Epilogue
The late December heat lay over Adelaide like a heavy quilt, even though the restaurant’s air-conditioning fought to keep the dining room tolerable. It had hit thirty-five degrees and seemed intent on staying there for a while.
Either that, or the thermometer measuring the outside temperature was busted.
On the rear patio, Ben had installed gadgets under the parasols that pumped out a cool mist over the diners.
Willow said that had been a game changer.
Customers flocked to sit out there, serenaded by cicadas, surrounded by the fragrant scent of jasmine from the pots Mina had placed around the patio.
Strings of fairy lights blinked lazily in the glare, more symbolic than festive, but inside the restaurant the energy crackled.
Willow had gone overboard.
Garlands of tinsel looped between shelves of wineglasses. A pine wreath, fake, but convincing enough, hung on the kitchen pass. She’d bullied Lexie into stringing coloured lights around the bar until the whole place looked like a kaleidoscope .
“It’s Christmas,” she’d declared, “and I’m not letting us have some dreary half-arsed grinch-fest.”
Ben had grumbled, but he got the feeling that was what everyone had expected him to do. “Tinsel sheds. It’ll get in someone’s salad.” He hadn’t taken it down, however. He hadn’t even tried.
The staff had noticed.
“Admit it,” Ollie had teased. “You like it. You’re even smiling.”
“I’m not smiling,” Ben had said, deadpan, before retreating into the office with a fake stomp. Except he was smiling. Everyone had seen it.
Because Franco was home.
On Ben’s desk sat a plant pot, its occupant filling the room with the fragrance of rosemary. Ben was bloody proud of that plant. He’d bought it on his return from Florence, and he hadn’t killed the damn thing yet.
It wouldn’t have lasted more than a month with the Ben he’d been.
He had high hopes for the Ben he’d become.
Christmas Eve was upon them, warm and noisy.
The restaurant had closed earlier than usual, and every staff member and their partners had crowded into the dining room, including a couple of Willow’s cousins who’d somehow got roped in.
Champagne corks popped, the stereo pumped out a mix of Mariah Carey and Aussie indie rock, and the kitchen counters were piled high with platters: prawns glistening with lemon, bowls of mango and cherries, and pavlovas loaded with passionfruit.
Raj had even roasted a turkey, sweating like a martyr in the heat.
Lexie had called him a hero.
Franco stood at the pass, carving slices of turkey with theatrical flourishes. “You know what?” he told Ollie. “In Florence right now they’d be laughing their arses off at us. Who eats roast turkey in thirty-plus-degree heat?”
Ollie shrugged, popping a cherry in his mouth. “Australians, mate. We’re all deranged.”
Willow swooped in, already tipsy, and planted a paper crown on Franco’s head. “Don’t complain. You’re family now. And family wears the stupid crown.”
Ben watched it all from behind the counter, his arms folded. He tried to pretend he was assessing whether there’d be enough pavlova left for dessert service tomorrow for those customers who’d booked their Christmas dinner at the restaurant, but the truth was simpler.
He was memorising everything.
The way Franco laughed too loud, the way his hands moved when he talked, the way everyone leaned toward him instinctively, as though drawn by some invisible force.
When Franco caught his eye across the room, Ben didn’t look away. Franco’s grin softened, shifting from showman to something private, meant only for him. And God help him, Ben felt it all over again, that crackling rush of knowing he’d been seen, chosen.
Wanted.
Franco joined him, slipping his arms around Ben’s waist. “You haven’t had a glass of champagne yet.”
Ben chuckled. “The night is young. At least we still get to walk back to my flat. Give it a few more months and we’ll be driving.” The purchase of the Bibaringa house was going through, but it would be at least another three or more months before they could move in and call it their own.
Franco was already making plans for the house, and Ben loved his enthusiasm.
Raj tinkled a knife against his glass of champagne. “If I may interrupt these proceedings for a moment?”
A hush fell over the assembled throng, and Ben’s heartbeat quickened.
Here we go .
Arun joined Raj, their hands clasped. Raj stared at their laced fingers for a second or two before addressing his workmates, his chin held high.
“Although you might not be aware of it from looking at us, there’s an age gap between myself and my husband.” He preened. “Except we both look good for our age.” Everyone laughed. “Well, Arun has decided it’s time to hang up his lawyer hat and take early retirement.”
