Page 32 of Operation Sunshine
“So why front-of-house now?”
Franco’s mouth twisted into something between a smile and a wince. “Because I like people. And because when you’re the one carrying the plates, you get to decide how they feel when they see you coming. You can make them feel welcome. Wanted.”
“That’s important to you?” Ben asked.
Franco gave a little shrug, but his gaze stayed fixed on the pasta between them. “When you’ve had places where you didn’t feel as if you belonged, yeah, it becomes important.”
Ben felt the words settle in the quiet between them. Outside, the rain drummed on the awning. Inside, the kitchen felt warmer than it should, given the fact all the burners were off.
Franco glanced up, catching Ben’s eye long enough to let something unspoken pass between them, before looking away with that trademark half-smile. “Anyway, eat up before I decide you’re ungrateful and take it back.”
Ben smirked. “Shouldn’t I treat your food the way you’d have me treat good wine? You know, I shouldexperienceit? Let it tell me a story?”
Franco flushed. “Touché.”
Ben took another bite. He lingered over each forkful, not in a hurry to close the small pocket of quiet the night had given them.
When he finally set his fork down, Franco slid the plate away and topped up Ben’s wine without asking. The gesture was casual, but the way Franco’s fingers brushed his, a fleeting press, felt deliberate.
“Thanks,” Ben murmured.
Franco only hummed in response, leaning back against the counter. “See, Whitaker, you don’t have to be all corporate memos and checklists. Sometimes all you need is good food and good company.”
Ben smirked once more. “Are you saying you’re good company?”
Franco tilted his head, his smile deepening. “You tell me.”
For a moment, neither of them looked away. Outside, the rain had slowed to a softer patter, the sort of sound that made Ben want to linger somewhere warm. He was aware of the hum of the fridge, the faint scent of garlic still hanging in the air…
And Franco standing a little too close for it to be accidental.
Franco broke the moment first, picking up Ben’s empty plate and carrying it to the sink. “I should wash up before Raj comes back and decides I’ve left a mess for him.” He shot a grin over his shoulder. “You might have sent him home early to a night with his hubby, but he’ll still find something to be dramatic about.”
Ben watched him at the sink, the sleeves of his apricot sweater pushed to the elbow, his forearms tensing slightly as he worked. He had the easy, unhurried rhythm of someone comfortable in a kitchen, the kind of person who could hum to himself while the rain tapped on the roof, and not need anything more.
When Franco turned back, drying his hands on a tea towel, his gaze lingered on Ben in a way that felt heavier than before. “You know, you’re not quite what I expected.”
Ben blinked. “And what did you expect?”
Franco leaned one hip against the counter, that assessing look still in place. “Someone who wouldn’t sit through an empty night to make sure the place ran right. Someone who wouldn’t bother cooking with me—well, letting me cook for them—when they could’ve simply gone home.”
“Maybe I just like the food,” Ben said evenly, but there was a faint heat behind it.
Franco’s grin widened, slow and knowing. “Sure, Whitaker.”
The space between them felt smaller now, not gone but compressed into something tangible. Ben could feel the edges of it, like standing too close to a fire.
You don’t have to touch it to know you’ll feel it all the same.
Franco tossed the tea towel onto the counter and stepped back, breaking whatever thread had wound between them. “All right, boss.You finish your wine, and I’ll go check the doors, to make sure we’re ready to lock up.”
As Franco disappeared toward the front, Ben expelled a breath. The food had been good.
That wasn’t the reason he still felt warm all the way through.
Chapter Eight
Rain tapped an irregular rhythm against the glass, slow and steady, as though the night was in no hurry to end. The lamp outside Franco’s window bled an amber haze into his room, pooling across the ceiling in shifting shapes, distorted by passing traffic. He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at nothing.
