Page 31 of Operation Sunshine
“No one’s ordering anything tonight. You’ve already done the prep for tomorrow. And you look like you haven’t sat down since noon.”
Raj considered this for a moment, then nodded once. “Fine. But if something catches fire, that’s on you.” He hung up his apron, muttering about early nights being a gift, and was gone a few minutes later.
The place felt cavernous after that, no clatter from the kitchen, no low hum of Ollie’s playlists, just the steady rain outside and the faint tick of the wall clock.
Franco emerged from the staircase. “Okay, I don’t think there’s a speck of dust left up there, so—” He frowned. “Where’d Raj go?”
“Home. Ollie too.”
Franco walked toward the dining room and stared at the empty tables. “Guess it’s just us, then.”
“Looks that way.” It was only then Ben realised how it might seem, as if he’d engineered a way to be alone with Franco. “I wasabout to suggest we call it a night.” His stomach chose that moment to grumble loudly.
“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
Ben shook his head.
Franco grinned. “Well, that settles it. I’m making you something.”
“That’s—”
“Not negotiable,” Franco interrupted, already heading back into the kitchen. “You’ve been here all evening staring at your laptop. You need actual food. And no, espresso doesn’t count.” He moved with a surprising ease among the counters, opening cupboards and pulling ingredients from them without hesitation.
Another growl from Ben’s traitorous stomach put paid to any arguments he might have made.
Ben knew when he was beaten.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” Ben said, leaning against the doorway.
“I do a lot of things you don’t know about,” Franco replied, chopping herbs with quick, confident movements. “I used to work back-of-house until I realised I’m much prettier in front of customers.”
The sizzle of garlic hitting the pan filled the air, and the aroma followed immediately, warm, sharp, and inviting.
Ben watched him work for a minute, curiosity slipping past his usual reserve. “So… front-of-house suits you better?”
Franco shrugged, tossing in chopped tomatoes. “I like talking to people. I like making them feel like they belong somewhere, even for an hour or two. It’s easier than you think to be good at it, if you’re willing to actually see people.” He stirred the contents of the pan. “When I was younger, I didn’t have that. The feeling of belonging, I mean. We moved around a lot. I didn’t know where home was supposed to be. Waiting tables gave me that. It’s a place, and peopleknow your name, and you know theirs.” He paused. “It feels solid, you know?”
Ben didn’t answer right away. The rain outside had softened to a steady patter, the warmth from the stove radiating through the room. Franco worked without looking at him, as if he hadn’t just dropped something quietly personal into the air.
“Yeah,” Ben said at last. “I get it.”
Franco glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing smile, before turning back to the pan. The fresh pasta took about a minute to cook, and then he plated it as if it was going to be photographed for a magazine, even though there was no one there to see it but Ben. Franco slid it across the counter with a small flourish.
“Eat,” he commanded. He pointed to an open bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”
“Why not?” It wasn’t as if he was going to drive anywhere, and the wine would go a long way to dispel the chill of the night.
Franco filled two glasses. Ben picked up a fork and twirled a mouthful of pasta and sauce. The garlic, basil, and slow-cooked tomatoes were rich and bright in a way that made him wonder why Franco didn’t do this more often.
“You really did work in a kitchen before,” Ben said with a smile.
“Told you.” Franco leaned on the counter, chin in hand. “We had a family deli, out in the hills. We fed half the neighbourhood, whether they were hungry or not. My mum used to say you could fix anything with the right plate of food.”
Ben arched his eyebrow. “Did it work?” He drank a little wine, letting it warm him.
Franco hesitated, a small crease forming between his brows. “Sometimes. Not always. Turns out there are some things food can’t fix. But it gives people a reason to sit down together, and that’s something.”
Ben studied him. The usual glint in Franco’s eyes had softened,and for a moment he looked older, as if the weight of a hundred dinners cooked for other people had settled on his shoulders.
