Benny leaned against the jamb as she gathered the puppy in her arms and rubbed her cheek against his fur.
“Meet Churchill,” he said.
She tipped her head back, gave him her eyes, and when he got them, Ben went still.
“Gus,” she whispered, her voice husky, her eyes shining with tears. “His name is Gus.”
Looking in those crazy-beautiful eyes that were filled with tears and love, Ben found he couldn’t move.
The dog and Frankie could.
The dog squirmed. Frankie came out of her squat and moved toward him, holding the puppy close to her face, her eyes never leaving his.
She came to a stop not a foot away, and he said softly, “One day early, but couldn’t leave him in there forever.” His voice dipped low, “Happy birthday, baby.”
He barely got the words out when he watched a tear slide down her cheek.
But she didn’t move.
So he asked, “You gonna kiss me?”
She rubbed the still-squirming puppy against her cheek and asked back, “Do you have any clue how awesome you are?”
“Pretty much,” Benny joked.
“No you don’t,” she whispered, and his gut clenched.
“Come here, Frankie,” he growled.
She came to him. He wrapped his arms around her (and the dog) and bent his head to take her mouth.
He didn’t have to take it.
She gave it to him.
He kissed her deep.
But not long.
Because in the middle of it, using puppy tongue, Gus kissed them both.
* * * * *
“This okay?” Benny asked as he parked behind the pizzeria the next night.
The night of Frankie’s birthday.
“Are you makin’ my birthday pie?” Frankie asked back.
Ben grinned as he shut down the ignition. “Yeah.”
“Then yeah,” she finally answered.
He looked her way to ascertain if she was bullshitting him and saw her leaned forward, face in the visor mirror, slicking on lip gloss.
But doing it on smiling lips.
There it was. She wasn’t bullshitting him.
She liked his pie enough to be perfectly happy eating it on her special day.
She’d finished with her gloss and hopped down by the time he got to her side of the SUV.
He slammed the door for her, and as he did, he took her in yet again, top to toe, doing it thinking he was looking forward to what was going to happen in a few minutes. But Frankie in that red dress with its short, tight skirt and slouchy, sleeveless top that fell off one shoulder, her hair big, her makeup set straight to “going out,” her jewelry set to “seriously tricked out,” and a pair of high-heeled sandals, he was more looking forward to later when he intended to feel those heels in his back.
He took her hand, guided her to the back door, and she started talking.
“You should have told me, though. I could have invited Asheeka and Jamie and some folks from my old work and tried to get Cat to give up whatever grudge she’s holdin’. A grudge, no matter how deep, is no match for a Bianchi pie.” He’d shoved open the door and pulled her in when her eyes came to him and she said hurriedly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound like I wanted a bunch of people around. You want this to be a couple thing, I don’t get enough of you, so I’m way down with that. You, me, your pie, and your pizzeria.” She leaned into him and finished on a bright, happy smile, “Perfect.”
It was going to perfect all right.
“Glad you’re down with that, honey.”
“Totally,” she assured him, squeezing his hand.
He moved her through the bustling kitchen, giving nods to his kids as they went.
Then he moved her through the short hall that led to the dining room.
Finally, he moved her into the dining room.
When they hit it, he knew the kid he gave the order to keep an eye out for them and spread the word when they showed didn’t fuck it up, because the minute he cleared the hall and pulled Frankie to his side, a cacophony of streamer poppers sounded, bits flying through the air, along with shouts of, “Surprise!”
That was when Ben saw that his ma had also done her job.
To one side, there was a table set up with a massive cake on it that had white frosting and a shitload of pink and purple frosting flowers that said Happy Birthday, Frankie, presents placed all around it. They’d closed the restaurant for the night so the floor had been arranged so there were two long, rectangular tables with red-and-white-checkered tablecloths taking up the space. Each table had several huge bouquets of balloons floating up from them down their lengths and big bouquets of flowers in the middle.
