Chapter Seven #2
There wasn’t a single customer in sight, and the rain outside didn’t look like it was letting up anytime soon.
Ben finished his espresso and straightened. “Go home.”
Ollie straightened. “What?”
“You’ve been standing there polishing the same three glasses for the last twenty minutes. You may as well head off before the bus schedule gets worse. ”
Ollie hesitated, clearly torn between the urge to protest and the chance to leave early. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” Ben smiled. “Besides, if this keeps up, we’ll all be right behind you.”
With a shrug that was more grateful than he probably meant it to be, Ollie gathered his things. “All right. But don’t do anything exciting without me.”
Ben chuckled. “I’ll leave the exciting activities to Franco.”
Ollie headed for the front door. As it clicked shut behind him, Ben walked over to the kitchen and poked his head around the corner. Raj was up to his elbows in soapy water, scrubbing a stockpot.
“Raj, where’s Franco?”
He glanced in Ben’s direction. “Upstairs, I think. He said something about cleaning the function room because he was bored.”
“Go home.”
Raj blinked. “Really?”
“No one’s ordering anything tonight. You’ve already done the prep for tomorrow. And you look like you haven’t sat down since noon.”
Raj considered this for a moment, then nodded once. “Fine. But if something catches fire, that’s on you.” He hung up his apron, muttering about early nights being a gift, and was gone a few minutes later.
The place felt cavernous after that, no clatter from the kitchen, no low hum of Ollie’s playlists, just the steady rain outside and the faint tick of the wall clock.
Franco emerged from the staircase. “Okay, I don’t think there’s a speck of dust left up there, so—” He frowned. “Where’d Raj go?”
“Home. Ollie too.”
Franco walked toward the dining room and stared at the empty tables. “Guess it’s just us, then.”
“Looks that way.” It was only then Ben realised how it might seem, as if he’d engineered a way to be alone with Franco. “I was about to suggest we call it a night.” His stomach chose that moment to grumble loudly.
“You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
Ben shook his head.
Franco grinned. “Well, that settles it. I’m making you something.”
“That’s—”
“Not negotiable,” Franco interrupted, already heading back into the kitchen.
“You’ve been here all evening staring at your laptop.
You need actual food. And no, espresso doesn’t count.
” He moved with a surprising ease among the counters, opening cupboards and pulling ingredients from them without hesitation.
Another growl from Ben’s traitorous stomach put paid to any arguments he might have made.
Ben knew when he was beaten.
“I didn’t know you cooked,” Ben said, leaning against the doorway.
“I do a lot of things you don’t know about,” Franco replied, chopping herbs with quick, confident movements. “I used to work back-of-house until I realised I’m much prettier in front of customers.”
The sizzle of garlic hitting the pan filled the air, and the aroma followed immediately, warm, sharp, and inviting.
Ben watched him work for a minute, curiosity slipping past his usual reserve. “So… front-of-house suits you better?”
Franco shrugged, tossing in chopped tomatoes.
“I like talking to people. I like making them feel like they belong somewhere, even for an hour or two. It’s easier than you think to be good at it, if you’re willing to actually see people.
” He stirred the contents of the pan. “When I was younger, I didn’t have that.
The feeling of belonging, I mean. We moved around a lot.
I didn’t know where home was supposed to be.
Waiting tables gave me that. It’s a place, and people know your name, and you know theirs.
” He paused. “It feels solid, you know?”
Ben didn’t answer right away. The rain outside had softened to a steady patter, the warmth from the stove radiating through the room. Franco worked without looking at him, as if he hadn’t just dropped something quietly personal into the air.
“Yeah,” Ben said at last. “I get it.”
Franco glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing smile, before turning back to the pan.
The fresh pasta took about a minute to cook, and then he plated it as if it was going to be photographed for a magazine, even though there was no one there to see it but Ben.
Franco slid it across the counter with a small flourish.
“Eat,” he commanded. He pointed to an open bottle of wine. “Want a glass?”
“Why not?” It wasn’t as if he was going to drive anywhere, and the wine would go a long way to dispel the chill of the night.
Franco filled two glasses. Ben picked up a fork and twirled a mouthful of pasta and sauce. The garlic, basil, and slow-cooked tomatoes were rich and bright in a way that made him wonder why Franco didn’t do this more often.
