He’d always been proud of his ability to compartmentalise. Numbers in one column, outcomes in another. Personal life? Off the ledger entirely. But now, sitting in his office with the half-written staff rota glowing on his laptop screen, he found his thoughts derailed by… cheekbones. Laughter that slid under his skin. The remembered weight of Franco Rossi’s thigh hooked over his hip.

  The memory played on a loop: Franco sprawled across his sheets, his hair tumbling around his face, his lips swollen from kissing, his voice husky as he whispered things that had no business echoing in Ben’s mind at ten in the morning on a workday.

  Ben snapped his laptop shut, then rubbed at his face. “For God’s sake.”

  This wasn’t distraction—this was erosion. His carefully ordered systems were cracking under the memory of Franco’s hands, the heat of his mouth, the reckless abandon that had coaxed Ben into lowering every guard he’d ever built.

  And the worst part? He wanted more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Raj glanced up from his saucepan, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “In case I forget to mention it, good work yesterday, Franco.”

  Franco blinked. “Thanks… I think. Not sure I did that much, though.”

  Willow smirked. “Huh. You went above and beyond for team morale, mate. Sleeping with the boss? Now that’s what I call a bold strategy.”

  Raj shook his head, chuckling as he clanged the pan on the hob. “You didn’t have to, you know. We were already on your side.”

  Franco set the tray of cutlery down and shot them both a wary glance. “How exactly do you know what happened?”

  Willow winked. “Darling, you showed up in yesterday’s shirt with hair that looked as if someone had their hands in it. Then there’s that smile you’ve been wearing all morning.”

  “Hey, I smile all the time,” he protested.

  She chuckled. “Yeah, but we’re talking a huge cat-that-got-the-cream kinda smile. Not your usual brand.”

  Lexie coughed. “Willow, that’s not really appropriate, y’know.” Then she grinned. “However, the next time we see you with that same kinda grin, we’ll know exactly what to say to you.”

  A chorus of laughter rippled through the kitchen. Franco managed a thin, brittle chuckle before muttering in Italian and shaking his head, as if he could brush it off the way he brushed off everything.

  But he couldn’t.

  This wasn’t supposed to be a game anymore, not when every second that Ben was in Franco’s bed still hummed under his skin, when the weight of that man’s hand at the small of his back had felt like the safest thing in the world.

  He knew what the others thought: this was all part of Operation Sunshine, another prank to throw Mr. Corporate off his scent, off balance. Maybe even a one-off, chaotic Franco being chaotic.

  But when he thought about Ben’s mouth on his skin, the way Ben had looked at him like he was something worth holding on to? Franco knew.

  It wasn’t a joke.

  Not anymore.

  And if this was how he felt, what was going on in Ben’s mind?

  Maybe it was time to find out.

  The lunchtime rush was over, and Ben was taking advantage of the lull to sit in the restaurant, glancing occasionally at the world going by the window. From the kitchen came the usual laughter and banter he’d come to expect from his workforce. He didn’t mind: it all made for an accurate barometer.

  A whiff of sugar reached his nostrils, and he glanced up.

  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. His shirt 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. Ben did like 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.

  “You are.” 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 that is what 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 yourself have me 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 work too hard.” His eyes sparkled. “Someone might think you’re overcompensating.”

  And then he was gone, leaving Ben staring after 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.

  Before he had a chance to collect himself, Willow was there, a steaming cup in her hand. She placed it on the table in front of him.

  “Here, boss. Double shot. You look like you need it.”

  Ben eyed her warily. “Thank you.” He waited for her to return to the safety of the kitchen.

  She slipped into the chair Franco had only just vacated and leaned one elbow on the table, casual as anything, her lips curved in her habitual knowing way that always made him deeply uneasy. “Rough night?”

  He froze with the mug halfway to his mouth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Willow tilted her head, her smirk sharpening. “Nothing. You look as if you didn’t get much sleep, that’s all. I thought maybe it had something to do with our resident chaos gremlin.” She flicked her chin toward the kitchen where Franco was joking with Raj.

  All of a sudden, the coffee tasted too strong. Ben set the mug down. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Willow said in a sing-song voice. “But the way you’re pretending not to look at him says otherwise.”

