His eyes came to mine.

He now had his glasses shoved into his hair. No man could shove his glasses up into his hair and look that hot. But Benny could.

God…so…freaking…totally hated me.

“Why am I in your bedroom?” I asked.

“’Cause you need a nap.”

“I can nap in one of the other bedrooms.”

He grinned.

Torture!

“Babe, got shit in my second bedroom,” he shared. “Packed with it. Can barely move, there’s so much shit in there.”

“How do you have so much shit?” I pressed. “You’re a single guy. Single guys don’t accumulate shit.”

“I’m the commissioner of the Little League.”

I stared at him.

Please do not tell me that Benito Bianchi, in a volunteer capacity during the summers, hung on his free time with a bunch of baseball-playing little boys.

But I knew this could be true. First, Vinnie’s Pizzeria sponsored a Little League team every year and had for the last thirty years. Second, Vinnie Junior, Benny, and Manny had all played Little League, then went on to play high school baseball (Vinnie, catcher; Benny, first base; Manny, pitcher). And third, that was something Ben would do because he was a decent guy.

“Season ended, storage space costs when we could use the money for things for the boys, so all their shit is now packed in my second bedroom,” he finished.

“Then put me in your third bedroom.”

“That’s my office.”

This surprised me. “You have an office?”

Another grin. Another indication I was not God’s favorite person. Then, “No. It’s the place where Pop’s old desk is collectin’ dust. Carm’s old computer is collectin’ dust with it. And the rest of the space is packed with the rest of the Little League shit.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “Then I can nap on your couch.”

His face got hard. “You ain’t sleepin’ on my couch.”

“Ben—”

“You’re recovering from a gunshot wound.”

“I know that.”

“So you’re not sleepin’ on my couch.”

“For God’s sake, it won’t kill me.”

He ended that particular conversation with, “Nonnegotiable.”

It was at that point I wondered why I was fighting him. Sure, lying in Benny’s bed in Benny’s house, which had the unusual but unbelievably appealing scent of his spicy aftershave mixed with pizza dough clinging to the air, was a thrill I wished I did not have. But he was going to the pharmacy soon and that thrill would be short-lived.

So I shut up.

Ben looked at my mouth.

I swallowed.

Then Benny lifted away and moved around the bed.

He took something from the nightstand opposite and tossed it on the bed beside me. “Ma’s already been here fillin’ the fridge and sortin’ shit. She bought you those.”

I stared at the magazines lying beside me on the bed.

There were a bunch of them and Theresa didn’t mess around. They were all the good ones: juicy, like People and Us, and slick, like Vogue and Marie Claire.

Theresa so knew me.

I swallowed again just as a remote bounced on the magazines.

“TV,” Ben stated and I looked up at him. “Got HBO. Got Showtime. It’s a smart TV. Universal remote. Just hit the screen to get to the smart TV and you can get Netflix. Should keep you occupied ’til you nod off while I’m at the drugstore.”

I looked in the direction of the TV and saw it was at least a sixty-incher.

What human being needed a sixty-inch TV in their bedroom?

This made me wonder what size TV he had in his living room.

As I was wondering this, Benny was rounding the bed again. “Like I said, Ma’s stocked the fridge, but while I’m out, you want me to pick up anything?”

If I knew Theresa, there would not be one thing anyone on the block needed that would be lacking in Benny’s fridge.

However, this was a golden opportunity to buy more time.

Especially if I sent him to more than just the drugstore.

“Tapioca pudding,” I declared.

He stopped at my side of the bed and looked down at me. “Say again?”

“Tapioca pudding. Not the snack-pack size. The big tub.”

He stared at me.

I scrambled to think of more shit he could buy.

“And a trashy romance novel. I don’t care which one, but the less the guy on the cover is wearing, the better. Tattoos are a plus. Leather is another plus. And if there’s an indication that he’s a shifter, buy the whole series.”

“I am not buyin’ books with pictures of guys with no clothes on them,” Benny said, deep and not easy.

It was worth a shot.

I gave up on that and reeled it off. “Fanta Grape. Diet. Chocolate-covered cashews. Cookies from D’Amato’s. And a Lincoln’s sub wouldn’t go amiss.”

His eyes had narrowed at my mention of D’Amato’s, as it would seeing as they were pizza competition to Vinnie’s.

He let that slide, though, and instead noted, “Babe, Lincoln’s is in Hobart.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Francesca, I’m not drivin’ forty minutes to f**kin’ Indiana to buy you a sub.”

“We have to have dinner,” I pointed out.

“Yeah. So later I’m goin’ in to Vinnie’s to make you a pie.”

My heart squeezed.

I’d heard through the grapevine that Benny had succumbed to Vinnie Senior’s pressure and learned the sacred Bianchi art of making a pizza pie. A friend of mine even shared that Vinnie had put up a new sign for the restaurant, changing it from Vinnie’s Pizzeria to Vinnie and Benny’s Pizzeria.

Since learning Benny had taken over the kitchen at Vinnie’s, I’d wanted one of his pies. Ma always said, a guy who cooked was a keeper (advice she did not take herself). What Ma would say if she’d ever met one was that if you found a guy who cooked and looked like Benny, you should consider surgical attachment.

Of course, I hadn’t allowed myself go to Vinnie’s and have one of Benny’s pies. This was because I would have been run out on a rail if I’d tried.

I stopped thinking about Benny making a pizza and said, “Okay, subs tomorrow night then.”

He tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling.

I needed to move this along so I stated, “I think that’s all.”

He looked at me. “You sure?”