Kristen Ashley - The Promise

And Daniel Hart was the man who waged war against Salvatore Giglia, the man whose war meant Vinnie was no longer breathing.

When I got word things could go bad for Cal, I warned Benny. Directly after that, as I was wont to do, I got a wild hair, acted on that wild hair, drove to fucking Indiana to have Cal’s and his new woman’s, Violet’s, back, did something stupid, and ended up getting shot by none other than the man who ordered the hit on my boyfriend.

So that was how drama followed me.

I went searching for it.

Shortly after this uncomfortable realization, I carefully curled on my side in order to sleep and do it not snoring. Shortly after that, I fell asleep.

Now was now.

I was in Benny Bianchi’s house, alone in Benny Bianchi’s bed, and Benny had thrown down. I knew where he stood. I knew what he wanted. I knew where his head was at.

And I knew I’d never go there.

Not because I didn’t want to. I was going to hell for it, but Benny was not wrong and neither was Shakespeare. This particular lady doth protest too much.

In the dark in Benny’s bed, I couldn’t go there.

I had to go where I needed to go.

And that was to formulate a new plan.

I knew I didn’t have it in me to fight the good fight—that fight being my normal fight, all about drama, hysterics, shouting, and eventually getting my way.

I had to wait it out and fight the slow, calculated fight—that fight being about quiet and giving in early to get what I needed in the end.

So I would have to see Theresa, let her mother me, give her the forgiveness she needed and should have. The same with Vinnie.

And in the meantime, I had to find some way to get Benny to let go of his idea that there was a future for us.

There wasn’t.

He was a good guy. Decent. Strong. Loyal. He went into the family business not only because his father wanted him to—it meant something to his dad and he respected his dad—but because Benny was all about family and that was what you did. He ran the Little League. He bought a house and started a search for a good woman with whom he could make a solid family and build a good home.

He deserved to find that good woman.

She just was not me.

But I had to find a way to convince Benny of that.

And I would do it. Because I was a quarter Italian, which meant I wasn’t only hotheaded, impatient, and dramatic, I was also crazy-stubborn.

And I would do it because Benny should have a good woman.

Which meant he had no business being with me.

“Francesca, baby, wake up.”

Benny’s voice—deep, easy, and sweet—was at my ear, his mouth so close I could feel his lips whisper there.

My eyes fluttered open and I immediately felt the pain. To alleviate it, I shifted from my side to my back. Benny, sitting on the bed next to me and leaned onto a hand on my other side, shifted to accommodate me. As I untwisted to lie flat on my back, I made the mental note that being a woman who snored was better than waking with this kind of pain.

Still half asleep, I was unable to hide it and I knew it when Benny murmured, “Brought you coffee. Your girl’s downstairs. She just showed. I’ll send her up with some water and a pill.”

I focused on him to see his hair a sexy mess from sleep, his eyes warm and somnolent, his white tee on.

Asheeka had woken him. Asheeka had gotten a load of all of that opening the door. Therefore, even if the option of enlisting Asheeka in an escape plan was still open, she probably wouldn’t take it, seeing as she knew I was currently occupying all that was Benny’s bed; thus, she would not lift a finger to help me escape due to the fact she’d think I was insane for wanting to.

“You need help gettin’ out of bed and to the bathroom?” Benny asked, and it was then I knew I really wasn’t hiding the pain because I also felt stiff, like my body would break if I moved it another inch, and I didn’t want to try.

It was this way in the mornings. It got better as I got more lucid, moved around a bit, warmed up, and, most importantly, got some drugs in me.

I was looking forward to the time when I didn’t wake up this way. It was getting better. But it was also taking its fucking time.

“I—” I started to refuse, not only because this was Benny and I wanted to make it clear I didn’t need or want his help, but because I would do the same if it was anyone.

It was a pride thing. It was stupid. But it was me.

Benny knew I was going to refuse and didn’t allow me to do it. He shifted again, wrapping an arm around my waist, carefully moving me with him. He exited the bed, sliding me out from under the covers as he did it.

As for me, as he did it, I winced outright, not having it in me to attempt to hide it.

