The Promise(153)
“That’d be a cool thing to do,” she said, measuring flour.
“Though, she probably doesn’t, seein’ as she doesn’t hesitate to haul her ass over here and ask me to fix shit when she does.”
Again she twisted her neck and looked at him. “She does?”
“Yep.”
“Do you do it?”
His brows drew together at what he thought was an asinine question. “Of course.”
Her face got soft and she whispered, “Pure Benny.”
“Just bein’ a good neighbor,” he pointed out.
“Just bein’ a good man,” she returned and her words and the look in her eyes that was part marvel, like she couldn’t quite believe he was real, part pride, and a lot of love made his arms give her an involuntary squeeze.
“Like it when you look at me that way,” he murmured.
“Get used to it,” she replied.
Fuck.
Frankie.
“Love you, baby,” he whispered.
“Love you back, Benny,” she said quietly.
He wanted to let that moment last. He wanted more for her to be done with the cake so she could give him another nightie. But she wasn’t done with the cake, she wanted to give him that, had gone out of her way to plan it, so he needed to let her give him that.
So he took them out of the moment by asking, “What kinda cake you bakin’ me?”
“Chocolate maraschino cherry,” she answered, and his chin jerked.
His favorite, bar none.
And no one had made it for him but his mother.
“Ma give you that recipe?”
“Yep.”
That wasn’t a surprise, it was a shock. Theresa Bianchi was like her husband (and then some) when it came to her cooking. Her secret family recipes were hers. She made them for the restaurant, but she didn’t share how to make them with anyone, even family.
So he muttered, “Holy fuck.”
“I know,” she turned back to the counter. “She gave it right up, no begging, no bribery, no markers owed. Freaked me out.”
Benny liked what this said.
Years ago, Connie had asked for that same recipe and his ma hadn’t given it up. It disappointed Connie not to be able to give him what he liked on his birthday, direct from her, not getting it from his ma. But Connie was the kind of woman who didn’t put up a fight. She hid her disappointment and never asked again.
Frankie asked for it, Ma handed it right over.
“She loves you,” Ben noted quietly.
He watched her profile smile. “Yeah.”
“She loves you for me.”
Her smile stayed in place, but her face again got soft. “Yeah.”
He dipped his head, used his chin to move her mass of hair away from her neck, and kissed her there.
Lifting his mouth to her ear, he said, “You makin’ chocolate maraschino cherry cake, I’ll want it to be good so I’ll play with you after it’s done.”
She turned her head and caught his eyes, saying, “Deal.”
He bent in, touched his mouth to hers, and copped a feel as he let her go.
“Got the groceries put away?” he asked, scanning the floor for Gus, not finding him, thus moving to the door to look down the hall. And there he was, dragging one of Ben’s running shoes by the string across the foyer.
“Yeah, you just relax. Today I do all the work.”
That wasn’t strictly true, but she was only letting him do the work he liked to do.
He moved down the hall and saved his shoe from Gus by tossing it on the dining room table which, again, was covered in shit, but more of it since he piled everything that had to be out of Gus’s way there, and everything that needed to be out of Gus’s way was everything.
He carried the dog under his arm to the kitchen, held him while he warmed Frankie’s coffee, warmed his own, and then sat with their puppy at the kitchen table.
Gus didn’t need a shoe if Gus had Ben’s chest, neck, jaw, and hands, so Benny leaned back, stretched out, and gave them to him.
“This weekend, I’m tackling the dining room.”
This announcement was made by Frankie, and Ben’s eyes went from the dog on his chest to his woman.
“Come again?’
“No, the office. I think I should start there because half the shit in the dining room will end up there anyway,” she went on.
“Uh…come again?” Benny repeated.
She looked over her shoulder at him, stirring the batter in the bowl. “We’ll have to go get some hanging files, maybe a small filing cabinet or some shelves to put expanding files. Your pick, but it has to be something other than different piles all over every surface and the floor.”
“What are you talkin’ about, Frankie?”
She turned to the prepared tin and started pouring in batter.