Chapter 7
Bennett drowned the last of his garlic fries in the leftover white wine broth from the bowl of mussels he’d devoured, then likewise devoured the soaked-in-delicious fries.
He couldn’t have asked for a better dinner or better company to enjoy it with, Gino smiling around another bite of his lobster mac and cheese before slowly drawing the fork from between his lips.
Bennett shifted in his seat, wishing like hell his tongue—or other parts of his anatomy—were the tines of that fork.
“Quit teasing me.”
“No,”
his husband answered with a sexy leer. He scooped up another bite and repeated the whole excruciatingly erotic torture.
This entire day had been an excruciating exercise in foreplay.
Of his own doing.
The runaway trip to Martha’s Vineyard, the day spent cruising around the island in their rented convertible, the date night out at Chess, the award-winning restaurant Bennett had caught his foodie husband eyeing online last week.
After a day of sun, food, and wine, the tension that had been weighing Gino down had noticeably lifted, and his cheeks were pink, his smile wide, and his eyes sparking with heat.
He looked like his sexy self again, which had been Bennett’s intention, along with thanking Gino for sparing him the chaos of the past week.
And for making the first two-thirds of their tour more than bearable. To his surprise, Bennett was enjoying himself.
Were there bad days among the good?
Sure, several the past week with their misbehaving bandmates.
Or that first week on tour when he and Britt had been dialing in his meds, a slight increase in one causing him to tip over into the floaty, nauseous place he hated. Gino had sat by his side in the hotel bathroom that night, the two of them plotting how to spoil their niblings that were due next month, Gino distracting him through the worst of the leveling out.
Or the week before last, at the show in Baltimore, when it had taken Bennett an extra half hour of meditation to make it on stage.
He’d needed a second set break later, another breather, but to the fans, it was the Middle Cut show they came for, and to Bennett, it was manageable.
It hadn’t set off a spiral or drained him for days after.
Even if it had, there’d been two days built into the schedule for recovery.
Gino was listening, was taking him seriously, was supporting his mental health and fighting for them.
Bennett wanted to fight for them too, to show his appreciation and to continue the work of reconnecting, something they’d talked a lot about with Trish.
Gino’s knee knocked his under the table. “Where’d you go?”
“Was just thinking about the past two months.”
“You doing okay with everything?”
He waved a hand in the air. “This past week notwithstanding.”
“Better than.”
He finished his wine, set the glass down, then reached across the table for Gino’s hand. “Thanks to you, especially this past week.”
Gino tangled their fingers together. “You’re putting in the work too.”
Hand in his, Gino scooted to the chair beside him and nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “Thank you for tonight. It was the escape I needed, and the food was incredible.”
“You deserved it.”
Gino hummed his agreement. “We deserved it.”
“You know,”
Bennett said, voice lowered, “you keep doing that, and you’re gonna get us kicked out of here before dessert.”
“And you do not want to miss dessert tonight,”
came a Southern voice from behind them. The giant bearded chef who’d earlier introduced himself as Miller Sykes appeared beside their table. He slid two snifters of what smelled like the peatiest scotch to ever peat—Gino’s favorite—onto the table. “Colby’s doing huckleberry pie with creme anglaise gelato.”
“Maybe we can box the pie to go?”
Bennett said from over Gino’s head.
“Nuh-uh,”
Gino said, straightening as he patted his thigh. “I’m gonna enjoy this scotch, that pie, and this view”—he jutted his chin at the moonlit Nantucket Sound out the floor-to-ceiling windows by their table—“with you a little longer.”
Bennett groaned in frustration, and the chef chuckled. “I cockblocked my husband the first time I brought him here too,”
he said as he cleared their plates. “But don’t worry, the dessert will do nothing to dampen the mood.”
He threw a blue-eyed wink their way, then headed back to the kitchen.
Bennett waited until he was out of earshot to grumble, “The big burly bear better not be bullshitting.”
Gino’s smile graced the underside of his jaw. “Someone’s alliterating.”
He dropped a line of kisses to the spot behind Bennett’s ear that made his whole body shiver. “And horny.”
“Very.”
He dipped his chin to whisper in Gino’s ear. “I need to get back to the hotel and fuck my husband.”
“Don’t worry, baby.”
Gino palmed his length under the table. Stroked. “I’ll make sure you come tonight.”
Before Bennett could clarify that Gino would be the one coming first, Miller reappeared at their table, no longer the picture of winking hospitality. Instead, his brow was creased below his plaid bandana and his eyes were wary, his hand shaky as he held a phone out to Gino. “Mr. Morelli,”
he said. “It’s the FBI for you.”
Gino’s eyes grew wide, and Bennett cursed. “Fuck, what’d Roscoe do now?”
“Is there somewhere private we can take this?”
Gino asked as he stood.
Bennett rose behind him, and they followed Miller to a small office off the kitchen. Miller shut the door behind them, and Gino clicked the phone over to speaker. “This is Gino Morelli.”
“Gino, it’s Levi.”
Bennett nearly collapsed with relief. Gino practically did, catching his weight between Bennett’s side and the desk covered in children’s books. “Fuck, Levi,”
Gino said to his cousin. “The chef said it was the FBI.”
“Well, both your and Bennett’s phones are going straight to voicemail, so Marsh had to track your asses down, and we couldn’t chance the call being ignored.”
The urgency in Levi’s voice, the reference to his cyber agent husband’s efforts to find them, the distinct hospital sounds in the background, had Bennett firming his position at Gino’s side. “What’s going on, Levi?” he asked.
“June’s in labor.”
“She’s not due for another two weeks,”
Gino said. “Is she okay?”
“Vitals are holding steady, but this isn’t going to be easy, especially not with twins. They may have to do a C-section.”
“Fuck, we were supposed to be back on the West Coast for this.”
Gino had missed his baby sister’s wedding a couple years back when they’d been on tour in Europe. They’d planned this tour so as not to miss the birth of her twins. Boston was their last show before heading west.
“Well,”
a deep Texas drawl—Levi’s husband, Marsh—said from the other end of the line. “Your future niblings have other ideas, and sweet-as-pie Juney is spitting nails.”
“Let’s go,”
Bennett said, already pulling Gino toward the door. “We’ll get a private jet out of here or Logan. Perks of being a rock star.”
Gino pressed Mute and tugged him back by the wrist. “But the Boston show tomorrow . . .”
“Can be rescheduled.”
“But that’s more stops, will you be?—”
Bennett’s heart pounded into his ribs as he rose on his toes and kissed him quiet. He truly was the luckiest man alive, and at that moment, he’d never loved his husband more. “I’ll be fine, G. Family first, let’s go.”