  Ben inhaled sharply, heat creeping up his neck to his ears. He wanted to deny it categorically, the way he’d handled every awkward question in the past at head office, but the words didn’t come. He knew why: denial would mean last night was an error, a lapse. Something to be filed away under unprofessional incidents.

  Except it wasn’t an error, not when he could still feel Franco’s laugh against his throat or recall the press of his hand against Ben’s ribs, grounding and devastating all at once. Not when the memory of Franco whispering his name still left his pulse unsteady.

  Willow raised her brows, waiting.

  Ben finally cleared his throat. “I’ll take this coffee to my office.” He picked up his laptop, holding it against him like a shield, his retreat already mapped in his head.

  But as he rose, he caught sight of Franco through the pass, a glance that lasted a mere heartbeat, long enough to see Franco’s grin, unguarded, warm, even dangerous in its simplicity.

  It was then that Ben knew.

  This isn’t a one-time deal, and I can’t make it one, no matter how much easier that would be.

  He shut the office door harder than intended, the click echoing in the small space. He opened his laptop, needing the gridlines of spreadsheets, the cool order of numbers. Something that made sense, that could be mastered.

  But the numbers blurred immediately, replaced by the heat of last night. The way Franco’s hands had pinned him, not roughly but with confidence, steering the pace until Ben couldn’t tell where his body ended and Franco’s began. He remembered the sounds that had poured from his own lips, needy and unguarded, sounds he didn’t recognise as being him.

  Franco had been in charge. Totally. Ben, who’d spent most of his adult life planning, containing, had bottomed, swept under by Franco’s tidal pull.

  And he’d loved it, every helpless, glorious second of it.

  His fingers hovered over the keys, and he typed furiously:

  Action Plan: Personal/Professional Boundaries

  Do not sleep with staff again.

  If situation repeats, address swiftly and discreetly.

  Maintain authority.

  Focus on operational improvements, not distractions.

  He stopped. There was that word again: distractions.

  What if it wasn’t a distraction? What if it was… release?

  He sat back in his chair, raking both hands through his hair. He could still feel Franco’s lips on his throat, the roll of his hips, the shameless way he’d demanded everything of him, and Ben, the man who never yielded, had given him complete control.

  Slowly, he typed another line.

  Decide if last night was a lapse… or if you’re willing to surrender again.

  The cursor blinked at him, steady, patient, waiting for an answer he didn’t have.

  Ben stared at it, his list of rules and denials staring back at him. The neat structure of his thoughts had collapsed into a mess of longing and shame and—worse—want. He closed the laptop with a snap, as though he could shut Franco out of his head as easily.

  But the heat of last night clung stubbornly to him. Franco’s weight pressing him down. Franco’s voice urging him to let go. Franco’s groan of pleasure when Ben did just that.

  I lost control.

  That realisation left him exactly where he hated to be: torn, off-balance, and dangerously tempted. Because for once in his life, Ben didn’t want control.

  He wanted Franco.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The lunch rush had been manageable, which meant Raj was relaxed enough to hum under his breath while he chopped coriander. Ben leaned against the stainless-steel prep counter, pretending to check a delivery docket but mostly watching Raj work. The man moved like a conductor, every knife stroke precise, every pot stir perfectly timed. The kitchen was basically his orchestra pit.

  Ben had been there nearly eight weeks now, and Raj was still something of an enigma. Stern, sometimes abrupt, but the staff clearly adored him. Even Franco—whose default mode with authority figures seemed to be playful provocation—lowered his volume by at least one notch when Raj was around.

  “So,” Raj said without looking up, “how’s the inventory spreadsheet coming along?”

  Ben blinked. “Fine. Just fine.”

  “Mm-hm. That’s something you say when you haven’t touched it since yesterday.”

  Ben narrowed his eyes. “Do you have cameras in my flat?”

  Raj smirked but didn’t answer, sliding chopped coriander into a small ramekin.

  A comfortable silence stretched between them, and then Ben noticed something. Under Raj’s cutting board was a scrap of lined notebook paper, the corner peeking out as if it was trying to escape.

  “You’re hiding something,” Ben said, nodding toward it.

  Raj’s shoulders went stiff. “It’s nothing.”

