Page 4 of Operation Sunshine
Ben stood at the window of his rented apartment, watching Adelaide wake up. Pale morning light spilled across the low rooftops, casting shades of pink and gold on unfamiliar streets. He pressed his fingertips against the glass, as though he could measure the city’s pulse through it.
He hadn’t slept much. All night, he’d shifted under crisp sheets, listening to the echo of his own breathing, counting the hours until sunrise.
Today, he would meet the staff.Hisstaff. The restaurant wouldn’t open until midday, so he’d see how they set up for business.
He’d sent the email a few days before:
Looking forward to meeting everyone. Please keep things running as usual; I’ll just be observing and introducing myself properly.
Ben Whitaker.
It had sounded so calm when he wrote it, each sentence sculpted like a corporate memo. This morning, however, the words felt stiff and awkward in his head.
Ben glanced at his reflection in the window: pressed shirt, sleevesrolled just so, his watch face gleaming. He looked exactly like the man he used to be.
His stomach churned.
This was the point, wasn’t it?To uproot before it was too late, to step away from glass offices and after-hours whisky, from the echo of his own voice bouncing off conference room walls. Seeing himself in that window was a wake-up call.
Ben had apparently brought his previous life with him.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Beneath the fear, a thin current of exhilaration hummed, wild and unfamiliar.
He grabbed his keys and left before he could think himself out of it.
Ben paused at the threshold, one foot inside, the other firmly planted in the known world. The air was dense with scents that spoke to him,tuggedat him: garlic browning in hot oil, sweet tomatoes bubbling low in a pot, the sharp perfume of fresh basil torn by hurried fingers. A current of espresso and warm bread wrapped around him like an unexpected embrace.
Despite the chill in the air, he could feel sweat gather under his collar, dampening the crisp cotton he’d ironed that morning with near-religious precision. In Melbourne, his mornings had been silent rituals: iron, suit, polished shoes, a sleek cup of espresso he never quite tasted.
Here, everything pulsed and rattled. Someone in the kitchen cursed in what sounded like three languages at once. The walls looked as if they’d been painted by memories: photos slightly askew, chalk scribbles half-erased by eager hands, a spatter of red wine immortalised near the pass window.
Ben took a hesitant step forward, and a waitress charged past him, burdened with menus stacked high like an unstable tower.
“Oh, shit! Sorry,” she cried, nearly tripping into him. Her dark curls bounced like springs around her flushed face. She dropped themenus in a slapstick avalanche, then latched onto his hand with a startling warmth. “You’re Ben. The new boss, right?” she exclaimed, her eyes wide. Before he could answer, she shook his hand vigorously. “I’m Willow,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I run the floor, occasionally run out of patience, but mostly I keep this place from bursting into flames.” She grinned. “Welcome to the chaos.”
Ben opened his mouth, but no words came out, only a thin exhale. Willow crouched, retrieving her menus.
From the kitchen, a deep voice thundered “Willow, where’s the basil? You want me to garnish with despair?”
Willow grimaced. She stood, awkwardly giving Ben’s hand another frantic squeeze, and disappeared into the kitchen in a flurry of apologies and awkwardly balanced menus.
Ben stood there, disoriented. The floors were uneven under his shoes; the hum of laughter and clanging pots reverberated against the walls and into his bones.
Then Ben saw him, the waiter from his incognito visit. Ben recalled the staff list. There was only one waiter, so this had to be Franco Rossi.
He emerged from the kitchen, framed by a halo of steam and bright kitchen lights. His apron was smudged with flour and something vivid, maybe tomato sauce. His hair fell across his forehead in unruly curls as he laughed at someone’s joke, a mischievous energy vibrating off him like static.
Ben tensed instinctively, trying to square his shoulders.
Franco’s gaze caught his, bright and immediate. He didn’t hesitate, bounding forward in one fluid motion.
“Ah-ha. Melbourne finally reveals himself,” Franco boomed. He clasped Ben’s hand in both of his, warm, firm, and dusted lightly in flour. There was even a little of it caught on his beard. “I’m Franco,” he announced, his dark eyes dancing. “Emotional support pasta maker, part-time meddler, and, unfortunately for you, your new biggest problem.” His voice was rich and teasing, but the gleam in those eyes?
Nothing short of mesmerising.
Franco grinned. “Soyou’rethe brave fool who thought buying this place was a good idea?”
Ben opened his mouth, but the words stumbled en route between his brain and tongue.
