Page 13 of Ice To Meet You

“I want you to make the most of this opportunity. Listen to Mademoiselle Laurent, and for once in your life, pay attention. Your work with her could shape your future. The future of our business and our family’s reputation.”

His words were meant to encourage, but they verged on either a veiled threat or a stern talking to. I was well on my way to thirty, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t need training wheels.

The agreement he’d made with this Parisian gallery owner offended and intrigued me in equal measure.

He knew my heart wasn’t in the family business or being his successor. But what he’d promised—six long months of incarceration at this Laurent woman’s side—could buy Antonio and me enough time to settle intoourbusiness and show my grandfather I was more than capable of finding my own path.

In fact, I aimed to look upon this “fact finding mission” as amini holiday. A break from the norm. I hadn’t spent time in Paris for years.

“Mademoiselle Laurent.” I chuckled. Her name alone sounded terrifying. If she was anything like my grandfather’s usual art contacts, she’d be grey-haired, wildly dramatic, and permanently decked out in a kaftan. I didn’t doubt she’d send my grandfather regular reports on my ability and commitment.

I should’ve Googled her name—learned a little about my prison-guard. Instead, I’d spent my weekend settling into my new apartment and talking to the lodge investors. Soothing their furrowed brows, as Antonio had called it. I’d spent my time well. Though I had less money in the bank, renovations were on track and our second trip fully booked.

I turned a corner into a small Parisian square encircled by pale sandstone buildings. A few skateboarders gathered in one corner, trying out tricks on a set of flagstone steps. The scrape of their boards echoed around the walls. In the centre, a ring of benches surrounded a little flower garden. A flash of colour to one side caught my attention. I tightened my eyes, my pulse kicking up.

A woman in a bright pink jacket sat on a bench. She struggled with a map, twisting the paper around in her hands, bringing it closer to her face.

No earmuffs.

She had no earmuffs, no glitter, and her hair was blonde, not the deep chestnut brown of the woman on the chairlift. My heartbeat slowed. What the hell was wrong with me? Ever since my “elevated” adventure with the woman in Tiano, I’d been unable to look at the colour pink without my stomach flipping.

That afternoon occupied my thoughts way more than was healthy. The woman’s terror at the swing of the lift, her large brown eyes, soft and warm, and the feel of her mouth against mine. The tiny breath she let out when we accidentally kissed.

In fact, it was true to say, I’d thought of little else in the earlymorning hours as I’d tossed and turned in my bed. I cursed myself every day for skiing away without asking her name.

I came up to an ornate building on one side of the square and stopped to check my reflection in the large front window. I needed to make a good impression on my jailor. But as I ran my hand through my hair, I noted the grey smudges of shadow under my eyes.

An image of my chairlift partner danced through my thoughts again. I huffed a wry laugh. We hadn’t spoken for long but damn my terrible timing and the way she’d burrowed into my brain. Perhaps she’d left a permanent scar? Maybe I had a case of PTSD—Pink Traumatic Snow Disorder.

I glanced at the shiny sign next to the door.Galerie du Reve. I sighed. Gallery of Dreams? The only dreams I had were a thriving business and a drama-free six months with Mademoiselle Laurent.

I pushed open the heavy door and a little bell tinkled above my head. Quaint.

I stepped inside the cavernous space. The gallery looked like an average shop from the outside, but inside, its high ceilings and expansive walls hung with paintings, large and small.

The calm and orderly symmetry made me smile. There wasn’t a thing out of place, from the subtly lit pieces of sculpture on solid white plinths to the name tags placed neatly under each artwork. If this was what dreams were made of, I’d like a side order of chaos. A touch of the unexpected.

I stepped further into the silence, about to call out to see if anyone was around, when a figure in the room's corner drew my gaze. A woman kneeled over a large canvas. She worked, wrapping the artwork in bubble-wrap.

With her head bowed, I couldn’t see her face, but she had to be young—probably a gallery assistant. Her pose was yoga-worthy, demanding serious core strength, and there wasn’t a kaftan in sight. Instead, she’d folded her long legs beneath her,and those heels looked capable of punishing the toes of anyone over fifty.

I cleared my throat, stepping towards her. “I’m looking for Esmé Laurent.”

“Finally! You’re late,” the woman said, her tone sharp. She didn’t turn around but wrestled with a large sheet of bubble-wrap that clung to the canvas. “Just leave the paperwork on the desk—and please, don’t scratch the floors with your trolley this time!”

I stepped forward, moving toward the woman. She can’t have heard me over the crackle of plastic, because she didn’t turn—didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I stopped right behind her and put my hands in my pockets. “I think you need more tape.”

She spun her head in my direction, like a compass to a magnet. The second her eyes met mine, they widened, and my chest gave an enormous somersault.

It was the woman from the chairlift. She didn’t look quite the same. With no earmuffs, her hair was pulled back into a stylish chignon. But there was no mistaking her small, upturned nose, her soft brown eyes, and full lips. At the sight, my heart kicked up a beat.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking the words right out of my mouth. Still crouched, she put the bubble wrap on the floor and spun to face me, her shoes squeaking on the floorboards. “Are you working for the delivery company?”

“Sorry?” It was the only word my brain could produce.

She stood. In her heels, she was taller than I remembered. A small line appeared between her brows. “Are you here to collect the painting?” She pointed to the canvas she’d just wrapped. “I’m pretty sure it’s going to Spain, not Italy.”

What the hell was she talking about? “No. I’m not here for a painting. I’m here to see Esmé Laurent. I’m Matteo Romano. Gio Romano sent me. I’m his grandson.”

---