The Promise (The 'Burg #5)(86)

“You can wear slacks,” he returned. “And nix the heels and buy some flats.” He paused before he finished, “Ugly ones.”

“I’m not wearin’ ugly shoes!” I said loudly.

“Okay, then buy some not-ugly flats.”

“I’m not wearin’ flats. Or slacks,” I declared.

He stared at me a moment before he repeated, “Fuck me.”

“Can we stop talking about this so you can feed me?” I asked, then added, “I’m hungry.”

His expression shifted from sex-satisfied with the addition of aggravated to sex-satisfied with the addition of warm affection before he asked, “What you want?”

I wanted one of Benny’s pies. What I didn’t want was him to have to go to the restaurant to make one.

Nevertheless, to make a choice, I needed more information. “What are my choices?”

“Barbeque chicken sandwiches or anything that delivers.”

“I take it your ma’s provisions ran out.”

His face gentled so his words wouldn’t sting when he replied, “Yeah, baby. Five months, that was gonna happen.”

His gentle face was awesome.

But his words still stung.

“I’m an idiot,” I blurted on a whisper.

Ben heaved a sigh, pulled out, and rolled to his back, moving me with him. When he had me on top, he lifted his hands and gathered my hair, holding it away from my face on either side of my head, and he looked into my eyes.

“Sucks, but apparently, f**kin’ you again didn’t sort all our shit.”

“Apparently not,” I muttered, my eyes drifting to his ear.

“Baby.”

My eyes drifted back.

“Let’s start with the easy shit. You want barbeque or you wanna order something?”

Starting with the easy shit was a good idea.

Still, I had to ask. “What kind of barbeque?”

“Jack Daniel’s ready-made.”

I felt my eyes get big.

“Oh my God, that shit is the bomb,” I breathed.

He grinned and murmured, “Barbeque it is.”

“Yeah,” I agreed.

“Right, then get off me, baby. I gotta get rid of this condom and feed my girl.”

I rolled off and Ben rolled off with me.

I then watched his ass, something I’d never seen unhindered, as he sauntered to the bathroom.

After enjoying that show and allowing myself a moment to enjoy the memory of that show when he disappeared, I spied my suitcase against the wall and moved.

I found my panties on the floor, nabbed them, kicked off my shoes, pulled the undies up, and discarded my thigh highs. I had my suitcase open on the floor and was kneeling by it, digging through my limited business travel selection when I saw Benny’s bare feet and the hems of his faded jeans on the floor next to my case.

I looked up (and up and up) encountering denim-clad thighs, a package I’d unwrapped and knew intimately that the treat inside was thrilling, bare abs, chest, and shoulders—their lines, ridges, and flats covered in smooth olive skin—and finally his handsome face pointed down to me.

“You need somethin’ to wear?” he asked.

“I didn’t pack lounge-around-Ben’s-house gear,” I answered, and his lips quirked.

“Right. Next time, remedy that,” he ordered and moved to his dresser. He opened a drawer, pulled out a faded red tee, turned, and tossed it to me.

I yanked it on and it had barely fallen over my ass before he had my hand in his and was pulling us out the door.

We hit the kitchen and Ben got out the meat. He nuked it while I got plates and put out the buns. Ben opened himself a beer and grabbed a bottle of wine. I grabbed a glass for my wine (one, incidentally, that I was pretty certain he stole from the pizzeria). He poured, then he moved to the meat, divided it between the buns, put a slice of Swiss cheese on it, and nuked it again until the cheese was melted.

It smelled divine and looked better.

Best of all, the entirety of this took about five minutes.

“Livin’ room,” he stated as a command and went on doing it. “Grab my plate. Come back and get the drinks. I’ll get the other shit.”

I would find, sitting in the corner of his couch, plate in hand, wine on the coffee table in front of me, “the other shit” consisted of Ben bringing out a jar of dill pickle slices and seven bags of chips.

Seven.

Something new to learn about Benny Bianchi. He apparently seriously liked snack foods.

I stared at the chips and noted Doritos Cool Ranch, Doritos Nacho Cheese, Jays Mesquite BBQ, Jays Sour Cream and Onion, Cheetos Puffs, Fritos Honey BBQ, and a tube of Pringles Cheddar Cheese.

Feeling like sticking with the theme, I carefully rolled forward on my knees, balancing my plate in hand, and reached for Jays Mesquite.

“Catch up,” Benny said as I sat back.

I put my plate on my lap, unrolled the top of the open chip bag, and looked to him. “Sorry, honey?”

He didn’t repeat himself.

He asked, “You get a dog?”

My heart squeezed because with his question he told me that, even though he didn’t answer my voicemails, he’d listened to them.

I liked that.

“No,” I answered. “Had a problem with my apartment. Well…” I hesitated, “actually about seven thousand of them. Then I had a problem with how they didn’t seem to give a shit that I did when the shower didn’t drain, even after three days, and the garbage disposal didn’t dispose—it preserved, but not very well. After that went on awhile, I told them to go f**k themselves. One of our reps moved on to a job out of state and she was stuck in a lease. So I took over her lease.” I grinned at him, chip in hand halfway to my mouth. “Get this. My new pad is in Brownsburg.” I popped the chip in my mouth and chewed.