Operation Sunshine, page 4
Ben’s jaw twitched. “I don’t need a scripture to recognise inefficiency.” He held Franco’s gaze longer than he meant to, long enough that something warm and treacherous coiled in his stomach.
Lexie snorted. “Ben, I get it. You’re a plan guy. We’re more about vibes.”
Franco snapped his fingers. “Exactly. You can’t standardise vibes, mio fratello. You can’t ration spontaneity.” He waved his arms as though he was orchestrating a symphony.
Mina piped up, her mouth full of croissant. “If we had structure, I’d get fired.”
Raj simply grunted, his arms folded like a bouncer at a rave.
Ben took another breath, fighting the urge to run. “I get that you have your… methods. But we also need to survive as a business.” He closed his notebook carefully, as though afraid it might explode. “Before we dive into possible changes, I need to acknowledge something.”
The joking atmosphere dissipated, and what remained was a collection of openly curious glances.
“I know Marco meant a lot to all of you,” Ben said, his voice lower.
At the name, a collective hush fell. Mina’s grin faltered. Lexie’s fingers stilled. Raj’s expression softened by a hair.
“I never met him,” Ben continued. “But I see what he built. You stayed. You care. That doesn’t happen without real leadership… and love.”
Franco’s fingers paused mid-drum on the table. His face turned thoughtful, his smile faint, distant.
Raj was the first to speak. “Marco was… impulsive. He gave away more than he sold. But he made us a family.”
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 face tightened. “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’t want to be. But I do want 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? I never improvise.” 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.
But he did notice. Every goddamn detail.
“Ben, come on!” Franco called, waving from a tomato stand. “These are the best tomatoes for sauces. Raj loves them.”
Ben clenched his jaw. He considered pretending he hadn’t heard.
I could turn around and walk straight back to the car.
Except Franco was already bounding back to him. He grabbed Ben’s forearm, his warm fingers curling around it in a firm grip.
“You look like someone just told you they cancelled tax season,” Franco teased. “What’s with the funeral face?”
Ben shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I like structure, okay? A world that obeys certain rules. Nothing like this circus.”
“Ah, but this is structure.” Franco’s grin widened. “It’s just messy structure. You’ll see.”
He kept his hand on Ben’s arm for a beat longer than necessary before letting go to bounce on his heels, already scanning the stalls like an excitable puppy sniffing a dozen new trails. Then suddenly he was back at Ben’s side, close enough that Ben caught the warmth radiating from his skin, the faint citrus scent of his shampoo.
“You need to lighten up a little, boss.” Franco’s voice was low with a hint of mischief.
Ben opened his mouth, but no words came out. Franco’s hand darted forward, landing lightly on Ben’s chest over his heart.
“Breathe,” Franco murmured, pressing lightly, doubtless feeling the hammering beneath.
Ben sucked in a sharp breath, his entire body going rigid. Franco let his fingers stay there for one heartbeat too long before sliding away, leaving an echo of warmth that made Ben’s knees threaten mutiny.
This was a mistake.
God, Ben was so jumpy.
Franco loved it.
He couldn’t help brushing his fingers along that solid chest, an excuse to tease, to touch, to remind himself this man wasn’t carved out of marble, even if he acted like it. He let his hand linger a fraction longer than necessary, and Ben’s heartbeat had thundered beneath his fingertips, hot and frantic.
Franco felt it deep in his own gut, a bright coil of heat winding tighter every time Ben looked at him with that infuriated, half-wild stare. The man had two modes so far: tense as a coiled spring or glaring as if he might murder the next person who spoke too loudly. And Franco adored it.
He’d met enough people who pretended to be easy-going but were brittle underneath. Ben was honest in his discomfort, and Franco found that painfully endearing.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping as he steered them deeper into the vegetable stalls. “Do me a favour, grumpy pants. Try to see this as a game. Forget your precious list. What calls to you? What smells good?”
Grumpy pants might have been pushing it a bit, but Franco couldn’t resist the urge to shake this guy up a little.
