The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(122)

He let go of a bag to open the door, asking, “What do you have in these bags anyway?”

“You gave me no hint as to what you had planned so I had to come prepared,” she answered as he shoved in through the door, hauling her bags in with him.

“So by ‘prepared’ you mean you came prepared to assault the White House?” he asked.

“I have clothes and shoes in those bags, not assault rifles,” she shot back.

“Feels like half a ton of C4,” he muttered.

“Shut up, Benny,” she returned, but he heard the smile in her voice.

That made him smile as he kept moving toward the door to the hall.

Once he hit it, he said, “Shit, babe, forgot to put your Fanta in the fridge. It’s in the den. I’ll take these upstairs. You toss a couple cans in the fridge, and while you’re at it, pop me a beer.”

“Your den is not a den. It’s a den-shaped dump,” she replied.

“You gonna pop me a beer or what?” he returned, still smiling.

“All right,” she murmured, and he heard her purse hit the table.

He hauled the bags to the foot of the stairs, left them there, and retraced his steps, timing it perfectly to hit the door to the den so he could see Frankie’s hands shoot to her mouth as she shrieked, “Oh my God! Benny!”

He grinned as he watched her drop instantly to a closed-knees squat as a wrinkly bulldog puppy—brown body, white feet, belly, face, and ears, with little brown spots on one floppy ear, and brown emanating out the sides of his eyes—waddled her way.

Benny leaned against the jamb as she gathered the puppy in her arms and rubbed her cheek against his fur.

“Meet Churchill,” he said.

She tipped her head back, gave him her eyes, and when he got them, Ben went still.

“Gus,” she whispered, her voice husky, her eyes shining with tears. “His name is Gus.”

Looking in those crazy-beautiful eyes that were filled with tears and love, Ben found he couldn’t move.

The dog and Frankie could.

The dog squirmed. Frankie came out of her squat and moved toward him, holding the puppy close to her face, her eyes never leaving his.

She came to a stop not a foot away, and he said softly, “One day early, but couldn’t leave him in there forever.” His voice dipped low, “Happy birthday, baby.”

He barely got the words out when he watched a tear slide down her cheek.

But she didn’t move.

So he asked, “You gonna kiss me?”

She rubbed the still-squirming puppy against her cheek and asked back, “Do you have any clue how awesome you are?”

“Pretty much,” Benny joked.

“No you don’t,” she whispered, and his gut clenched.

“Come here, Frankie,” he growled.

She came to him. He wrapped his arms around her (and the dog) and bent his head to take her mouth.

He didn’t have to take it.

She gave it to him.

He kissed her deep.

But not long.

Because in the middle of it, using puppy tongue, Gus kissed them both.

* * * * *

“This okay?” Benny asked as he parked behind the pizzeria the next night.

The night of Frankie’s birthday.

“Are you makin’ my birthday pie?” Frankie asked back.

Ben grinned as he shut down the ignition. “Yeah.”

“Then yeah,” she finally answered.

He looked her way to ascertain if she was bullshitting him and saw her leaned forward, face in the visor mirror, slicking on lip gloss.

But doing it on smiling lips.

There it was. She wasn’t bullshitting him.

She liked his pie enough to be perfectly happy eating it on her special day.

She’d finished with her gloss and hopped down by the time he got to her side of the SUV.

He slammed the door for her, and as he did, he took her in yet again, top to toe, doing it thinking he was looking forward to what was going to happen in a few minutes. But Frankie in that red dress with its short, tight skirt and slouchy, sleeveless top that fell off one shoulder, her hair big, her makeup set straight to “going out,” her jewelry set to “seriously tricked out,” and a pair of high-heeled sandals, he was more looking forward to later when he intended to feel those heels in his back.

He took her hand, guided her to the back door, and she started talking.

“You should have told me, though. I could have invited Asheeka and Jamie and some folks from my old work and tried to get Cat to give up whatever grudge she’s holdin’. A grudge, no matter how deep, is no match for a Bianchi pie.” He’d shoved open the door and pulled her in when her eyes came to him and she said hurriedly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like I wanted a bunch of people around. You want this to be a couple thing, I don’t get enough of you, so I’m way down with that. You, me, your pie, and your pizzeria.” She leaned into him and finished on a bright, happy smile, “Perfect.”

It was going to perfect all right.

“Glad you’re down with that, honey.”

“Totally,” she assured him, squeezing his hand.

He moved her through the bustling kitchen, giving nods to his kids as they went.

Then he moved her through the short hall that led to the dining room.