Page 114 of Operation Sunshine
Ben’s sweet kiss spread warmth through Franco’s chest.
Ben cleared his throat. “Actually… I wanted to tell you something. I’ve just booked us a viewing.”
Franco blinked. “A… viewing?”
“To see a house,” Ben clarified. His lips twitched. “The one you loved when we looked at the listings in the middle of the night. It’s available. So we’re going Saturday morning.”
Franco’s heart thudded. “You mean…ourhouse?”
Ben nodded, his grip tightening a little. “Our house. If you still want it.”
Franco’s laugh came out shaky, relief swamping his chest and joy spreading through him in a slow tide. He leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to Ben’s cheek, not caring if half the kitchen saw. “Of course I want it. With you.”
Ben’s ears flushed pink, but his small, genuine smile was everything Franco needed.
Home was Ben.
Epilogue
The late December heat lay over Adelaide like a heavy quilt, even though the restaurant’s air-conditioning fought to keep the dining room tolerable. It had hit thirty-five degrees and seemed intent on staying there for a while.
Either that, or the thermometer measuring the outside temperature was busted.
On the rear patio, Ben had installed gadgets under the parasols that pumped out a cool mist over the diners. Willow said that had been a game changer. Customers flocked to sit out there, serenaded by cicadas, surrounded by the fragrant scent of jasmine from the pots Mina had placed around the patio. Strings of fairy lights blinked lazily in the glare, more symbolic than festive, but inside the restaurant the energy crackled.
Willow had gone overboard.
Garlands of tinsel looped between shelves of wineglasses. A pine wreath, fake, but convincing enough, hung on the kitchen pass. She’d bullied Lexie into stringing coloured lights around the bar until the whole place looked like a kaleidoscope.
“It’s Christmas,” she’d declared, “and I’m not letting us have some dreary half-arsed grinch-fest.”
Ben had grumbled, but he got the feeling that was what everyone had expected him to do. “Tinsel sheds. It’ll get in someone’s salad.” He hadn’t taken it down, however. He hadn’t even tried.
The staff had noticed.
“Admit it,” Ollie had teased. “You like it. You’re even smiling.”
“I’m not smiling,” Ben had said, deadpan, before retreating into the office with a fake stomp. Except hewassmiling. Everyone had seen it.
Because Franco was home.
On Ben’s desk sat a plant pot, its occupant filling the room with the fragrance of rosemary. Ben was bloody proud of that plant. He’d bought it on his return from Florence, and he hadn’t killed the damn thing yet.
It wouldn’t have lasted more than a month with the Ben he’d been.
He had high hopes for the Ben he’d become.
Christmas Eve was upon them, warm and noisy. The restaurant had closed earlier than usual, and every staff member and their partners had crowded into the dining room, including a couple of Willow’s cousins who’d somehow got roped in. Champagne corks popped, the stereo pumped out a mix of Mariah Carey and Aussie indie rock, and the kitchen counters were piled high with platters: prawns glistening with lemon, bowls of mango and cherries, and pavlovas loaded with passionfruit. Raj had even roasted a turkey, sweating like a martyr in the heat.
Lexie had called him a hero.
Franco stood at the pass, carving slices of turkey with theatrical flourishes. “You know what?” he told Ollie. “In Florence right nowthey’d be laughing their arses off at us. Who eats roast turkey in thirty-plus-degree heat?”
Ollie shrugged, popping a cherry in his mouth. “Australians, mate. We’re all deranged.”
Willow swooped in, already tipsy, and planted a paper crown on Franco’s head. “Don’t complain. You’re family now. And family wears the stupid crown.”
Ben watched it all from behind the counter, his arms folded. He tried to pretend he was assessing whether there’d be enough pavlova left for dessert service tomorrow for those customers who’d booked their Christmas dinner at the restaurant, but the truth was simpler.
