Page 66 of Operation Sunshine
A moment later, Raj leaned back against the counter. “Specifically?”
Franco was a demon when it came to the specifics of his dreams.
“I want to travel, to cook with chefs who’ve seen the world. To eat my way through every street market from Bangkok to Buenos Aires.” He swallowed. “Tonotfeel as though the biggest thing I’ll ever do is charm the Saturday night regulars.” He bit his lip. “I want to be a chef,” he said simply.
Raj crossed his arms, his gaze steady but annoyingly calm, theway it always was when Franco started spiralling. “So what’s stopping you? Go.”
Franco blinked. “Go?”
He shrugged. “You talk about it enough. If you want to leave, leave. Chase your pasta gods or whatever you’re always rambling about.”
Franco tried to laugh, but it caught in his throat. “It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.” Raj tilted his head. “You’rethe one making it complicated. And do you know why? Because deep down, you like it here. You like belonging.”
That hit uncomfortably close to home. Franco looked away, tracing circles on the counter with his finger. “Belonging’s fine. But I can’t spend my whole life in one place. I need to see what else is out there. To find out who I am when I’m not just Franco, the life of the restaurant.”
When Raj didn’t respond, Franco glanced at him.
Raj regarded him with narrowed eyes, and Franco knew he was reading him the way only Raj could. “You’re hiding something.”
Franco hesitated a moment before saying in a sheepish tone, “I sent off an application a while ago. A stage in Florence. Chef Gallo’s kitchen.”
Raj let out a low whistle. “That’s not small potatoes.”
“Yeah, well.” Franco shrugged, trying for casual, although his chest tightened at the thought.
“Could you afford to do something like that? I mean, you’d be working without pay.”
“Sure, but it’d be inFlorence? I’ve got some money put by, enough for the flight, I think, and the application form said there’d be accommodation provided. But think how it’d look on my resume. It could open up all kinds of doors for me.”
“How come you’re only mentioning this now?”
He sighed. “I forgot about it, honestly. Not that I ever expected to hear back. People like me don’t get picked for things like that.”
Raj studied him for a long moment. Then he said simply, “And what if you do?”
Franco froze. The words hung heavy between them.
What if?
He forced a grin he knew was too bright, too deflecting. “Then I’ll drink better wine, eat worse gelato, and send you postcards you won’t read.”
Raj shook his head, but his mouth curved into the faintest smile. “Just don’t come crying to me when you realise you actually like being tethered somewhere.”
Franco laughed, but it sounded false. He had a feeling that at some point in the middle of the night, that question would return to plague him.
What if?
Ben had stayed later than usual that night, not because there was work left undone—there never was, not with him—but because the quiet hum of the restaurant after close was easier to endure than the silence of his flat. He sat in his office with the door cracked, his papers neatly stacked, the softchinkof dishes being put away in the kitchen seeping through the walls.
When the voices had faded and most of the staff had finally trickled out, Ben let out a breath. For a few minutes, it was just him and the muted throb of the refrigeration unit outside the office. Then he caught sight of Franco through the small pane of glass in the office door, and he stilled.
Franco was leaning against a counter, still in his apron, laughing at something Raj had said. His whole body seemed to move with it, as though laughter lived in his bones. Even from here, Ben could read the warmth of it.
But when Raj turned away to wring out a cloth, Franco’s smilefaltered. It was only for a second, but it definitely happened. His gaze slid to the far wall, distant, restless.
Ben straightened in his chair. Restless wasn’t a word he’d normally apply to Franco. Teasing, flirtatious, irreverent, yes, but not that.
