister or cousin or whoever she was lowered her eyes and took in Rosemary. Then she arched her eyebrows. “Never mind. I can see that probably didn’t happen. But, hey, don’t fault me. It’s happened before. The last chick was adamant she was going to get her Agent Provocateur undies back.”
Rosemary didn’t know what to say, so she pulled the thank-you note from her bag. “So if you’re done telling me about Sal’s intimate past, I’d appreciate your giving this to him.”
The woman looked at the heavy vellum envelope with Rosemary’s initials engraved on the back as if it were a loaded gun. “You want me to give him an invitation or something?”
“Actually it’s a—”
“Rosemary?” a voice called behind the woman. Sal appeared, sticking his head around the door. He looked even better than she remembered. This time his hair had been tamed by a brush and a small pinprick of red sauce dotted his white apron. Just like the day before. Like a trademark. “Hey, you came by.”
The woman holding the door turned her head, shrinking back, looking flabbergasted. “You know this chick?”
“Yeah, so let her in, Fran,” Sal said, pulling the door back, annoyance on his face as evident as the scent of garlic permeating the air. He jerked his head toward the woman still looking confused. “This is Frances Anne, my sister.”
Rosemary’s hands sweated again, but she used her best committee smile when she turned to the woman. “Hi, I’m Rosemary. I, uh, came to the restaurant last night. The meatballs were really good.”
Frances Anne reacted like a unicorn had tap-danced into the restaurant. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
“What’s this?” Sal interrupted, plucking the note Rosemary had been about to hand his sister from her hand.
“It’s a thank-you note. I didn’t have your address,” Rosemary said lamely, wishing she’d forgotten the whole thing. She felt about as comfortable as a nun in a whorehouse.
“A thank-you note?” Frances Anne repeated.
“You know, Pop needs you in the back,” Sal said, jerking his head toward the kitchen, narrowing his eyes in that age-old suggestion of get lost .
“He can wait,” Frances Anne said, shifting her gaze between Rosemary and Sal. Obviously Frances Anne felt vested in the interaction.
“No. He can’t. Vamoose,” Sal said, jerking a thumb this time. “I can handle this.”
Frances Anne dropped her gaze and looked pointedly at Rosemary. “You sure? ’Cause I have a feeling you need help here, bro. It’s like déjà vu all over again.”
Rosemary was polite, but she wasn’t mealymouthed. Frances Anne seemed way too protective over a thirtysomething brother. “I came to thank your brother for being so kind to me last night. He made sure I had a nice introduction to New York City and was a perfect gentleman.”
She expected her somewhat uppity tone to wither Frances Anne. No such luck—Sal’s sister crossed her arms and studied Rosemary as if she were bread mold. “He was kind to you, huh?”
So Rosemary looked at Sal, who seemed at a loss for how to handle his sister baring her teeth.
Rosemary might be dorky for showing up with engraved vellum, but she wasn’t a whore. “I didn’t sleep with your brother, if that’s what you’re implying. And I’m not sure why a thank-you note threatens you.”
Sal gave his sister a less than polite shove, angling her back toward the kitchen. “Frances Anne needs to
“So what’s this about?”
“Sal,” Rosemary said. “Is he here?”
The woman broke into laughter. “Oh God. You’re joking, right?”
“No,” Rosemary said, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks.
“Let me guess, you left your panties at his place,” the woman asked.
“What? No.” Rosemary let go of the door, shocked the woman would even think something like that.
Sal’s sister or cousin or whoever she was lowered her eyes and took in Rosemary. Then she arched her eyebrows. “Never mind. I can see that probably didn’t happen. But, hey, don’t fault me. It’s happened before. The last chick was adamant she was going to get her Agent Provocateur undies back.”
Rosemary didn’t know what to say, so she pulled the thank-you note from her bag. “So if you’re done telling me about Sal’s intimate past, I’d appreciate your giving this to him.”
The woman looked at the heavy vellum envelope with Rosemary’s initials engraved on the back as if it were a loaded gun. “You want me to give him an invitation or something?”
“Actually it’s a—”
“Rosemary?” a voice called behind the woman. Sal appeared, sticking his head around the door. He looked even better than she remembered. This time his hair had been tamed by a brush and a small pinprick of red sauce dotted his white apron. Just like the day before. Like a trademark. “Hey, you came by.”
The woman holding the door turned her head, shrinking back, looking flabbergasted. “You know this chick?”
“Yeah, so let her in, Fran,” Sal said, pulling the door back, annoyance on his face as evident as the scent of garlic permeating the air. He jerked his head toward the woman still looking confused. “This is Frances Anne, my sister.”
Rosemary’s hands sweated again, but she used her best committee smile when she turned to the woman. “Hi, I’m Rosemary. I, uh, came to the restaurant last night. The meatballs were really good.”
Frances Anne reacted like a unicorn had tap-danced into the restaurant. “Oh. Uh, thanks.”
“What’s this?” Sal interrupted, plucking the note Rosemary had been about to hand his sister from her hand.
“It’s a thank-you note. I didn’t have your address,” Rosemary said lamely, wishing she’d forgotten the whole thing. She felt about as comfortable as a nun in a whorehouse.
“A thank-you note?” Frances Anne repeated.
“You know, Pop needs you in the back,” Sal said, jerking his head toward the kitchen, narrowing his eyes in that age-old suggestion of get lost .
“He can wait,” Frances Anne said, shifting her gaze between Rosemary and Sal. Obviously Frances Anne felt vested in the interaction.
“No. He can’t. Vamoose,” Sal said, jerking a thumb this time. “I can handle this.”
Frances Anne dropped her gaze and looked pointedly at Rosemary. “You sure? ’Cause I have a feeling you need help here, bro. It’s like déjà vu all over again.”
Rosemary was polite, but she wasn’t mealymouthed. Frances Anne seemed way too protective over a thirtysomething brother. “I came to thank your brother for being so kind to me last night. He made sure I had a nice introduction to New York City and was a perfect gentleman.”
She expected her somewhat uppity tone to wither Frances Anne. No such luck—Sal’s sister crossed her arms and studied Rosemary as if she were bread mold. “He was kind to you, huh?”
So Rosemary looked at Sal, who seemed at a loss for how to handle his sister baring her teeth.
Rosemary might be dorky for showing up with engraved vellum, but she wasn’t a whore. “I didn’t sleep with your brother, if that’s what you’re implying. And I’m not sure why a thank-you note threatens you.”
Sal gave his sister a less than polite shove, angling her back toward the kitchen. “Frances Anne needs to
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