Page 23 of Operation Sunshine
Franco froze, his chef’s knife hovering mid-slice. “Come again?”
Willow leaned in conspiratorially. “Ben’s driving everyone quietly insane with his little clipboard. You’re the only one who doesn’t freeze up when he’s within a five-metre radius. Ergo—diversion duty. Keep him distracted while we all adjust to his... corporate feng shui.”
“By ‘distract,’ you mean...?”
She gave an innocent shrug. “Flirt. Confuse. Keep him from noticing Ollie still hasn’t updated inventory or that Chloe keeps sneaking outside for smokos that last longer than her shifts.”
Franco snorted, resuming his slicing. “So, you want me to be a sexy smoke screen?”
“Exactly.”
He huffed. “You’re all cowards.”
Willow let out a snort. “Andyou’rethe only one who doesn’t mind his resting tax audit face.”
Franco rolled his eyes. Deep down, however, the suggestion didn’t sit wrong. Quite the opposite, in fact. Ben had been making changes with the precision of a scalpel, not a machete, but still… This was a staff used to improv and duct tape. Structure wasn’t sexy. Ben Whitaker, on the other hand? Too neat, too careful... and somehow still utterly watchable.
Franco sighed and wiped his hands. “Fine. I’ll keep him busy. But if I end up in a team-building seminar because of this, I’m burning down HR.”
Willow patted his arm. “That’s the spirit.” She left him to his basil.
He smiled to himself.I’m way ahead of you lot.Flirting with Ben at the market had been fun: sure, he’d been testing the waters to see how far he could push. But to be given the green light to flirt? Besides, Franco did that with everyone.
That doesn’t mean it has to go anywhere.
He knew better.
Franco wore his heart on his sleeve with everyone else, but when it came to his own emotions?
He built walls.
By the time lunch rolled around, the restaurant was mid-chaos with a side of espresso. The dish station was newly rearranged—Ben’s doing—which meant no one could find anything, and Raj was muttering like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
“I swear to God, if he moves the sanitiser again, I’m going to sanitisehim,” Raj growled, elbow-deep in foam and frustration.
In the front, Chloe kept “forgetting” her break schedule, and Ollie had definitely poured himself an “accidental” Negroni at 11.30 a.m. The new portion control scoops Ben had introduced were already mysteriously missing: Willow claimed the dishwasher “ate them.”
Franco found Ben in the back office, his sleeves rolled up, his brow furrowed as he stared at a colour-coded spreadsheet.
“You know,” Franco said, leaning in the doorway, “the more serious your face gets, the more I’m convinced you used to be a tax collector in a previous life.”
Ben looked up, startled. “Is the kitchen on fire?”
“No more than usual.”
He blinked at Franco, his brow furrowed with obvious suspicion. “Then why are you here?”
Franco stepped inside, his hands in his pockets. “I thought you could use a break. You’ve been glaring at Excel for over an hour. It’s starting to fight back.”
Ben rubbed his temples. “I’m just trying to get the margins to make sense. Some of the dishes are wildly underpriced. Did you know the duck confit is barely breaking even?”
“I did not,” Franco said in a light tone. “But I do know it makes people happy.”
Ben gave him a dry look. “Happiness doesn’t pay the rent.”
Franco tilted his head, watching him. “You always this charming when you talk cost efficiency?”
Something flickered in Ben’s eyes. “Only when seduced by financial ruin.”
