Operation Sunshine, page 5
Ben hated that he liked it. What was worse? He wanted more of it so badly.
When they reached the coffee stall, Franco ordered for both of them without asking, sliding the small espresso cup into Ben’s hand, his fingers brushing over Ben’s wrist, his thumb skimming the sensitive skin there.
Ben shivered, nearly dropping the cup.
Franco noticed. Of course he did. The man noticed everything.
“Careful,” Franco murmured, leaning so close Ben swore he could feel the whisper of stubble along Franco’s jaw. “Wouldn’t want to burn those pretty lips.”
Ben jerked away as if slapped, spilling a few drops of espresso onto his hand.
Franco caught his wrist in a flash, steadying him. “Easy.” His voice was suddenly low. He wiped the dribble of coffee from Ben’s skin with his thumb, slow and deliberate.
Ben’s arm trembled. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.
Franco’s eyes stayed locked on his as he brought his thumb to his own lips and sucked off the coffee.
Jesus.
The noise of the market blurred into a distant roar. For a second, it was just them, Ben trembling, Franco holding his wrist, their eyes locked.
Franco let go reluctantly and stepped back, trying to steady the wild thunder of his own heartbeat.
“Let’s get out of here before you combust,” Franco teased, but his voice came out rougher than he’d intended.
Ben stared at him, his lips slightly parted, as if words had become a foreign concept.
At the car, Franco loaded the bags, humming softly. Ben stood a few feet away, his chest heaving, every nerve raw.
Franco paused and turned to gaze at him. His hair fell over one eye, and he brushed it back from his forehead.
Ben couldn’t look away.
Franco stepped forward, closing the distance between them again. He reached up slowly, brushing a stray leaf from Ben’s hair, his fingers drifting down to the curve of his ear, then the edge of his jaw.
Ben’s head tilted unconsciously into the touch, his breath stuttering.
“There you are,” Franco said quietly, scanning Ben’s face as if memorising every line.
Ben’s lips parted, his words trembling on the tip of his tongue. But before he could speak, Franco’s thumb ghosted across his bottom lip, feather-light.
Ben let out a ragged, involuntary sound.
Franco’s pupils blew wide, and for one electric moment, they stood there on the verge of something irreversible.
Then Franco pulled his hand back sharply, swallowing hard. He stepped away as if physically restraining himself, forcing his usual bright grin back onto his face like a mask.
“Next week,” Franco said, his voice too loud, too bright, “we’ll have you cutting squid guts like a pro.”
Ben slammed the boot shut so hard the entire car shuddered.
As they drove, Franco kept stealing glances at Ben.
Ben’s knuckles were white on the wheel, his eyes fixed dead ahead, his jaw locked tight. But the tips of his ears were pink, and every so often, his fingers tapped restlessly on the wheel, a rhythm that betrayed something deeper stirring beneath that carefully guarded surface.
Franco felt it too. Like a current running between them, tugging and sparking, waiting for one of them to slip. He pressed his palm to his own thigh, trying to ground himself, trying to keep from reaching across the console and touching Ben again.
The tension in the car felt heavy enough to crush them both.
Franco’s heart hammered, each beat screaming.
He wants this too.
Ben told himself he was angry. Furious, even. But underneath the fury lay a molten, terrifying truth.
He’d wanted every single touch, every tease, every accidental brush of fingers, every moment Franco leaned in too close.
It had been years since he’d let anyone get this close, and yet Franco had slipped past all his defences in one morning.
Ben pressed his heel down harder on the gas. He needed to get away. He needed to—
Franco’s humming drifted over, low and absentminded, a melody Ben didn’t recognise. Ben’s chest ached. He forced his eyes forward, gritting his teeth.
Do not fall. Do not fall. Do not—
Franco watched Ben from the corner of his eye, smiling softly to himself despite the riot of nerves twisting in his stomach.
He knew Ben was terrified. He also knew he should back off.
But after every micro-touch, every charged look, they were already past the point of no return.
And Franco wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop.
Chapter Five
Ben wasn’t sure how it had happened, but one moment he was minding his business, sipping a cup of coffee in the quiet back office of the restaurant, and the next, Franco had invaded his space and talked him into agreeing to let a local wine supplier use the function room above the restaurant for a tasting session.
He’d frowned. “Is this a regular occurrence?”
Franco nodded. “We usually invite local business owners who are also interested. We’re talking maybe a dozen bottles to try.”
It was the sort of event that would have once sounded entirely unappealing to Ben: too many people, too much small talk, and an unreasonable amount of overpriced wine.
Do they expect me to pull this together?
Franco smiled as if privy to Ben’s thoughts. “You don’t need to do a thing. We’ve done plenty of these shindigs. Leave all the arrangements to us. All you have to do is show your face and make the right noises when you try the wine.” He stilled, his gaze narrowed in mock-suspicion. “You do drink wine, right?”