His eyes went through the smiling crowd and he saw Asheeka there with her date. Frankie’s friend Jamie was there with her boyfriend. Manny was there with Sela. His ma and pop obviously were there. Asheeka had gotten the word out to Frankie’s friends from her old work, including her ex-boss, and they were all there. As were Frankie’s best friends from high school, and old lady Zambino and her bowling posse.
Last, he was surprised to note, Cat was there, looking anywhere but at Benny or Frankie, and her husband, Art, was standing beside her.
“Hello, girl, you alive in there?” Asheeka called, and when she did, it hit Benny that Frankie stood unmoving at his side.
He looked down at her and saw her staring at the crowd, face set firm to stunned.
“Babe,” he said, pulling her by her hand his way, and her head tipped back to look at him.
That was when his chest warmed, because her face was still set to stunned, but her gaze was filled with so much wonder and tenderness, seeing that look in her crazy-beautiful eyes, it was a wonder he could breathe.
“How’re you gonna top this next year, Benny Bianchi?” she asked quietly.
“I’m awesome so I’ll figure it out,” he answered.
Her eyes got bright again, but this time, no tear fell.
This was because she threw herself in his arms and laid a hot, wet one on him.
They went at it to catcalls, shouts of encouragement, offers to get them a room, and his mother yelling, “Thank God Father Frances couldn’t make it!” before he broke it off and said softly, “Gotta start makin’ pies, baby.”
She held his eyes and held on to him tight when she replied, “All right, Benny.”
He winked at her, gave her a squeeze, and turned her from his arms and toward her crew.
When he did, she threw her arms straight in the air and shouted, “Birthdays rock!”
Two seconds later, she was engulfed by friends and family.
Benny watched it, grinning.
Then he went into the kitchen to start making pies.
* * * * *
“Oh my God!” Frankie yelled. “I love these!”
Benny, sitting beside Frankie, where she was at the head of the table, figured she did love the present she just opened, seeing as she instantly yanked off the bracelets she had on and shoved on the bracelets whoever just gave her.
She jiggled them in his face. “Aren’t they gorgeous, honey?” she asked.
“Gorgeous,” he muttered, smiling at her and not looking at the bracelets at all.
She gave him a look, dropped her hand, leaned into him, and hissed, “Don’t be sweet.”
He looked down the length of the table that was filled with empty cake plates, wrapping paper, used streamers and confetti from the second (and third) round of streamer poppers, and people who loved Francesca Concetti.
Then he looked back at her and asked, “Seriously?”
“If you’re in the mood to be sweet…er,” she went on, “maybe you can get one of the kids to bring out more Chianti. I’m dry.”
“I’ll go to the bar,” he murmured, but she caught his wrist as he made a move.
“I’m not done with presents, you can’t leave. If you do, whose face am I gonna jiggle bracelets in and who am I gonna force to smell
my candles?”
Benny got off on seeing his baby happy.
He did not get off on having jewelry jiggled in his face or courting a headache because he had to sniff another candle.
He looked across the table at Art and said, “Art’ll stand in.”
“Great,” Art muttered, eyes rolling to the ceiling.
Benny ignored him, got out of his seat, bent to Frankie, and said in her ear, “Wine for my woman.”
He pulled back, she gave him a big smile, and he went to the bar to tell the bartender to set the tables up with more wine.
He was heading back when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Asheeka was there, so he stopped.
“Yo, babe,” he greeted.
“Hey, Benny,” she replied, coming to a stop next to him. “Great pizza, as usual.”
“We kinda got practice at that here.”
She nodded her head, her lips curved up.
“Ohmigod! I love this lotion! It’s the best evah!” Frankie shrieked, and Ben and Asheeka looked her way to see she was forcing a bottle of lotion under Art’s nose.
Art’s face did not communicate he much liked the smell, but at least the guy was game and was sniffing it.
“That girl isn’t half breathin’,” Asheeka said softly, and Benny turned to look at her just as her hand caught his. “Got my gratitude, Benny.”
