Page 22 of Ice To Meet You

“Oh, how gorgeous!” Marianne said. “I love a man who adores animals, don’t you, Esmé? They’re the kindest. So considerate and gentle.”

Marianne brought her fingers to my chin, tilting it up and around as if she was sizing me up for a portrait or a facelift. “I think it’s your eyes. Animals love big eyes.”

I shot Esmé a triumphant look, but she only narrowed hers, her jaw clamping. A flicker of something—irritation, maybe—skittered across her gaze. More penance for me, it seemed.

“It’s been lovely to visit,” Marianne said. “I must come again. And you, Matteo? You are a treat for the soul. I’d love to hear more about your research papers. Where would I be able to read them?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I wracked my brain, trying to think of somewhere so obscure that she’d never attempt to track them down.

Esmé, probably on the same wavelength, guided Marianne to the window, looking into the sky. “I think there’s a storm building. You should probably leave. You don’t want to ruin your hair in the downpour.”

The woman touched the back of her up-do and looked out of the window alongside Esmé. “I think you’re right.”

“Au revoir, then,” Esmé said in a sing-song voice. She turned back to her desk.

Marianne glanced around the gallery. “Oh, okay. Perhaps Matteo could order me a taxi in the street?”

“He can’t.”

“Why?”

“Honestly? I need him here.” Still hovering in the doorway, Marianne wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. After the longest and most awkward pause known to man, Esmé leaned forward and pressed a finger to her lips, as if she was soothing a fractious baby.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to embarrass Matteo, but he has a natural curl to his hair. Any exposure to rain could play havoc with his ringlets.”

She sent Marianne a cheeky grin, and my heart pulsed. In that instant, the armour of the woman I called my boss cracked to reveal a glimpse of the woman on the chairlift. The funny woman who wasn’t concerned about her gallery and her reputation.

After a little more discussion about the weather, Esmé bundled Marianne out of the door. When the gallery fell silent, she turned to me, arms folded across her chest.

“Well, I think that went well,” I said.

She narrowed her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since I’d arrived in the gallery. She tipped her head to one side. “Define well. If you mean you told ridiculous lies to one of my clients in the run up to the most important exhibition of my life, then yes. You did well. Bravo.”

Her words ripped at my chest like a rusty can opener. But she was right. I’d played fast and loose with her baby. Her livelihood. She had every right to be angry.

“Esmé, I’m … I’m sorry.”

She ran her eyes over me; her face was stony and guarded.

Claudette let out a meow by my side, head-butting my elbow.

“At least someone likes me,” I mumbled, reaching to tickle behind her ear.

Esmé huffed a wry laugh and shook her head. “Oh, I like you, Matteo. I just don’t know if I can trust you to be alone with anyone. We’ll talk about this later. I have a headache.”

Without another word, she scooped Claudette in her arms and stalked towards the coffee machine.

As she walked away, heat spread through my chest and I sent a prayer of thanks to the soon-to-be St. Marcus, Patron Saint of Bristles. “Did you hear that?” I whispered. “She likes me.”

I grinned, picking up my boss’s old coffee cup, following her through the gallery.

Esmé Laurent liked me. I could work with that.

8

MATTEO

My phone rang in the gallery’s quiet. I know Esmé preferred the artwork to do the talking, but I swear a touch of ambient music might lighten the crypt-like atmosphere consuming the space.

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