The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(77)

I saw his name.

One last touch and I’d made the call.

I should disconnect.

I didn’t.

I put the phone to my ear.

I listened to it ring and closed my eyes.

I kept them closed when I heard his deep, easy voice saying the only words I’d heard him say the last five months: “Ben’s voicemail, leave a message.”

I heard the beep, opened my eyes, and starting blathering.

“Ben? Frankie. Listen, I know it’s been a while since I’ve called, but I’m in Chicago. Staying at The Belvedere. Business. But, uh…business is done for the day and I’m about to go out to dinner.” I sucked in breath and kept rambling. “I thought, maybe…well, I don’t think you would, but I still thought I’d call…see if you wanted to meet for a drink. We can talk. I don’t know, maybe work things out. I know you’re at work but after. I’ll wait. I’ll be in the bar at the hotel. If you wanna drop by, drinks are on me.”

Drinks are on me?

Oh God, I shouldn’t have made the call.

It was time to wind it up.

“That’s, well…it.” I closed my eyes and stupidly whispered, “I hope you come, Benny.”

I hit the button to disconnect and wished I’d never connected. I also wished I could erase the message. I further wished I could rewind my life back to high school and put out so at least I’d have a week or two of dating Benny.

But I couldn’t do any of that so I did what I could do.

I went to dinner alone.

Then I went to the bar at the hotel and had a drink. One drink turned into two, then three. Closing in on midnight, plenty of time after the pizzeria shut down for Ben to get to me, I left the circling men who’d either tried to come onto me or who’d drank and tried to get up the courage to come onto me—easy target, lone woman in a hotel bar, drinking.

I went up to my room and kept my phone close.

An hour slid by before I gave up.

I put on my nightie, brushed my teeth, washed my face, moisturized, slid into bed, and turned out the lights.

I rolled to my side and settled in.

When I felt the single tear hit the side of the bridge of my nose and slide down, falling off and salting my lip, I touched my tongue to it. Then I reached out, hugged the unused pillow to me, and closed my eyes. It took a while, a long while, longer than normal, but I guessed you eventually got used to your heart perpetually breaking.

So eventually I found sleep.

* * * * *

I jolted awake when I heard a loud knock on the door.

I lifted up to a forearm in the dark, blinked away residual sleep, and the knocking stopped.

I listened.

Nothing.

Did I dream it?

The answer came when the knocking resumed—three firm, loud pounds.

I twisted, switched on the bedside lamp, and threw off the covers. I got to my feet and moved quickly to the door.

I looked out the peephole and stopped breathing.

Ben, head bent, and from what I could tell, both hands up. He was leaning into them, resting on the door.

This killed me. The man could be hot just leaning.

As I watched, he pulled back, then I jumped back when three more pounds came at the door.

Without thinking, not knowing what time it was, not considering the fact I was wearing nothing but a lilac nightie that was made of near-sheer, stretchy material in the body, had cups made of delicate, rosy-pink lace, the same lace skimming the just-over-the-booty hem, I unlatched the door and threw it open.

Ben’s head jerked when I did and I remembered to breathe, only to suck in more and stop doing it again.

We stared at each other.

It was me who pulled it together first, and this was only enough to say, “Benny.”

That unlocked his frame and he pushed in, through me, forcing me back two steps. I took two more when he grabbed the door, threw it closed, and flipped the security latch closed.

Oh God, I wasn’t sure how to take that.

On a new kind of rocky ground with Benny, tentatively I greeted, “Hey.”

His eyes narrowed in a scary way when he asked, “Seriously?”

I pressed my lips together.

I unpressed them when his entire face went scary, this being when his eyes did a slow scan of me in my nightie.

“How did you know my room number?”

His eyes cut back to mine. “Brett Rizzoli is night shift maintenance. I called him. He got it for me.”

I was surprised Brett Rizzoli had a job, seeing as he spent his high school years, and a number after them, on a mission of scoring the best weed in order to smoke it.

“What time is it?” I asked.

“Late,” Ben answered.

“Ben—”

He cut me off with, “Serious as f**k, Frankie…cookies?”

I snapped my mouth shut because I knew what he was talking about and my what-I’d-hoped-would-be-thoughtful gesture didn’t seem so thoughtful anymore. It seemed stupid, even callous.

“You’re pissed,” I noted inanely.

“Uh, yeah,” he agreed sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“You didn’t come back to me,” he clipped.

I clenched my teeth.

“Waited, Francesca. You didn’t f**kin’ come back to me. Then you send me f**kin’ cookies?”