“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there.”
“Called me, I hope.” Bennett ducked down slightly, digging his fingers underneath Sandro’s coat. “I’m glad your dad’s okay. Up on a ladder by himself, huh?”
“Yeah.” Sandro hugged him tight, holding on for a long minute as he let Bennett’s warm fingers against his skin draw the lingering panic and fear away. “What a dumbass.”
“Like father, like son, right?”
Sandro reared back to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I seem to remember another Zanetti putting up Christmas lights all by himself.”
Thanksgiving, Sandro recalled, swallowing a hysterical laugh. Bennett launching himself out of his car to swear at him and call him out for being up a ladder on his own, looking all beautifully pissed.
Bennett raised an eyebrow. “Guess you’ll think twice about that next time.”
“Christ.” Losing the battle against his giggles, Sandro rested his forehead on Bennett’s chest.
“Let’s go home, yeah?” Bennett patted his butt. “Unless you want to give those teenagers over there even more of a show?”
Sandro looked over his shoulder, where a couple of teenagers in Catholic-school kilts and stockings and the lightest of jackets—because apparently teenagers didn’t feel the cold—giggled and fast-walked away.
“Yeah,” Sandro said, chuckling. “Let’s go home.”
Sandro was dozing when Bennett’s phone rang. Glancing over at him in the passenger seat, Bennett considered not answering it. They’d crossed back into the United States and were only about five minutes away from Sandro’s house. Sandro was slumped in his seat, head lolling forward, chin to his chest. He’d fallen asleep almost an hour ago, shortly after speaking with his dad and his coach. Bennett wasn’t inclined to wake him, but it was David calling. If he could keep the conversation short, he might not wake Sandro.
He pressed the Answer button on the steering wheel. “Hey, David.”
“Ben,” David announced at three times Bennett’s volume.
Sandro jerked awake with a sharp inhale. Blinking lazily, he straightened and scrubbed his eyes before taking in their surroundings.
So much for trying not to wake him.
“Fowler mentioned you left town,” David said. “Is everything okay?”
Bennett had texted Fowler before he’d driven away from the bank, though his too-brief I was heading to Tobermory for an emergency, but I’m on my way back now had clearly confused the man, judging by his return text.
Fowler:
Are you okay? Is someone hurt? What’s a Tobermory?
Bennett had laughed when he’d seen the message come in, but he’d already been on the road, so he hadn’t yet replied. Fowler must’ve reached out to David for more information, but seeing as informing David of his whereabouts hadn’t been on Bennett’s must take care of Sandro to-do list, Fowler would’ve hit a dead end.
“Yeah, my friend’s dad had a bit of an emergency,” Bennett told him. “So I was driving him to his hometown. He wasn’t in any state to drive himself.”
Sandro narrowed his gaze on him.
“Plus, his car’s in the shop.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” David said. “How’s he doing? Your friend’s dad, I mean.”
“Actually, it ended up being nothing, so we turned around. We’re back in Burlington now.”
“Well, that’s good. I was going to ask if there was anything I could do to help, but I’m glad it was nothing.”
“Oh, that’s . . .” Bennett had likened David to the pseudo-villain in his life with his demands and micromanaging and refusal to use Bennett’s full name like he’d repeatedly asked.
Truth was, David was simply doing his job, and if their roles were reversed, had Bennett been the producer and David the filmmaker whose previous documentary had been panned by critics, Bennett wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have acted similarly. David wasn’t a bad guy. He’d given Bennett a chance—was still giving him a chance—and Bennett needed to stop seeing him as an obstacle.
