Chapter Eight
Rain tapped an irregular rhythm against the glass, slow and steady, as though the night was in no hurry to end.
The lamp outside Franco’s window bled an amber haze into his room, pooling across the ceiling in shifting shapes, distorted by passing traffic.
He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring at nothing.
He should have been asleep. Raj would bark at him tomorrow for looking half-dead on the floor, and he’d laugh it off the same way he always did. Franco knew why sleep eluded him, however.
Tonight, the rain had unlocked something.
A different sound came to him, that of summer cicadas in South Australia, so loud they could drown out thoughts, given half a chance. Franco was eighteen again, the air heavy with heat and the sharp scent of dust baked onto the roads.
That was the summer he came through town.
Noel was a backpacker with sun-browned skin, hair that curled when it was wet, and a rucksack that looked as if it had already lived a dozen lives.
He’d wandered into the Rossi deli one afternoon, the bell over the door giving a lazy jangle, announcing his presence.
Franco had been slicing mortadella and trying not to sweat through his shirt, when Noel leaned on the counter with that grin.
The one that made Franco’s insides quiver.
The one with the power to stir his blood—and send it rushing south.
“Got anything that’ll make me forget I’ve been on a bus for eight hours?”
Franco had made him a panino the way his nonna had taught him—fresh bread, mozzarella so soft it nearly sighed, and tomatoes that tasted of the sun. Noel had taken a bite and moaned as if his tastebuds had died and gone to heaven.
That was all it took. Franco was done. Smitten. Lost in a haze of lust and maybe something more meaningful.
The days blurred into each other after that.
Swimming in the Murray River until their skin wrinkled, lying side by side on the bonnet of Franco’s beat-up Toyota to watch the stars, their hands brushing but never staying still.
The smell of river water clung to their hair, and Franco swore he could feel the sun still radiating from their skin long after sunset.
The kiss had been inevitable, slow at first, as though neither wanted to risk breaking the moment, and then hungry, as if they’d both realised at the same time that summer didn’t last forever.
They’d wrung every moment they could lay their hands on from those all-too-brief days and hot, passionate nights. If Mum knew about the guest Franco snuck into his bedroom every night, she never let on: Franco kept him hidden until he knew she’d be too busy to notice Noel leave.
But then the summer finally ended, and one morning Noel stood on Franco’s front step with his rucksack already strapped on. No fight. No explanations beyond, “I have to keep moving.”
Franco had nodded, pretending it didn’t matter, but when Noel was gone the silence in his bedroom had been so loud it ached. For weeks, he’d avoided the river, the deli roof, anything that smelled like summer. He told himself love was a thing that came for other people, not him.
Not if he wanted to survive with his heart intact.
Franco rolled onto his side, the memory dissolving into the sound of rain again. He exhaled slowly, and a heartbeat later, uninvited, Ben Whitaker filled the space in his head.
Ben, with his sharp suits and sharper silences. The way he looked at Franco as though he was both a problem and a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.
Those eyes, cool on the surface, but stay there long enough and there was warmth underneath.
Franco thought about the way Ben pushed his sleeves up when he worked, revealing forearms that should be illegal. The way his mouth twitched as if he was holding back laughter, or maybe something more dangerous.
Heat curled low in Franco’s belly, his pulse quickening.
But it was more than the way Ben looked: It was how Ben seemed to carry this weight , this quiet intensity that kept Franco on edge in a way no one else ever had.
The walls Ben kept up, the little cracks in his mask that had Franco thinking he could see through him when it was the two of them alone in a room.
Like tonight.
Franco couldn’t explain it, but it felt like this—whatever this was between them—was different. As though he was seeing deep beneath the surface to something Ben didn’t even know how to hide.
What if Ben isn’t just passing through?
Franco let out a slow breath, letting his mind roam to places it shouldn’t.
He let his hand roam too, chasing the hunger that had come up for him out of nowhere.
He could feel his pulse under the satiny skin, feel the throb and heat of desire, but beneath the need, there was a small, sharp pain, too.
He didn’t want to feel this way, not for someone like Ben.