Ben had replied with an eyeroll. “I worked in Melbourne, not the outback.”
And here I am.
The function room was too grand a term for the cozy space that would probably seat twenty diners at a pinch. The room itself was warm, intimate, with a rustic, inviting feel: large wooden beams crossed the ceiling, and low lighting cast a gentle glow over everything. The walls were lined with shelves filled with empty wine bottles, each label more exotic than the next.
Ben stood at the threshold, watching people chatting in small groups. The occasional burst of laughter or snatch of conversation made him feel as though he was standing outside some secret club, unsure of what exactly excluded him.
Is it my clothes?
Maybe his suit had been the wrong choice: Everyone in front of him was dressed casually. Ben shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, eyeing the clusters of people milling about, doing his best to relax.
Not an easy task.
And then he saw Franco in the centre of it all, in tight black jeans and a black shirt that hugged his slim waist and clung to his wide chest and equally wide shoulders.
He seems to be in his element.
Franco held a glass in one hand, and with each wild gesture Ben felt sure one of the attendees nearby was going to end up painted with Franco’s wine. He wore an expression of sheer glee as he bounced from person to person.
One day I’ll catch him when he’s low on energy.
Except Ben doubted such a day would ever arrive.
Franco’s gaze alighted on Ben, and he waved, practically skipping over to where Ben stood, sporting a broad grin.
“Ben! You made it. You’re just in time. They’re about to start pouring the first round.”
Ben glanced at the glass in Franco’s hand. “Then what is that?”
Franco’s eyes gleamed. “A warm-up.” He beamed. “You ready to get cultured?”
Ben raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “You really think I’m the type to—”
“Of course I do,” Franco interrupted, slinging an arm around Ben’s shoulder with the same easy familiarity he reserved for everyone. Ben raised his eyebrows, and Franco withdrew with a blink. “You’ve got an air of sophistication about you. And wine is about life, Ben. The good, the bad, the complex flavours… This?” He flung his arm out to encompass the room, and thankfully it wasn’t the one holding the glass. “This is going to change you.”
“I’m sure it will,” Ben muttered in a vague attempt at sarcasm. But despite his best efforts to resist, Franco’s enthusiasm was contagious. Maybe it was the way Franco’s eyes sparkled when he spoke, or maybe it was just the fact that, no matter how grouchy or reserved Ben tried to be, Franco always made him feel as though he was part of something.
I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did to his arm around me.
It had been an impulse, one Ben regretted.
Franco steered him towards a long wooden table where the first wine was already being poured. Ben eyed the deep, ruby liquid as the sommelier, an older man with a deep voice that carried authority, explained the nuances of the wine. Franco’s full attention was on the sommelier, nodding eagerly, and it was clear from the way Franco interacted with him that he had more than a passing interest in wine.
He’s invested. Which explained why he’d been the one to approach Ben, and not Ollie. Ben had yet to work out what made Ollie tick—or determine if Ollie was going to be a problem. Because that guy was never far from a drink.
The sommelier finished his explanation with a flourish. “And now, my friends, let’s all take a moment to appreciate the deep complexities of this fine Shiraz. Take a sip. Let it breathe. Don’t rush it. Wine is like love. It needs time.”
Ben was about to take his first sip when Franco leaned in close, his voice low. “Don’t let the fancy talk fool you,” he whispered. “The real test is how quickly you can drink it before the next round.”
Ben tried to stifle a laugh but failed. His previous world had demanded rules and order, and Franco’s irreverence was fast becoming a breath of fresh air. Despite his initial inclination to kick against Franco’s easy-going nature, Ben was starting to find he liked its unpredictability.
The wine hit his tongue, and Ben couldn’t help but notice its smoothness. It wasn’t as terrible as he’d anticipated.
He wasn’t about to let Franco see him enjoying it too much, however.
Ben set his glass down with a deliberate clink. “I’ll admit it’s not awful.”
Franco’s eyes lit up with obvious mischief. “See? I told you. All you needed was the right kind of company.” Then he widened his eyes. “Wait—did you swallow? You’re not supposed to swallow.”
It was all Ben could do not to choke.
Judging by that evil little grin, Franco knew exactly what he was doing.
“Now, try the next one.”
Before Ben could respond, Franco had already whisked him away to the next table, where another wine was being poured, this one a deep cream colour.
Ben was still trying to figure out why Franco was so insistent on dragging him through this maze of wine and conversation when a familiar voice came from behind him.
“I don’t believe it. He got you here.”
Ben turned to find Chloe smiling at him with a wicked glint in her eyes. Although he’d only met her a couple of times, he liked her natural, confident energy, but he’d also detected a sharp edge to her humour.
“Mr. Stoic himself, gracing us with his presence,” she teased.
Ben let out a dramatic sigh. “It’s his fault,” he said, pointing to Franco, whose grin proved him to be entirely unrepentant. “He roped me into it.”
