Page 50 of Operation Sunshine
Franco took the seat facing him, his elbows on the table, his chin propped in his palm as though he had all the time in the world. Hisshirt was rolled at the sleeves, a smear of flour—or maybe that was the sugar—ghosting his forearm.
“You smell sweet,” Ben couldn’t resist saying.
“I’m making tiramisu for this evening.” Franco leaned in, his voice dropping. “You know, you’d think after a night like… that, a man would look a little less serious. And yes, I mean you.”
Ben didn’t look up. “We both had to work this morning.”
“Okay, true. But I didn’t have to sit here like someone stole my puppy. Unless… am I the puppy in this scenario? Because if so, I have to say I’d make an adorable one.”
Ben finally glanced at him, his brows arched. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you like me.”
And that right there was the problem. Bendidlike him, way too much. He tried for dry sarcasm. “You’re a menace.”
Franco gasped, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “A menace? After I let you stay in my bed? After I made you coffee this morning?”
“You made it badly,” Ben pointed out.
Franco smirked. “You still drank it.”
Ben’s ears burned. He busied himself adjusting a line on his spreadsheet. The cursor blinked at him, taunting him, and he steeled himself for Franco’s next joke or teasing remark.
Franco, however, was uncharacteristically quiet.
And why does that make me nervous?
Ben risked a glance. Franco wasn’t smirking anymore, his attention focused on Ben’s face, as though he was trying to read the man beneath the suit. The one Ben didn’t let anyone see.
Except Franco saw me, didn’t he? Last night, with my guard down.
“You know…” Franco tapped his index finger on the table. “I get it. You don’t want the staff making assumptions. You don’t want this—” he gestured loosely between them “—to look like some fling.” His face tightened. “But you don’t have to sit there acting as if it never happened.”
Ben’s throat seized, and he swallowed. “I’m not—” He stopped, the words seeping through his fingers like sand.
“Youare.” Franco tilted his head, his gaze narrowing. “You get all stiff when anyone teases you. It’s as though you’re worried that if you let it slip, it’ll become… real.”
Ben snapped his laptop shut, the sound sharp in the quiet restaurant. “Maybe thatiswhat worries me.”
Franco blinked, then leaned back, studying him, not in a mocking or smug way, but with quiet, intense curiosity. “And what would be so terrible about it being real?”
Ben couldn’t answer because the truth—that it scared him more than anything— lodged in his chest like a stone.
Franco offered a small, lopsided smile that managed to ease the weight of the silence between them. “It’s fine. I can wait for you to figure it out. In the meantime…” He plucked a pen from the table and tucked it neatly behind Ben’s ear. “I’ll keep distracting you.”
Ben dragged a hand down his face, equal parts exasperated and—God help him—fond. He was about to retreat to the safety of his spreadsheets when Franco leaned in close enough that his warm breath fanned Ben’s face.
“You know what I think, Mr. Corporate?” Franco’s voice was low, playful on the surface but edged with a sharpness that made Ben’s stomach knot.
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.
Franco gave a triumphant smile. “I think you’re more scared of what happens if you actually let yourselfhaveme than if you don’t.”
The words hit with quiet precision, more devastating than any of his jokes. Before Ben could react, Franco stood, wiping his hands as if he hadn’t just dropped a monumental truth bomb into the conversation.
“Anyway,” Franco added breezily, “don’t worktoohard.” His eyes sparkled. “Someone might think you’re overcompensating.”
And then he was gone, leaving Ben staringafter him, his pulse thundering, the closed laptop in front of him suddenly as useful as a plastic and metal brick. Because damn it, Franco was right.