“Not sure what to say to that since I’m the one who gets to enjoy a Francesca Concetti who’s breathin’ easy.”
“You got it anyway.”
He tightened his hand in hers and said quietly, “Appreciated, Asheeka.”
She squeezed his hand back, let him go, and moved to the table just as Cat vacated her seat, a seat that was strategically far away from Frankie.
Art had thrown himself right in, and the way he did, it reminded Ben that he was a good guy, when he wasn’t hammered.
Cat, so far, had not thrown herself into anything. She wasn’t hanging back, sulking and making a point. She was hanging back like she wasn’t sure how to get close anymore.
Now, she was making her way toward Benny.
Shit.
“Ben,” she greeted.
“Cat, glad you came,” he replied.
“Me too,” she said. “Been so long, thought the delight of a Bianchi pie was a dream. Now I know it’s better than I remembered.”
She stopped next to him as one of the kids who worked the floor passed them with two bottles of wine in each hand.
When the server was gone, Ben, eyes to the tables, noted, “Keepin’ a distance from your sister.”
“Been a bitch,” she whispered, and Benny looked down to her, surprised again.
“Rectified that tonight, Cat,” he reminded her.
“She got shot and I did somethin’ selfish and stupid, and now I show at her birthday party for free pizza and cake?” she told the table where her eyes were aimed.
“Sortin’ out your life isn’t stupid,” he remarked.
“Doin’ it bein’ a bitch is,” she returned.
“Better late than never,” he pointed out.
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” she retorted.
“Frankie givin’ you crap?” he asked.
She turned her gaze to him because she knew the answer. Frankie was giving her sister space, mostly because Cat was taking it. But she wasn’t giving her crap.
“Trust me, she’ll take you as you come,” he said. “She’s just glad you’re here. She gives you that gift, Cat, just roll with it.”
She heaved a sigh, looked back at the table, took a few moments, then asked, “It true, Dad’s latest bitch havin’ his baby?”
“Any day now,” Ben affirmed.
“Shit,” she muttered.
“You’re gettin’ a sister,” he told her.
She kept muttering. “Jesus.”
“I’m not Enzo Senior’s biggest fan, Cat, but his woman seems solid.”
“They always are,” she said to the table, and Ben didn’t doubt that.
Another question that would go unanswered in his lifetime was how good women got hooked up with dicks all the time.
He decided not to reply and looked back at the table to see old lady Zambino sitting in his chair, leaned into Frankie’s space, and Benny couldn’t tell by his woman’s expression if she was about to laugh, cry, or shout.
“Thinkin’ I should get back,” he said.
“Yeah,” Cat replied.
Ben made a move, but stopped and turned back when she called his name.
“Thanks for havin’ the balls to come and get in my face,” she said.
“You still got her love, and you’ll always have her love. You fuck up again, I’ll do it again.”
For the first time that night, he saw her smile. “I’m thinkin’ I’ll do my best to avoid that.”
“That’d be my call.”
She rolled her eyes.
He heard Frankie burst out laughing and turned back to the table to see she had her hand wrapped around the back of Mrs. Zambino’s head, she’d pressed their foreheads together, and she was giggling herself sick, her entire body shaking with it.
Mrs. Zambino wasn’t giggling.
She was yelling. “Francesca Concetti, you’re ruining my hair!”
Frankie did not let go.
She just kept giggling.
Ben left her to it for three beats before he made his approach to unlatch his woman from his neighbor so Mrs. Zambino wouldn’t unsheathe the talons or take him off her Christmas gift list.
Frankie’s chocolate-filled snowballs were his favorite.
But Mrs. Zambino’s homemade cookies cut out like poinsettia leaves and filled with green-colored creamy frosting were a close second.
* * * * *
Ben laid in his bed, back to the headboard, sheet to his waist, and just managed to avoid a traumatic injury when Gus made to jump right on his dick. Frankie had scooped him up and put him on the bed before she skipped to the bathroom to clean up after he’d fucked her. And Benny was making a mental note to see to it that she did not do that again.