How far can I push you, Mr. Corporate?
Ben’s brow furrowed. “Food doesn’t call to me, Franco. It sits on a shelf quietly, where it belongs until it’s eaten.”
Franco burst into laughter so loud a nearby vendor dropped a peach. He slapped Ben’s back, sending him stumbling forward a step.
“God, you’re impossible.” Franco smiled. “And yet somehow, still adorable.”
Ben froze, turning slowly. “Don’t call me that.”
Franco winked. “Noted. For now.”
Ben hated the way Franco said it, as if Ben was something small and sweet to tease, like a cat caught under a sunbeam.
Except it did more than annoy him.
It rattled him.
He followed as Franco darted to a table piled high with eggplants. Franco picked one up, holding it like a prize.
“Look at this beauty,” Franco said reverently, turning it in his hands. “Glossy skin, heavy, firm, just waiting to be turned into something incredible.”
Ben snorted. “It’s an eggplant, not a lover.”
Franco whipped around so fast Ben nearly walked into him.
“Oh, but you must treat them the same.” Franco leaned in, their noses almost touching. “With patience. Curiosity. Gentleness. You rush, you bruise it. You go too cold, it turns bitter.”
Ben stared into eyes that were too close, too bright. For one breathless second, he forgot where he was, forgot the noise and the heat—
And his own walls.
Then Franco’s fingers brushed his wrist, feather-light, and Ben jolted back as if burned.
“Jesus,” Ben muttered. “Do you flirt with all your vegetables?”
Franco laughed again, the sound easy and unashamed. “Only the pretty ones.”
He pushed them forward into the crowd, then led Ben from stall to stall while Franco sampled segments of mandarin and orange, dragging the sharp scent of grapefruit into his lungs.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re like a hyperactive golden retriever?” Ben muttered from behind him. He paused. “Did you just lead me in a circle?”
Franco plucked a ripe tomato, holding it up. “See this?” He leaned in and their shoulders brushed, sending a jolt through him.
Judging by the way Ben almost dropped his bag, he wasn’t the only one who’d felt it.
Franco twisted the tomato toward Ben’s face, close enough to smell its sweet, earthy scent. “Perfect acidity,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “If you listen carefully, you can hear it sigh.”
Ben swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Franco’s lips.
“I don’t want to hear a tomato sigh,” Ben croaked.
Franco turned abruptly, their noses nearly touching again, and Ben froze. Franco’s eyes flickered down to Ben’s mouth and then back up to his eyes.
“Pity,” Franco said before stepping away.
He saw Ben flinch, the air crackling between them.
Fuck, I want to kiss him. Not that he would—not yet—but the temptation pulled at him like a riptide.
Every time Ben’s eyes dropped to his mouth, anticipation trickled down Franco’s spine. He kept finding excuses to step closer: squeezing past a cart, leaning to smell a bunch of basil, slipping his hand to Ben’s lower back as they turned a tight corner.
Each time, Ben stiffened and jolted, but he didn’t move away.
Well, not really.
He loved that flush creeping up Ben’s neck, the way his eyes darted away from Franco’s mouth, only to return there a heartbeat later.
God, he’s fun to tease.
He knew he shouldn’t push too hard. Ben was the type to lock up tighter if cornered, but he couldn’t help slipping a hand onto Ben’s lower back as they squeezed past a crowded olive stand. He felt the sharp inhale, the tension under his palm, and it made something spark in his chest.
Franco was having the best day ever.
“Remind me again why we’re at this particular market,” Ben asked. They’d already visited the Central Market.
“Because this is the best place for local produce. Potatoes, pumpkin, carrots, parsnips, sweet potatoes… The pears are amazing here, and their lemons are the best.”
Franco greeted the olive vendor like an old friend, and Ben stayed back, trying to build a protective mental fortress.
Yeah, that was an exercise in futility.
Franco glanced back, his hair falling into his eyes, and gestured for Ben to try an olive.
When Ben hesitated, Franco picked one up, but instead of handing it over, he pressed it gently to Ben’s mouth.
