Page 33 of Ice To Meet You

Matteo looked at me as if pleading for his life.

“I have to go,” I said again, heading to the exit.

“I can still walk you,” Matteo offered again, his voice barely making it past the noise of the bar.

I didn’t stop, only shook my head and carried on to the door. I hugged his jacket close around my body, an ache settling in my chest.

What I wouldn’t give to walk through the streets of Paris with Matteo. Show him all the places I loved. All the secretparks, the bars, the flower market. But I had to be serious; be practical. Matteo worked for me. His grandfather was investing in my new gallery and … and he was younger than me.

My body ran cold. There—I’d finally said it. Admitted to myself just one more reason I couldn’t ever be anything more than a boss or friend to Matteo.

I purposely hadn’t investigated his age. It’d taken superhuman strength not to look for the information online. But then I didn’t really seen the point.

I was under a spotlight, always trying to keep my head above water. To claw my way to the top in the strait-laced, conservative Paris art set. If anything remotely romantic happened, we’d be a laughingstock.I’dbe a laughingstock. I’d look like some kind of desperate cougar art-dealer sleeping her way to the top with her investor’s grandson.

No. I had to keep my feelings to myself. Ignore the longing tearing through my body every day as he moved around the gallery.

I pushed open the door and the icy wall of the Paris air hit me, taking my breath, just like Matteo’s words had.

Leaving was the right thing to do. But as I stepped along the path, I glanced back through the window. The sight of Lola and Matteo dancing together assaulted my eyes.

She had her arms around his neck. To be fair, he looked more stoic than seduced. But Lola was gorgeous, funny and—more importantly—his age. It was only a matter of time before he fell for her.

I swallowed down the bitter taste creeping into the back of my throat and looked at the ground. Why did the thought gnaw at my very soul?

11

MATTEO

With a light covering of frost, the streets of Paris crunched under my feet. I left the bar about twenty minutes ago. Lola and Maurice were locked together on the dance floor—thank goodness—and I just finished a call with my grandfather.

I’d explored the neighbourhood as we’d talked, wondering which cafes were Esmé’s favourites and which salon kept her chestnut hair gleaming the way it did.

I didn’t feel the cold. Talking to my grandfather had been more enjoyable than I expected. He’d asked about the gallery—giving me the perfect excuse to talk about Esmé. I answered his questions, offering my own insights, painting my boss in the glowing terms she deserved.

And Gio had listened—actually paid attention to what I said. He’d always been attentive when I was a child, but as I’d grown older and moved away from his vision of what or who I should be, so had his interest in me. Tonight, I’d felt the tiniest tendrils of reconnection. And I had Esmé to thank.

Warmth spread in my chest at the thought of her. She’d been so calm tonight—so completely togetherunder the combined onslaught of Lola being a birthday diva and my teasing. Something tugged behind my ribs.

I knew I shouldn’t have told the story of our meeting, but I couldn’t help it. She looked so adorable when her cheeks flushed pink.

I pulled up at the little square outside her gallery. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Was Galerie du Reve on the way back to my apartment? Not exactly. Had walking here been an unconscious decision? Perhaps. And if I knew Esmé was still up, would I knock? Undecided. But something invisible pulled me to the gallery, and I crossed the square.

As I moved closer to the long front window, a dim light somewhere in the back of the showroom caught my attention. Esmé’s desk. I recognised the glow of the quirky industrial lamp she loved so much. My heart picked up, and I craned my neck, leaning in to see if I could glimpse her. She should be in bed. When I saw no movement, I took three steps to the front door and held my breath.

Dare I knock? She probably wouldn’t hear me—had probably left the lamp on by accident. According to Esmé, her ideal evening ended with a good book in bed. The thought made me smile. What did she prefer to read? Thrillers? Mysteries? Books on art?

I chuckled, pillows of breath surrounding me. No. Esmé would read romance. Hot romance. Romance that made her heart beat hard in her chest. The thought of her wetting her lips as she read made my pulse shift a gear.

Before I realised, I knocked on the door. Silence greeted me through the glass, and I flexed my fingers before pushing them back into my pocket. I let out a breath, about to turn around and walk the rest of the way home, when a clatter and a whispered “merde” reached my ears.

“Who is it?” came her voice.

“It’s Matteo.”

Silence kept me company for five long seconds before the rattle of the lock hit my ears. Esmé pulled the door open just a little way, as if not trusting it was me standing on her doorstep.

Her eyes glowed in the faint light of the vintage lantern above our heads. “What do you want?”

---