“You really did work in a kitchen before,” Ben said with a smile.
“Told you.” Franco leaned on the counter, chin in hand. “We had a family deli, out in the hills. We fed half the neighbourhood, whether they were hungry or not. My mum used to say you could fix anything with the right plate of food.”
Ben arched his eyebrow. “Did it work?” He drank a little wine, letting it warm him.
Franco hesitated, a small crease forming between his brows. “Sometimes. Not always. Turns out there are some things food can’t fix. But it gives people a reason to sit down together, and that’s something.”
Ben studied him. The usual glint in Franco’s eyes had softened, and for a moment he looked older, as if the weight of a hundred dinners cooked for other people had settled on his shoulders.
“So why front-of-house now?”
Franco’s mouth twisted into something between a smile and a wince. “Because I like people. And because when you’re the one carrying the plates, you get to decide how they feel when they see you coming. You can make them feel welcome. Wanted.”
“That’s important to you?” Ben asked.
Franco gave a little shrug, but his gaze stayed fixed on the pasta between them. “When you’ve had places where you didn’t feel as if you belonged, yeah, it becomes important.”
Ben felt the words settle in the quiet between them. Outside, the rain drummed on the awning. Inside, the kitchen felt warmer than it should, given the fact all the burners were off.
Franco glanced up, catching Ben’s eye long enough to let something unspoken pass between them, before looking away with that trademark half-smile. “Anyway, eat up before I decide you’re ungrateful and take it back.”
Ben smirked. “Shouldn’t I treat your food the way you’d have me treat good wine? You know, I should experience it? Let it tell me a story?”
Franco flushed. “Touché.”
Ben took another bite. He lingered over each forkful, not in a hurry to close the small pocket of quiet the night had given them.
When he finally set his fork down, Franco slid the plate away and topped up Ben’s wine without asking. The gesture was casual, but the way Franco’s fingers brushed his, a fleeting press, felt deliberate.
“Thanks,” Ben murmured.
Franco only hummed in response, leaning back against the counter. “See, Whitaker, you don’t have to be all corporate memos and checklists. Sometimes all you need is good food and good company.”
Ben smirked once more. “Are you saying you’re good company? ”
Franco tilted his head, his smile deepening. “You tell me.”
For a moment, neither of them looked away. Outside, the rain had slowed to a softer patter, the sort of sound that made Ben want to linger somewhere warm. He was aware of the hum of the fridge, the faint scent of garlic still hanging in the air…
And Franco standing a little too close for it to be accidental.
Franco broke the moment first, picking up Ben’s empty plate and carrying it to the sink.
“I should wash up before Raj comes back and decides I’ve left a mess for him.
” He shot a grin over his shoulder. “You might have sent him home early to a night with his hubby, but he’ll still find something to be dramatic about. ”
Ben watched him at the sink, the sleeves of his apricot sweater pushed to the elbow, his forearms tensing slightly as he worked.
He had the easy, unhurried rhythm of someone comfortable in a kitchen, the kind of person who could hum to himself while the rain tapped on the roof, and not need anything more.
When Franco turned back, drying his hands on a tea towel, his gaze lingered on Ben in a way that felt heavier than before. “You know, you’re not quite what I expected.”
Ben blinked. “And what did you expect?”
Franco leaned one hip against the counter, that assessing look still in place. “Someone who wouldn’t sit through an empty night to make sure the place ran right. Someone who wouldn’t bother cooking with me—well, letting me cook for them—when they could’ve simply gone home.”
“Maybe I just like the food,” Ben said evenly, but there was a faint heat behind it.
Franco’s grin widened, slow and knowing. “Sure, Whitaker.”
The space between them felt smaller now, not gone but compressed into something tangible. Ben could feel the edges of it, like standing too close to a fire.
You don’t have to touch it to know you’ll feel it all the same.
Franco tossed the tea towel onto the counter and stepped back, breaking whatever thread had wound between them. “All right, boss. You finish your wine, and I’ll go check the doors, to make sure we’re ready to lock up.”
As Franco disappeared toward the front, Ben expelled a breath. The food had been good.
That wasn’t the reason he still felt warm all the way through.