Ben’s lips parted on instinct. Franco’s fingers brushed the corner of his mouth as he fed him the olive.
The touch burned. Ben nearly choked on the brine.
Franco’s eyes held his, the air shimmering between them, the seconds stretching into an eternity. Then he stepped back, his lips curling into a slow, wicked grin.
“Salty enough for you?” he teased.
Ben turned away so abruptly he nearly crashed into a basket of lemons at the next stand.
Franco’s fingers still tingled from the contact. He knew he shouldn’t have pushed that far, but seeing Ben’s pupils blown wide, the pink flush at his throat, hearing that ragged breath ….
It was worth the risk.
He leaned in again, his voice warm and teasing. “Careful, manager man. If you faint, I’ll have to carry you out of here like a bride.”
Ben whirled on him, glaring so fiercely Franco almost stepped back.
Almost.
“Touch me again like that and you’ll be the one carried out,” Ben snapped. His voice cracked on the last word, however.
Franco laughed and patted Ben’s bicep lightly, a quick tap that felt more like a caress.
I’m really pushing my luck here.
He couldn’t help himself.
Ben couldn’t do this. He couldn’t keep feeling Franco’s hands on him, the whisper of breath so close, that bright laughter drilling into the parts of him he tried to keep bolted shut.
Focus, he reminded himself with every passing minute. You’re here to work. You are not here to flirt. You are definitely not here to watch Franco’s lips or think about how his hands might feel on your—
“Ben. Cheese time,” Franco declared, interrupting his mental spiral. He launched into an animated conversation in Italian with the cheesemonger, leaving Ben awkwardly hovering.
Franco looked over his shoulder suddenly, his gaze meeting Ben’s, and gave a small, reassuring nod. A silent stay with me.
Ben hated that it worked.
Franco gestured to the cheesemonger. “This is Maria.”
Ben tried to remain invisible behind him, but Maria’s sharp eyes pinned him anyway.
“And who’s this? He looks as if he got dragged here against his will.”
Franco grinned. “This is Ben, our resident corporate vampire. He thinks all cheese should be neatly categorised by profit margin.”
Ben glared. “I did not say that.”
Maria cackled, slapping Franco’s shoulder. “He’s a grumpy one. You sure you don’t want a refund?”
Ben’s lips twitched despite himself.
Franco turned, his eyes softening for a moment as they locked on Ben’s. “Nah,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’ll keep him.”
Ben’s stomach lurched. He looked away so fast he nearly knocked over a stack of brie.
Franco broke off a piece of soft cheese and turned, holding it out again. Ben scowled, but his lips parted before he could stop himself.
This time, Franco’s fingers dragged deliberately across Ben’s bottom lip as he withdrew, and Ben’s entire body lit up.
“Good boy,” Franco whispered.
Ben fought not to drop the entire bag of produce.
Maria shoved cheese into Franco’s arms, muttering, “If you get him to buy even one wedge, you’ll be a miracle worker.”
Ben ended up with three.
Oh, I am definitely going to die for this.
Ben looked at him as though he might strangle him at any moment, but each time Franco offered him something to taste, he opened his mouth and took it.
A dangerous thrill pulsed through Franco’s veins. They’d gone past mere flirting. Something was blooming, hot and alive, just beneath the surface, and it spurred him to push further, to see what else lay hidden under all that starched composure.
He knew he was pushing it. Touching too often, standing too close. But it felt like a dance: every scowl from Ben only made Franco want to step in closer, to see what he’d do.
When they finally started heading back, Franco carried most of the bags, insisting Ben hold only a small basket of herbs.
“Don’t want your delicate manager hands getting callouses,” Franco teased.
Ben narrowed his eyes. “I have literally carried entire wine crates by myself.”
Franco smirked. “Sure you did, grumpy.”
Ben made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.
They moved through the final few stalls, Franco occasionally brushing against him, a hip here, a shoulder there. Each time, Ben’s breathing hitched, and Franco’s eyes would flicker over him, hungry and knowing.
