Page 80 of Operation Sunshine
Ben’s expression softened. “If I could, I would. But this one—this is a decision only you can make.”
Franco’s aching chest felt perilously close to breaking.
Franco’s phone buzzed in his pocket, the sharp trill slicing through the silence. He glanced at the screen, muttered something under his breath, then shoved the device away.
“I should get back,” he said, his voice thin. “Lunch service, you know.”
Ben nodded, his throat too tight for words. He watched Franco hesitate at the door, as if he wanted to say something more, something that might soften the jagged edges between them, but in the end, he only offered an awkward smile and slipped out.
The door clicked shut.
The world went quiet.
Ben sat perfectly still, staring at the closed door, waiting for his chest to stop aching. Instead, the silence felt tangible.
Finally, he turned back to his laptop with slow, mechanical movements. The cursor blinked in a half-written email, patient, unbothered, the one steady thing in the room. Ben’s hands hovered above the keys, but nothing came. His head was too full: images of Florentine streets he’d never seen, of Franco’s face lighting up at the thought of a future that didn’t include him.
Who the hell is Chef Gallo anyway?
Ben did a search. After reading three or four posts, he understood why this was such a big deal. The man was legendary in the world of Italian cuisine.
No wonder Franco wants to go.
Ben learned something else too from those testimonies of chefs who’d followed the same path Franco was about to embark upon.
Being selected to attend was more often than not a springboard to a bigger and better future, even fame and fortune.
There was every possibility Franco’s future might not includeSage & Thyme.
He closed the lid with a snap.
This is what Franco deserves. Opportunity. Growth. A chance to fly. Ben knew that. Hell, he even admired it. But admiration didn’t stop the hollow ache under his ribs or silence the poisonous little voice whispering that when Franco left, it wouldn’t just be for three months. It wasn’t only the thought of a bright new shiny career waiting for him: maybe three months was enough for someone like Franco to realise there was more out there for him than a man like Ben.
He leaned back in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Christ, when did I get so bloody soft?
He’d promised himself when he came here that he’d keep things simple. This was business. A project, not a life. Now here he was, gut-punched by the thought of losing someone who’d made cracks in Ben’s walls, widened them, and slipped right through.
The worst part wasn’t the leaving—it was the not knowing if Franco would come back. Not knowing if he’d want to.
Ben let out a shaky laugh that didn’t sound like him at all. “Pull yourself together, mate,” he muttered, rubbing at his jaw. He had work to do. Numbers to check. Orders to finalise.
But when he opened the laptop again, the figures blurred into nothing. All he could see was Franco’s face at the door. All he could hear was the certainty in his voice when he’d said,I’m going.
And all Ben could feel was the silence that came after.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Franco had spent the whole bloody day ping-ponging between soaring elation and gut-punching dread.
On one hand: Chef Gallo. Florence. The kind of stage people killed for, the kind that launched careers, opened doors, put your name on the map. He should’ve been bouncing off the walls, planning every detail, counting down the days until he boarded a plane. Because the minutes were ticking by, faster and faster.
And yet…
Every time he thought about telling Ben, the memory of that quiet “It has to be your decision” came rushing back. Not a fight, not a plea, not even an argument. Nothing but steady positive support, as though Ben had plucked his own heart out and set it aside because Franco’s dream mattered more. Franco had expected—what? Anger? Jealousy? At least aDon’t go, not yet.Something that proved Ben wanted him here as much as Franco wanted to stay.
Instead, he’d been given dignity and respect. And now Franco didn’t know what to do with it.