Chloe laughed. “Of course he did. Franco could convince a fish to take a walk.”
Franco waggled his eyebrows. “You know it.”
“And what about you?” Ben asked. “Do you also take an interest in wine?”
She smiled. “Seeing as Ollie is training me to be a bartender, I think it’s a good idea, don’t you?”
Somehow Ben had missed that piece of information.
“Now, Chloe…” Franco gestured to the new white wine they were tasting. “What do you think of this one?” His tone lost its playful edge.
“Oh, so it’s business first this evening?” Chloe teased. She picked up a glass and swirled the wine around, tipping it to one side. “It’s got good legs.”
Ben blinked. “Ollie is clearly doing a good job.”
And maybe I’ve misjudged him.
She took a long sip. “And it’s smooth.” Her forehead creased into a faint frown. “A little too smooth, maybe. It reminds me of that time I went on a date with someone who was too nice. You know the type—the ones who make you feel like you’re in a Hallmark movie, and you’re just waiting for the plot twist.”
Ben raised his eyebrow. “You went on a date with someone who was too nice? Is that even possible?”
Chloe smirked. “Oh, honey, I’ve had all kinds of dates. Too nice, too grumpy, too into themselves.” She shrugged. “We’re talking the whole spectrum.”
“Sounds as if a lot of ’em didn’t make it past the first date,” Franco remarked with a teasing grin.
Chloe winked at him. “You’d be surprised. It’s amazing what a little self-awareness can do for you.” She took another sip, then sighed. “This wine, though... It’s like it’s trying too hard. It’s smooth, but there’s no bite. No kick.”
Ben swirled the wine in his glass and tried a little more. He frowned. “I don’t agree. I think there’s something… satisfying about it. It isn’t overly complicated, but it has enough character to make you think.” He smiled. “I can appreciate that.”
Franco stared at him, his lips parted. Then Chloe coughed, and he blinked.
“Maybe you’re just afraid of commitment.” Franco gave Chloe a playful nudge. “And I think you should try it a little longer. Take a deep breath, slow down, and maybe you’ll understand it better.”
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Oh please. I can’t take that long to figure something out.” She winked at Ben. “No offence, Franco. You may be our resident wine connoisseur, but I think I’m just not one for all the fine details.”
Ben smirked. “And I think I’m starting to agree with you.”
Franco raised his glass high. “Ah, but you’re both wrong. Details matter. You don’t just drink wine—you experience it. You have to let it tell you a story.”
Ben let out a snort of laughter. “Okay, now you sound like someone who’s had too much wine.”
Franco gave him a dramatic look of disbelief. “Ben, I’m going to hazard a guess you’ve never let anything tell you a story. You’re too busy analysing everything.” He smiled. “That’s your problem—you overthink.”
Ben opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by the arrival of the next round.
“Oh good, I can’t wait for the story this one has to tell,” Ben muttered as he accepted a fresh glass of wine from the server. He was starting to feel a little more at ease, his tense shoulders relaxing for the first time in what felt like hours.
He took a sip.
Oh wow.
It was nothing like the previous wines. It was bold, heavy with tannins and deep, smoky undertones that made him pause. It didn’t feel like a casual drink, but something that had layers, as though it had been waiting to be unlocked.
Discovered.
Ben glanced at Franco. “This wine... it actually has something.”
Franco watched him carefully, then grinned. “You’re learning, Mr. Whitaker. You’re learning.”
Ben liked the note of approval in Franco’s voice.
The evening stretched on in much the same way, a mix of banter, wine, more banter, and more wine. Franco made a few notes, and Ben felt certain some of the bottles would find their way to the wine list of Sage & Thyme. People came and went, chatting in their cliques, but now Ben found himself oddly at ease amidst the noise. By the time they reached the last wine of the evening, a deep, velvety red that lingered on the tongue like the memory of a kiss, Ben had forgotten how much he hated events like this.
This was fun.
Franco stood beside him, talking with Chloe and some of the other guests. Ben felt relaxed enough to introduce himself to a few of the local business owners. Franco caught his eye and raised his glass in a silent toast.
Ben lifted his own, unable to rein in his smile. “You’re right,” he admitted. “This isn’t so bad.”
He’d expected a grin.
What he got was a slow smile as a sort of unspoken understanding passed between them.
Okay, so I’ve been plunged into all this chaos and unpredictability, but it feels as if I’m starting to see this new world through a different lens.
Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
Chapter Six
Franco was elbow-deep in basil oil when Willow slid into the kitchen like a feral cat.
“Operation Distracto is a go,” she whispered.
Franco glanced up in time to see her snatch a cherry tomato off the prep counter. “If this is another plan to slip tequila into the tiramisu, count me out. I’m still recovering from Raj’s ‘Jell-O Shot Thursdays,’” he groused.
She smirked as she leaned against the worktop. “Better.” She lowered her voice. “You’re going to seduce the boss.”
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. “And you’re the 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.
