Page 14 of Operation Sunshine
Lexie sniffed loudly. “He taught me to make a proper tiramisu and also how to break up with a boyfriend in less than two sentences.”
Mina wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “He called me ‘the pastry pirate’ because I’d steal cream puffs and hide them in my locker. He also said I was the only one who could get away with ignoring recipes.”
Franco stayed quiet the longest. Then he shifted, finally looking up, his voice softer than Ben had ever heard it. “He believed in people more than recipes. Even when they didn’t deserve it.” His facetightened. “We understood why he made the decision to sell the place—his health had deteriorated—but we thought he’d still be a part of us.”
A heart attack had changed all that. Ben had seen it in the notes from the broker.
Ben nodded slowly. “I can’t be Marco. Then again, I don’twantto be. But Idowant to keep this place alive. And for that, I need your help. We’ll do it together, but there’ll be no overnight revolutions.” He tapped his notebook lightly. “First, inventory. No more ‘mystery menus’ when we run out of basil—or anything else, for that matter.”
Franco raised both hands, his eyes wide in mock innocence. “Moi? Ineverimprovise.” His lips twitched. “Except maybe every single day.”
“Second,” Ben continued, ignoring him with an effort, “costing. We need to know what keeps the lights on.”
Mina groaned. “Maths. My mortal enemy.”
“And finally, suppliers.” Ben paused, glancing at Franco again. “I was hoping Franco might show me the markets tomorrow. I want to understand who we’re working with.”
Franco’s eyebrows shot up, then that slow, crooked grin returned, something sly and bright behind it. “Well, well. The man in the pressed shirt wants to brave the 5 a.m. fishmonger? You’re braver than you look, Melbourne.”
Ben exhaled, his shoulders dropping an inch. “Perfect.” He smiled. “And I can cope with 5 a.m. if you can.”
A ripple of reluctant amusement spread around the table.
Willow snickered. “All right, he’s officially insane. I like it.”
Ollie raised his glass in salute. “Cheers to market mornings and certain doom.”
As laughter erupted again, Ben looked around, catching Franco’s eye once more.
That glance was a challenge.
Franco’s pulse skipped.
Careful, or you’ll start rooting for him.
But as Ben’s lips curved into a smile, genuine but at the same time vulnerable, Franco realised it was too late. Something reckless sparked under his skin, like a match struck too close to dry kindling. He should have been amused, the way he was with every new manager who thought they could ‘fix’ them. Before Marco, there’d been a few.
But Ben wasn’t like them. He was all sharp edges and tremors, a man who looked as if he might snap in two. And yet here he was, standing his ground in front of a pack of feral misfits, offering that shy little smile like a white flag. Franco’s fingers tingled with the longing to touch him, to ruin that immaculate hair, to press his thumb against the soft line of Ben’s lower lip just to see what sound he might make. Beneath the starch and strategy, Franco saw it: the pulse, the ache, the fight. And God help him, he wanted to draw every last flicker of it out.
Franco grinned to himself, leaning back as the laughter roared on around them.
Tomorrow at the markets would be a feast, and not just of fish and tomatoes. He’d meant to play with Ben like a cat with a mouse, but now?
Now he wasn’t sure who was hunting whom.
Chapter Four
The Adelaide Farmers’ market was alive in a way Ben had never experienced before: vendors shouting over each other, children shrieking, and the scent of fish and onions mixing in a pungent wave that slapped him straight in the face.
He stood there with his shoulders stiff, his hands clenched in his pockets. This wasn’t a place for lists and plans.
This was a jungle, and he was already lost. He liked order, structure…
What he got was chaos and noise.
Franco, meanwhile, looked as if he had been born here. He moved through the crowd like a bright spark, weaving around people, greeting them with big gestures and that sunny, unstoppable grin.
Ben tried not to watch, not to notice the way Franco’s jacket stretched across his broad shoulders, or the loose strands of hair curling at his neck.
