The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(22)

I didn’t share that. If he hadn’t figured that out for himself, I wasn’t going to enlighten him.

He squeezed my hand and pressed it tighter to his abs. “You open yourself up, you could find it’ll be the best you ever had.”

I didn’t know what he was promising, but I had a feeling it had a variety of nuances. I also had a feeling he was right—about all of those nuances.

The problem was, he should find the best he’d ever have, and he couldn’t get that from me.

“Can we stop talking now?” I requested.

His eyes got soft, but his lips said, “Yeah. About that. I’m gonna go get you some coffeecake, but before that, I’m gonna tell you how this is gonna go down.”

I had a feeling I knew what “this” was, and, admittedly, I was grateful he had a plan. This would likely come as an order, which would be annoying, but I needed to be prepared and I’d take whatever I could get.

“When she gets here, I’ll bring Ma up. She’ll do what she’s gotta do and I’ll be here with you in the beginning. Then I gotta get to the restaurant. Got paperwork to do and Pop’s takin’ my back at nights while you’re here. He does things his way. I do things my way. Obviously I like my way better. He f**ks up my kitchen, I’ll deal. He f**ks up my system in the office, that will not go good. So I gotta see to shit. Ma will stay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

This was a good plan, the best part being I’d get a break from Benny during it. I’d take dealing with Theresa over Benny any day.

“Gotcha. But just sayin’, if you need to be at the restaurant at night, I’ll be good here alone.”

“You’ll be here alone and schemin’. So that shit’s not gonna happen.”

To preserve the precarious mellow mood I had going, I decided not to reply.

“So, you’re down with that plan?” he pressed.

“Do I have a choice?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.

“Then yes, I’m down with that plan.”

He smiled at me.

I allowed myself a nanosecond to long for a life where I could be lying in a sweet nightie in Benny Bianchi’s bed with him sitting close, holding my hand against his taut abs, smiling at me, and what I would be free to do in that pleasant happenstance, before I shut that shit down.

“Bring the remote with my cake,” I ordered.

“Back to spicy,” he muttered, still smiling.

He liked spicy. If I was playing it smart, I wouldn’t give him spicy.

But I was Francesca Angelica Concetti. That just wasn’t in me.

“I was under the impression I’m here to finish recuperating, Benny. I can’t do that if you starve me to death.”

I felt those tight abs shaking with his silent laughter and I liked that feeling a whole lot. Too much.

Dangerously much.

Then he gave my hand a squeeze, let it go, and pushed up from the bed, muttering, “At your service.”

I should have let it go, I really should have. But I didn’t because it was just…not…me.

“I will note at this juncture that if I was in my own apartment, which doesn’t have steps and is a lot smaller, I could get my own coffeecake.”

“You’re right,” he replied, not looking at me and walking toward the door. “But you probably wouldn’t have coffeecake.”

“No, I would have Gina makin’ me ciabatta toast with homemade ciabatta, which, incidentally, she’d deliver to me in bed without the hassle.”

“Then lucky you’re here,” he returned, walking through the door. “Entenmann’s cheese coffeecake with crumble is better, even than Gina’s ciabatta.”

There it was. I should have kept my mouth shut.

Because he was right.

* * * * *

I lay in Benny’s bed, eyes glued to the TV, plate in my hand with a slice of coffeecake the size of which, coupled with last night’s dinner, proved irrefutably that Ben didn’t intend to starve me.

I did this as Benny took a shower.

I was good, resting, eating, a fresh cup o’ joe sitting on the nightstand and a huge slice of fresh Entenmann’s in hand, but I was wishing for pain. Pain would take my mind off Benny in the shower.

Fortunately, the shower turned off.

Unfortunately, this conjured images of Ben standing at his sink in nothing but a towel, running his hands through his hair.

I was reconsidering Asheeka’s offer of her brothers and their brothers coming to my rescue when Ben, with excellent timing, exited the bathroom.

Looking his way, I found I was right. He gelled as a necessary afterthought to tame all that thick, unruly hair. It was wet and an attempt had been made, just not a very good one, which left it wet, messy, and hot. This meant it would dry messy and hot.

He was wearing another white tee but different jeans—more faded and there was a worn white patch that was nearly threadbare at his crotch.

My mouth got dry.

The doorbell rang.

Theresa was there.

My mouth suddenly filled with saliva.

Ben’s eyes came to me. “You’re good,” he said quietly.

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled disbelievingly.

“You think I’d let anything harm you?”

Oh God. More dangerous territory.