It was easier when people just left.
Franco tugged on his dick, his breathing quickening as he stroked his flat belly, reaching higher to tweak his nipples, teasing his orgasm closer, coaxing it, until he was there, warmth coating his abs, shivers running through him.
Franco lay there, staring at the ceiling, his chest still rising and falling with the mini aftershocks. The rain outside had softened, but it didn’t matter. Beneath it, that now familiar ache lingered in his chest.
The ache of fear.
Maybe Ben wasn’t interested in him.
And what if he is?
Maybe if Franco let himself fall for someone new, he’d be left holding the pieces.
Again.
But what if Ben isn’t like the others? That half-smile of his had gotten through Franco’s defences, hadn’t it?
Franco’s breathing hitched. He pushed the thought aside, but it refused to stay quiet. He wanted more than just to be seen by Ben. He wanted to be held , in every sense of the word. The vulnerability in that thought burned hot, but it soon extinguished itself.
No one ever stayed.
Franco cleaned himself up, then buried his face in the pillow, pushing the thought away once more.
The longer he lingered on it, however, the more it felt like he was the one being left behind.
The apartment was too quiet.
Ben had left the restaurant hours ago, yet if he let his mind drift, he could still hear the echo of Franco’s laughter. Which was ridiculous, because there was no reason for him to think about Franco at—he glanced at the bedside clock— one seventeen in the morning.
He shifted in bed, his laptop still open beside him with the day’s numbers frozen on the screen.
He’d been trying to finalise an inventory template, but the columns had begun to blur half an hour ago.
His mind kept snagging on images that had nothing to do with portion control or break schedules, and everything to do with Franco.
Franco at the pass, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, his hair damp at the temples from the kitchen heat.
Franco leaning against the bar, his eyes catching Ben’s with that infuriating, knowing glint.
Franco standing too close in the stockroom, a smile playing with his lips as if he knew exactly how much space he was taking up in Ben’s head.
Ben exhaled sharply and shoved the laptop closed.
This is inappropriate.
That was the only word for it. Ben was there to turn the place around, not indulge in distractions, and Franco Rossi was a distraction in the loudest, brightest sense.
And yet…
Ben rolled onto his back, staring at the shadowed ceiling.
It was the little things that kept replaying.
The way Franco’s voice dropped when they spoke one-on-one.
The way he touched people—casual, familiar, never lingering too long, but enough to make them feel like they were the only person in the room.
The way he touched Ben .
Ben swallowed. The memory of Franco’s hand brushing his when passing a menu over the counter was so sharp it was almost tactile. Ben’s body reacted before his brain could get in the way, heat coiling low in his stomach, pulsing through him, trickling to his fingers and toes.
For one heart stopping moment, he let himself imagine what it would be like if Franco didn’t just brush past him in the kitchen, but halted. If Franco’s hand stayed. If that mouth tilted toward him not with a smirk, but something quieter.
Something that looked a lot like intent.
The thought pulled a low sound from him before he could stop it.
His hand moved without conscious decision, and the rhythm of the rain outside became an accompaniment to the—at first—gentle tugs and pulls.
His breathing quickened, his chest tightening as he let the image sharpen: Franco’s weight pressing him back, Franco’s grin melting into something darker.
Hotter.
His climax hit faster and harder than he expected, and he groaned with each pulse of heat into his palm. When he came down, his heart was still pounding, the room feeling too small and too warm.
Ben dragged a hand over his face.
This is not going to happen.
It wasn’t about boundaries, or professionalism, or the inevitability of it all blowing up in his face if anyone found out.
Franco made him feel things he’d worked very hard to bury. Wanting was dangerous—but having ? Having meant opening doors in himself he had no intention of unlocking.
Whatever was between them, even if there was anything, was not something he could afford to entertain.
And yet…
Damn it, those same two words again.
Ben could still feel the phantom weight of Franco’s gaze on him from earlier that day, an ember that refused to go out. He turned onto his side, forcing his eyes closed.
Sleep took its time, however, because whenever Ben drifted closer to it, Franco was there.
Smiling.
Waiting.