I ended up with my feet on the floor and my side pressed close to Benny’s, his arm around my waist, his other hand coming out to settle on my hip. He was holding my weight and steadying me at the same time.

“I’d carry you to the bathroom, cara, but you gotta get used to doin’ this on your own,” he said gently.

I looked up at him and nodded because he was right. I would be alone soon enough and I had to get used to it, in a variety of ways.

He nodded back, his lips tipping up, his eyes warming. Then he moved us toward the bathroom. He got me in and to the basin and kept hold of me until I put my hand to the counter. Even then, his hold only loosened. He didn’t let me go.

“You good?”

I kept my eyes to my hand on the counter. “Yep.”

“Francesca.”

I lifted my eyes to his.

The instant I did, he lifted his hand to rest it light on my jaw and leaned in. Brushing his lips against my cheekbone, when they left it, his thumb shifted and brushed across the touch as if he wanted to seal it there.

And as it was sealing there for what I knew would be eternity, I completely forgot about the pain.

“I’ll send your girl up.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

He didn’t move. Just held my eyes as I looked into his and held my breath.

Then his thumb shifted again, gliding along the edge of my lower lip. I felt my toes curl, my fingers curl, and last, a curl in my belly that had nothing to do with pain.

“She’s sweet in the morning,” he murmured.

Oh God. He was totally going for it. He was taking advantage. He was getting his licks in before the bell even rang.

“Ben—”

“Sweet and spicy. What more could a man want?”

Oh God.

Before I could get another word in, his thumb did another brush of my lip, his arm around me gave me a squeeze, and then he let me go and walked out of the room.

***

I stood at the basin in Benny’s bathroom in a pair of undies and a bra, my new bandage that Asheeka taped on me covering my skin several inches under my breasts, slightly to the right.

I had my roller brush in hand and was blasting a thick lock of dark hair with heat from Benny’s hair dryer.

I did not allow myself to consider why Benny had a hair dryer.

I didn’t do this because I knew why Benny had a hair dryer.

The first part of what I knew was that it wasn’t for Benny’s personal use. Asheeka had amused herself (and me) by calling out an inventory of Benny’s bathroom cabinets while I showered. We learned he had product for his hair.

This was not surprising. With all that hair, he’d need something to rule it. Though, I was slightly surprised (as was Asheeka) he used a designer brand that cost a whack and could only be bought at upscale salons. That didn’t seem very Benny.

But the hair dryer wasn’t for Benny. He probably put that gel in when his hair was wet, did a slapdash job when he did it, and didn’t give a fuck mostly because he simply didn’t give a fuck and partly because, no matter how half-assed he did it, he had such great hair, it was just going to look good.

I didn’t think of Benny standing in front of his bathroom mirror, probably inattentively running his long, strong fingers through his hair by rote and doing this with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

No, I absolutely didn’t think about that.

I thought that it was certain a lot of women had been through that bedroom and, thus, in that bathroom. One either had left that hair dryer (this was the greater possibility), or he’d bought one as an act of consideration for all the women who’d been through that bathroom and needed one (this wasn’t very likely).

I was thinking with some irritability about using another woman’s hair dryer, and I was doing this in an attempt not to think about the fact that I was doing my hair. If I allowed my mind to go there (which I unfortunately did), I would tell myself it was me (something else I did).

I was out of the hospital. It was time to get back to me and I was a girl who did my hair. I did it big. I used beaucoup products. I put creams in for heat protection, oils in for frizz prevention, mousse in for lift and volume, spray in for hold. I teased. I flipped. I fiddled. I could work on one curl for ten minutes to make it lay right.

But I was not...absolutely not…doing this because Ben Bianchi had seen me for a week and a half looking like shit and now I had my opportunity to look decent.

Even Jamie knew how important this was to me, thus, when she brought my packed bag to the hospital, she’d included all my products, my teasing comb, and my roller brush.

Alas, she’d failed with the makeup, only bringing my moisturizer, powder, one single shade of blush (when I had at least twelve in my makeup drawer at home), and mascara.