Page 34 of Operation Sunshine
The ache of fear.
Maybe Ben wasn’t interested in him.
And what if he is?
Maybe if Franco let himself fall for someone new, he’d be left holding the pieces.
Again.
But what if Ben isn’t like the others?That half-smile of his had gotten through Franco’s defences, hadn’t it?
Franco’s breathing hitched. He pushed the thought aside, but it refused to stay quiet. He wanted more than just to beseenby Ben. He wanted to beheld, in every sense of the word. The vulnerability in that thought burned hot, but it soon extinguished itself.
No oneeverstayed.
Franco cleaned himself up, then buried his face in the pillow, pushing the thought away once more.
The longer he lingered on it, however, the more it felt like he was the one being left behind.
The apartment was too quiet.
Ben had left the restaurant hours ago, yet if he let his mind drift, he could still hear the echo of Franco’s laughter. Which was ridiculous, because there was no reason for him to think about Franco at—he glanced at the bedside clock—one seventeen in the morning.
He shifted in bed, his laptop still open beside him with the day’snumbers frozen on the screen. He’d been trying to finalise an inventory template, but the columns had begun to blur half an hour ago. His mind kept snagging on images that had nothing to do with portion control or break schedules, and everything to do with Franco.
Franco at the pass, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hair damp at the temples from the kitchen heat.
Franco leaning against the bar, his eyes catching Ben’s with that infuriating, knowing glint.
Franco standing too close in the stockroom, a smile playing with his lips as if he knewexactlyhow much space he was taking up in Ben’s head.
Ben exhaled sharply and shoved the laptop closed.
This is inappropriate.
That was the only word for it. Ben was there to turn the place around, not indulge in distractions, and Franco Rossi was a distraction in the loudest, brightest sense.
And yet…
Ben rolled onto his back, staring at the shadowed ceiling. It was the little things that kept replaying. The way Franco’s voice dropped when they spoke one-on-one. The way he touched people—casual, familiar, never lingering too long, but enough to make them feel like they were the only person in the room.
The way he touchedBen.
Ben swallowed. The memory of Franco’s hand brushing his when passing a menu over the counter was so sharp it was almost tactile. Ben’s body reacted before his brain could get in the way, heat coiling low in his stomach, pulsing through him, trickling to his fingers and toes.
For one heart stopping moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like if Franco didn’t just brush past him in the kitchen, but halted. If Franco’s hand stayed. If that mouth tilted toward him not with a smirk, but something quieter.
Something that looked a lot like intent.
The thought pulled a low sound from him before he could stop it.His hand moved without conscious decision, and the rhythm of the rain outside became an accompaniment to the—at first—gentle tugs and pulls. His breathing quickened, his chest tightening as he let the image sharpen: Franco’s weight pressing him back, Franco’s grin melting into something darker.
Hotter.
His climax hit faster and harder than he expected, and he groaned with each pulse of heat into his palm. When he came down, his heart was still pounding, the room feeling too small and too warm.
Ben dragged a hand over his face.
This isnotgoing to happen.