“Congratulations!” Willow called out, amid the whoops of the crowd.
“You got any plans?” Ollie asked Arun, who smiled.
“Actually, yes. I’m going to spend a year travelling around the world.”
“And I’m going with him,” Raj added in his low, deep voice.
Mouths fell open, and gasps echoed around the room.
“But… what about the restaurant?” Willow blurted. “We can’t replace you.”
“Don’t worry, the place will be in safe hands,” Raj assured her. “In fact, we’ve already found my replacement.” He let go of Arun’s hand, reached behind his back, and unfastened the strings of his white apron. He removed it, then walked over to where Franco stood, holding it out to him.
Franco stared at it, his brow furrowed.
Raj smiled. “The kitchen is yours—Chef Rossi.”
Ben’s chest tightened as realisation dawned. Franco whirled around to give him an inquiring glance, and Ben nodded.
“Raj and I have talked about this. And he nailed it. Sage & Thyme ’s kitchen will be in very safe hands.” He smiled. “I know it.”
Applause erupted, and Franco’s cheeks were tinged with red.
Everyone surrounded him, hugging, kissing, patting him on the back.
Ben watched them, his heart full, before slipping through the back door to the patio.
From inside he caught the strains of Willow leading the staff in what sounded like a questionable karaoke rendition of ‘All I Want for Christmas.’
The evening air was thick with jasmine and warm asphalt, the sky a glorious spectacle of reds, oranges and golds. Somewhere down the street fireworks were already going off, even though the sun was still setting.
The door opened behind him, and Franco stepped out, two glasses of champagne in his hands, still wearing the paper crown.
“I looked up and you’d gone.” Franco offered him a glass.
Ben took it. “Needed a bit of quiet.”
Franco leaned against the wall, close enough that their arms brushed. “Yeah, me too. They’re mad in there.”
“They’re all yours,” Ben remarked.
Franco turned to gaze at him. “What do you mean?”
Ben sipped his drink. “You’re the one they circle around, you always have been.”
Franco chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I don’t know about that. Maybe.” He shifted closer until his body heat seeped through Ben’s shirt. “No, they’re not just mine—they’re ours. You brought us together.”
Ben snorted. “I’m pretty sure I spent the first three months making everyone hate me. I’m convinced one day I’m going to come across a drawer filled with little Ben voodoo dolls, all with pins stuck in them.”
Franco laughed, the sound bright. “They didn’t hate you. It’s more a case that they didn’t understand what made you tick. But they stuck around. And they only did that because you cared enough to make this place matter. Even when you pretended you didn’t.”
The words lodged somewhere deep in Ben’s chest. He stared at the fairy lights, his throat thick. “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“No,” Franco said, his voice quiet but fierce. “I’m not giving you nearly enough.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by faint laughter from inside. Then Franco leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Merry Christmas, Mr. Grumpy.”
Ben glanced at him and smiled. “Merry Christmas, my sunshine. ”
Their lips met in a kiss that hummed low and sure, a promise more than a plea. And when Franco pulled back, his eyes shone with something that made Ben’s chest ache.
“I’m home,” Franco said simply.
Ben swallowed hard, brushing a thumb across his jaw. “Yeah, you are.”
Inside, the party grew louder, Ollie demanding another round of shots, Mina protesting she wanted pavlova first, Lexie arguing about who’d be stuck with cleanup. Raj’s laughter boomed, and Willow was still singing.
On the patio, the cicadas buzzed in the hot night, and Franco’s hand twined through his, leaning his head against Ben’s shoulder, his crown slipping sideways.
Ben didn’t bother fixing it but held on to Franco’s hand.
Christmas wasn’t snow or sleigh bells or pine needles. It was laughter. It was family.
It was Franco’s smile in the light of a summer’s evening.
And that was all he’d ever need.
“Next year,” Franco murmured, “I’m making panettone from scratch.”
Ben snorted, tightening his hold. “Next year, you’re making coffee in the morning and staying in bed the rest of the day.”
They both laughed, and then Ben took Franco in his arms.
“I know one thing I’m sure of,” he whispered, his lips brushing over Franco’s ear, loving the tiny shiver that rippled through him.
“What’s that?”
“Next year, and all the years after that?” Ben smiled. “They’re ours.”
The End