Page 15 of Ice To Meet You

Lola folded her arms across her front and scoffed quietly.

Esmé scowled in her direction. “Both of you, please make Matteo welcome. Show him the ropes. He’ll be helping with the Du Comtois exhibition. Then, well, who knows?”

Lola wiggled her eyebrows and gave me an impish smile. “I’m sure we’d be happy to show you the ropes—give you some advice.” She glanced behind her shoulder at Maurice, who hovered, shifting from foot to foot behind her. “Only, don’t ask Maurice for pottery tips. He’s new to clay and needs to focus on making pots that don’t fall off shelves.”

The silver-haired man’s cheeks reddened, and he scowled. At the plum colour of his face, his head might pop off any second.

“Children, back to work,” Esmé muttered.

With a giggle, Lola backed away three paces, staring at me as if she expected me to break into a song or dance.

“A little privacy, please,” Esmé said, her tone clipped.

With an eye roll to rival a pre-teen, Maurice huffed a sigh,then ushered his colleague toward wherever they’d appeared from, still nursing his broken pottery like a newborn.

I bit back a laugh, glancing at Esmé. She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I need a drink.”

I nibbled at my lip, fighting the urge to grant her wish—to find somewhere quiet and dark where I could process the last few minutes; come to peace with her revelations; get to know her, even.

“Are they okay?” I asked.

Esmé shook her head. “It’s a love/hate thing. I know I shouldn’t condone it. But honestly, I wish they’d just get together and work it out of their systems.”

I was about to ask exactly what they should work out when she faced me full on, her eyes travelling over my face. My body crackled with energy under her intense stare.

“So,you’reMatteo Romano?”

I shrugged. “Guilty.”

She shook her head slowly. “You said you were a ski instructor.”

I smiled, bringing a hand to the back of my neck. “Well, technically, yousaid I was. I just didn’t correct you.” The line reappeared between her brows. “You told me you were a tourist. I take it that was a stretch of the truth, too?”

Emotions played over her face, until finally, she placed her hands on her hips. “Okay, I’m guilty, too. But now you’re here, I have to ask. What are you hoping to get out of this? I know your grandfather has his own ideas. But what doyouwant me to teach you?”

I didn’t dare speak. With the climb in my pulse, I didn’t know what would come out of my mouth. Instead, I made a great show of shrugging my shoulders. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Her eyes flared, and I ran my gaze from her face, down herlong legs, to the half-packaged canvas on the ground. “But … I think my first responsibility should be to package your paintings. I’m exceptional with bubble-wrap.” I threw her what I hoped was a cheeky grin.

She glowered at me for a second, but then, as if admitting defeat, her face softened. She dug into the pocket of her skirt and handed me a small roll of tape. “Then get wrapping, Matteo Romano. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

6

ESMÉ

With a clank of the old lock, I opened the gallery door. I usually started at nine a.m. sharp, but something had me dragging my heels this morning.

Maybe because I’d hardly slept?

The night had been a frustrating tangle of thoughts about my new assistant—about his not telling me who he was on the chairlift, and about me not recognizing his cheeky grin in Gio’s photo. Admittedly, his smile looked better now he had all his teeth.

I’d toyed with calling Gio and explaining why I couldn’t take on his grandson. Where would I start? “I kissed him, uninvited, on a chairlift.” The words sounded ridiculous in my head, let alone out loud.

Worse, I hadn’t known who he was when we kissed, but that wouldn’t matter to anyone else. The assumption would be obvious: I’d tried to charm my way into an investment. And just like that, the gossip would spiral. My professional reputation wouldn’t survive the fallout.

Two large glasses of wine, three failed attempts to focus on a movie, and hours of overthinking later, I still couldn’t decideif I’d truly meant to kiss him. It was tempting to blame the weather, the wind, or his infuriatingly kind offer to warm me up. But in the end, I had a choice.

When the lift jolted us together, I could’ve pulled away. Ishouldhave pulled away. But I didn’t. His soft lips and steady warmth drew me in, and maybe—just maybe—on some unconscious level, I’d invited it. Perhaps I’d asked, and the universe had delivered Matteo Romano straight to my chairlift.

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