He pulled the dog up his chest and got a wet jaw for his effort. Still, he kept the dog where he was and scratched his head. This got him puppy breath right in the face because Gus started panting happily.
Ben continued to keep him where he was and give him scratches as Frankie, now in a sweet, short nightie, skipped out of the bathroom, made a beeline to the bed, and hopped in, landing on her knees. She bounced across the bed to him and tossed out a thigh, ending up straddling him.
Once positioned, she pulled Gus right out of his arms, lifted him up in front of her face, and cooed, “Who’s Mommy’s special little boy?”
She was being cute and dorky, which was also cute, but Ben had frozen.
This was because Frankie had skipped out of the bathroom, hopped into bed, and bounced across it.
Frankie, after hours with family, friends, food, presents, and unlimited wine. After digging her heels in his back hard and riding his cock harder.
And there she was.
Electric.
“Is Gus Mommy’s special little boy?” she asked, and he had to jerk himself out of his freeze to lift his hands and rest them on her hips.
“Babe, don’t talk to him like that,” he ordered, trying to ignore the warmth in his gut at the happiness written all over the woman astride his hips.
She looked down at him and curled Gus into her chest. “Why?”
“’Cause he’s an English bulldog,” Ben explained.
“And?” she prompted as Gus made a successful escape attempt, which meant he successfully landed dead weight on Ben’s chest, something that made Benny grunt.
Frankie scooted the puppy to Ben’s gut and gave him scratches there, her eyes on Ben, waiting for an answer.
Benny got his breath back and continued to explain.
“He’s a male English bulldog. In other words, he’s a badass breed. A chick baby talks him, his ears mig
ht start bleedin’.”
She grinned. “His ears won’t start bleedin’.”
“Don’t look at me when you coo at him and that shit happens.”
She rolled her eyes, rolled them back, and declared, “Just so you know, you being annoying is not gonna kill my buzz. I mean, you got Cat there, and Art, and old lady Zambino, who was still so pissed I bailed on you, she hadn’t talked to me in months, but she showed too.”
He tipped his head to the side and asked, “You work that out with Mrs. Zambino?”
She nodded but said, “She busted my chops about how I went off half-cocked and didn’t walk across the street to” —she lifted her hands and did air quotation marks— “‘get some wisdom.’ But I had your pie and a ton of wine in me, so she couldn’t kill my buzz either.”
He took in her shining eyes, squeezed her hips with his hands, and asked quietly, “Happy?”
“Yes and no,” she answered.
He felt his head jerk with surprise. “What’s the no part?”
“You kicked this birthday’s ass. I mean, Ben…” She scooped up Gus and cuddled him to her chest again. “You closed the entire restaurant. Cake. Flowers. Balloons. A surprise party. A sisterly reunion.” She cuddled Gus closer, finishing, “And a freakin’ puppy.”
“And there’s a part of that that doesn’t make you happy?” he pushed when she explained no further.
“Yeah, seein’ as it’s gonna be practically impossible to one-up you on your birthday and I have barely a month to plan.”
At that, Benny burst out laughing, did an ab crunch, and confiscated the dog. He also put an arm around his woman, twisted, leaned to the side, and put the dog on the floor. Then he lay back, taking Frankie with him the way he wanted her, with one arm still around her, the other hand in her hair, holding her close.
“My birthday’s easy, baby. You, a couple sweet nighties, and a bottle of chocolate sauce.”
Her eyes got big and she asked, “Chocolate sauce?”
“Yep.”
“That’ll be sticky,” she declared, but in a tone that said it might be sticky, but it was far from out of the question.
“That’s the point, Francesca. You get sticky, I make you unsticky.”
Her hips rolled against his.
It was after two in the morning, after wine, food, cake, friends, presents, and she was ready to go again.
The Promise Page 37