Page 14 of Ice To Meet You

Her eyes doubled in size. She opened her mouth and blinked three times before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re Gio’s … grandson?”

I gave my shoulders a shrug and pulled a hand from my pocket, offering it in greeting. “Matteo.”

She didn’t take it. Instead, she stared at me. The colour drained from her face, and I swear she’d stopped breathing. “You have all your teeth,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Again, my brain struggled to compute what was going on. “Of course I do.”

The woman shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts. She stepped forward, and a series of tiny pops filled the air between us. We both looked down. A sheet of bubble wrap was stuck to her shoe, speared on the stiletto like a marshmallow on a skewer. She must’ve planted her heel straight through.

At first, she shifted her weight subtly, glancing down like sheer determination might release the plastic. When that failed, she gave her foot a little shake, then a sharper one, but the bubble wrap refused to move.

With a sigh, she balanced on one leg and tugged at the plastic.

I honestly meant to help her, but when she started hopping toward me, each bounce punctuated by a sharp pop, I couldn’t hold it together. My lips betrayed me, curling into a grin I had no hope of hiding. It sounded like someone had slipped firecrackers into her shoes.

She was coming at an alarming speed now, closer and closer. I braced for impact, holding out my arms, and a tiny whimper escaped her as she careened straight into me, landing squarely against my chest.

We collided, and I glanced down at the top of her head. “Sorry,” she murmured, tilting her face up.

Just like before, on the chairlift, our mouths were so close Icould feel the soft brush of her breath against my lips. The surrounding air sizzled and the scent of newly washed hair, sweet and light, filled my senses. I fought the urge to close my arms around her.

But before either of us could say another word, a crash sounded from somewhere behind us.

“Lola!” came a shout.

I turned to see a young woman, all wide eyes and flustered movements, darting between the gallery’s display plinths, holding what looked like the remains of a shattered vase. Hot on her heels was a man with slightly silvery temples, waving his arms dramatically.

“What did you do? That took me hours!” The man’s voice trembled with theatrical despair.

“Calm down!” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s hardly the end of the world!”

The moment they spotted us, they stopped still as statues, eyes bouncing between our faces.

With another barrage of “pops,” the woman at my side stepped away as if I had an infectious disease. Grimacing, she took off her shoe and tugged the bubble wrap from the heel.

“Who’s this, Esmé?” the girl with the vase asked.

I glanced around the gallery for the famous Esmé. So far, I hadn’t seen a hint of a kaftan.

“This,” the woman from the chairlift said, “is Matteo Romano. He’ll be working with us for a little while.”

The girl with the vase’s face erupted into an angelic smile. “Will he?” She placed the broken remains of pottery on a plinth and stepped forward, eyes glowing. “I’m Lola Girard, Esmé’s right-hand woman.”

Again, I cast my eyes around, looking for Esmé Laurent.

“And this is my colleague, Maurice.”

The man who’d chased her earlier stepped forward,collecting the remains of his vase—cradling it like a baby. He nodded at me abruptly, then glared at Lola.

“How long is a little while, Esmé?” she asked, the sear in her eyes taking the skin off my face.

“Six months,” said the woman from the chairlift. Her voice barely registered in the gallery's still. She stepped away and slipped her shoe back onto her foot.

“You’re Esmé?” I asked, my voice a little less sure than I expected.

She turned to me and nodded.

“But you’re supposed to be old.” The words escaped before I could catch them, and the fire that lit up her cheeks made my insides twist into knots. If this woman—the same beautiful woman I’d met in the snow—was my new boss, calling her old wasn’t just a career-killer, it might’ve torched any chance I had of pursuing something more with her.

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