Kristen Ashley - The Promise

“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.

A man, any man, said that to a woman, he dug his way in there, straight into your heart. A man who looked like Ben said it, that hole he was digging went deep. A man who looked like Ben said it and meant it, he got in so deep, he’d never get out.

“Ben—”

“You think she would, even before you took a hit?”

I didn’t reply.

“You’re good, cara ,” he whispered, then moved to the door.

I hastily set my plate aside and took a sip of coffee.

After putting the mug back on the nightstand, I didn’t know what to do with my hands or eyes.

I didn’t figure it out before Benny appeared in the door again.

He came through and on his heels came Theresa.

Later, I would process the fact that Ben positioned himself in the room halfway between me and his mother. I would also process the fact that he did this as a show of support for both of us. He took no sides. What he was saying was, if this started to turn bad, he was in the position to deal, for either one of us.

It was a good thing for a son to do. It was a good thing for a woman’s man to do.

At that moment, though, I only had eyes for Theresa, who looked unsure of herself, and that look cut straight to the bone.

Theresa Bianchi had a husband, four children, three grandchildren, and ran the front of a very busy, very popular restaurant for forty years. She wasn’t unsure about anything. There was not an occasion when she didn’t know what to do.

Except one like this one.

She stopped three feet in the room and I watched as she struggled with how to place her body, what to do with her hands. She even visibly struggled with holding my gaze.

Watching it and unable to stand it, I blurted, “Thanks for the magazines.”

Her head twitched and her body got tight.

“And the coffeecake.” I threw out a hand to the nightstand.

Her eyes went there.

“There’s leftover,” I said, explaining the remaining cake quickly, “because Ben cut a slice for Refrigerator Perry, not a woman who’s been subsisting on IVs, then Jell-O, making her stomach the size of a golf ball.”

“You did all right with the pie last night, cara ,” Benny put in, and I looked at him.

He was grinning, happy, relieved, and his eyes on me were proud.

He was a man who could easily take a girl’s breath away.

Standing there, looking at me like that, he’d never been more breathtaking.

“It was a Bianchi pie,” I returned and said no more for that said it all.

Ben’s grin got bigger.

Theresa made a noise and we both looked back to her.

She was fighting tears and I knew she’d win just because that was who she was, so I shut up and gave her time.

I was right. She won.

And when she did it, she lifted her chin slightly, took two more steps into the room, and declared, “That coffeecake was for sweet tooth snackin’. Not breakfast.” She looked to her son. “You didn’t make Frankie bacon and eggs?”

“She asked for coffeecake,” Benny replied.

“Tomorrow she gets bacon and eggs,” Theresa decreed.

“Tomorrow she gets what she got today, which is whatever the fuck she wants,” Benny shot back, and this was killing me because I liked his words, but more, I liked watching his banter with his mom.

I missed it and it hurt to have it back because I wasn’t going to be able to keep it.

Theresa crossed her arms on her chest and set her expression straight to severe.

“I am uncertain why you, your father, and your brother feel the need to include the f-word in every other sentence.”

At this point, Ben looked at me. “And there it is, tesorina —a woman askin’ a man ‘why’ when the answer doesn’t mean shit.”

I couldn’t hold it back.

I grinned at him.

The instant I did, I wished I’d held it back because his face changed in a way I wanted to remember for the rest of my life.

“The s-word is not much better, Benito Bianchi,” his mother snapped, but Benny didn’t look from me.

Instead, he came at me, bent in, grabbed me behind my head, and pulled me gently to him until I felt his lips on my hair.

He let me back and I tipped my head to catch his eyes.

“I’ll get to the restaurant so I can be back quick,” he said quietly.

“All right,” I agreed.

He gave me a smile and his hand cupping the back of my head gave me a squeeze before he let me go, straightened, and strode to the door.

“Are we done talking?” his mother asked his back.

“Yep,” he answered his mother by way of the hall.

She turned an exasperated look to me.

I grinned at her too and, again, wished I’d held it back.

Because her face took on a look I wanted to remember for the rest of my life.

“Later, Ma!” Benny yelled and, thankfully, the spell was broken.

“’Bye, Benny!” she shouted back, then looked at me. “Now, Frankie, is there anything I can get you before I call your doctor to make your checkup appointment?”

I shouldn’t have done it.

But I did it.

I looked into her eyes and, again, I smiled.

***

On his way home from the restaurant, Benny’s cell rang.

He leaned forward, pulled it out of his pocket, checked the screen, and took the call.

“Yo,” he greeted.

“She at your place?” Cal asked, and Benny shook his head at the windshield.

“Yep.”

“She spittin’ fire?” Cal went on.

“Occasionally.”

“Recuperating,” Cal guessed as to the reason it was only occasionally.

“Yep.”

“You’ll get it when she heals.”