Page 2 of Operation Sunshine
A real estate listing, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the website, like a lost child in a crowded station.
A restaurant in Adelaide.Sage & Thyme.
No sleek branding, no investor pitches, no curated PR buzzwords, only a handful of blurry, oddly intimate photos: a bowl of pasta under fairy lights; a waitress doubled over in laughter; a hand-painted chalkboard menu with smudges where someone had wiped away a misspelled dessert.
The headline read:
“Loved by locals. Looking for someone to love it back.”
Something fluttered in his belly, then adrenaline spiked through him.
He clicked through each photo, studying them. There were scratches on the wooden floors, ivy creeping up the garden wall, a patio with crooked lanterns swaying in the breeze. In one image, an attractive dark-haired man in a black apron lifted a glass toward the camera, his grin wide and mischievous.
Ben could hear the clatter of dishes, the laughter, the smell of olive oil and basil seeping into the night air.
It was messy. It was alive.
It was everything his life had not been.
His phone vibrated, and he opened a new email:Follow-up on your investor dinner speech notes. He closed it without reading.
At 2 a.m., he typed a short email to the broker.
Subject line:Interested in the Adelaide restaurant.
When he pressed send, his hand trembled.
What the hell am I doing?
A single thought pierced him, sharp as a blade:For the first time in years, something feels alive inside me.
The next two weeks were a blur of polite lies and quiet unravelling.
He attended meetings with a serene mask, while his mind raced through possibilities. He found himself daydreaming in boardrooms, scribblingolive treesandchalkboard menusin the margins of his notes.
He booked the flight to Adelaide on impulse, telling no one. When he arrived, he didn’t go straight to the broker’s office or call the owner to schedule a viewing. He needed to see it for himself, quietly, without the weight of introductions or expectations.
On his second evening in the city, he walked past the restaurant three times before finally stepping inside. From the street, it looked unassuming: a small front garden tangled with potted herbs, a chipped sign painted with a barely legible name, and strings of warm fairy lights sagging slightly under the winter air, illuminating empty tables.
He stood for a moment under the awning, his breath clouding in front of him. Then, almost against his own will, he pushed the door open.
A small bell jingled overhead, and the warmth hit him like a punch. The space was alive with low music, laughter, and the clatter of plates. The scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes wrapped around him, enticing and dizzying all at once.
A young waitress in a loose linen shirt glanced up and offered a quick smile. “Just you tonight?”
Ben hesitated, the instinct to lie immediate. Then he nodded, sliding into the first small table by the window, a quiet corner where he could observe without being watched. He sat, his hands clasped, aware of the strange rush of adrenaline. It felt illicit, as if he was trespassing in someone’s private joy.
From his corner, he saw everything. A young couple sharing abowl of pasta, twirling strands between them like a private game. An elderly man at the bar reading a battered paperback, occasionally looking up to banter with the bartender, a guy possibly in his thirties. A middle-aged woman comforting a friend who was wiping tears with her napkin.
In the open kitchen, a man of Indian appearance in a white apron moved with choreographed grace, tossing pans and barking playfully at the tattooed sous chef. Every so often, he’d slip a piece of something into a passing server’s mouth, and they would light up, shaking their head in mock exasperation.
A waitress dressed in red, her bun half undone, the hair escaping like wild vines, rushed by his table with a basket of bread. As she passed, she winked at him, a quick, impulsive spark.
Ben’s chest tightened.
He ordered a simple pasta, too nervous to study the menu properly. When the plate arrived, he hesitated before taking the first bite. But when he did, it was as if someone had suddenly dropped colour into a grey painting.
The sauce was bright and warm, the pasta silky and al dente, but obviously handmade. He tasted lemon zest, basil freshly torn, and a whisper of chili heating the back of his tongue.