  “‘Nothing’ is exactly what people say before it turns out to be something.”

  Raj sighed, clearly debating whether to ignore him. Then, with the air of a man accepting inevitable defeat, he slid the paper free and held it out to Ben.

  It was a drawing—a very, very bad drawing, a child’s attempt at a three-layer cake, complete with crooked candles. In spidery block letters beneath it was written Happy Birthday Uncle Raj!

  “Arun’s great niece,” Raj said quickly. “She’s six. She insists I learn how to make a proper cake before her next birthday. Apparently, my last attempt was ‘structurally unsound.’”

  Ben bit back a laugh. “She said that?”

  Raj snorted. “Said it? She gave me notes. She’s a precocious tyrant.” There was unmistakable fondness in his voice, however. “And she also has no idea what she’s asking for. I can do a banquet for fifty people without breaking a sweat, but baking? I may as well be trying to land a plane.”

  Ben chuckled. Okay, this was new. The man who commanded the kitchen like a general, brought to his knees by sponge cake. “So what’s the plan? Trial runs?”

  Raj hesitated. “Arun says I should ask Franco to help. But that would mean admitting defeat, and…” He gestured vaguely with his chef’s knife.

  Ben grinned. “We could do it here after hours. No one has to know.”

  Raj raised his eyebrows. “You’d help?”

  “Sure,” Ben said with a shrug. “But I give you fair warning—I’m more of an eater than a baker.”

  Raj’s laugh was short but genuine, and for a moment, Ben caught a glimpse of the man beneath the head chef armour: family-oriented, warm, proud, maybe a little too hard on himself, but fiercely loyal to the people he loved.

  The oven timer dinged somewhere behind them. Raj turned back to his station, the moment neatly filed away, but Ben carried it with him for the rest of the day.

  It’s the one culinary skill that utterly defeats him, but because the request came from someone he loves, he’s determined to fix it.

  The restaurant had been closed for two hours, when it became obvious the weather had put off a lot of potential customers. The front blinds were down, and the kitchen unusually quiet: only Raj and Ben were left, and Franco was upstairs on his laptop, claiming to be busy doing… something.

  Exactly what occupied him was a mystery Ben was dying to solve, but right then he faced a more important task. He rolled up his sleeves, surveyed the counter full of flour, sugar, and eggs, and wondered if he’d made a mistake agreeing to this.

  Raj stood beside him, his arms crossed, his expression somewhere between focus and mild dread. “We follow the recipe exactly,” he declared. “No improvising. No substitutions.”

  Ben smirked. “You’re talking as if I’m the wildcard here.”

  “You are,” Raj replied without missing a beat, and handed him a whisk.

  They started well enough: flour measured, sugar poured, eggs cracked with only minimal shell casualties. But somewhere between “cream the butter” and “fold in gently,” things went sideways.

  The batter looked suspiciously lumpy.

  “Is it supposed to look like that?” Ben asked.

  Raj peered into the bowl, frowning. “No. This looks like—” He broke off, muttering something in a foreign language that Ben suspected wasn’t complimentary.

  Ben couldn’t help grinning. “Well, maybe it’s rustic.”

  “It’s not rustic. It’s wrong.” Raj ran a hand over his face, sighing. “This is why I hate baking. Cooking, you taste and adjust. Baking is like committing to a relationship before the second date.”

  That hit Ben harder than he expected, but he hid it by pouring the batter into a prepared tin. “Maybe you just need more practice.”

  They slid it into the oven, then leaned against the counter while it baked, the kitchen slowly filling with a sweet scent.

  Well, it smells okay.

  Making chocolate icing proved incident-free, and Ben resisted the urge to dip his finger into the dark, glossy mixture.

  When the timer finally pinged, they pulled out the tin to reveal… something. A sunken, slightly scorched lump of something.

  Raj stared at it, deadpan. “I can already hear her. She’s going to call it structurally unsound again.”

  Ben laughed, the sound echoing in the empty kitchen. “Maybe we get Franco to make the next one. You can ‘supervise.’”

  Raj gave him a sideways look. “Oh yes, I’m sure he’d love that. And I’m sure he’d keep the teasing to a minimum.” He pulled his phone from his pocket.

 

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