Page 40 of Ice To Meet You

After what felt like an eternity, I got her out of the door, pulling the lock behind her. I pressed my head against the cool glass of the window.

Tomorrow had to go perfectly. The Rossis needed to leave impressed, well-fed, and ideally, having given me an investment promise. What could go wrong?

13

ESMÉ

“Papa! Are you sure?”

“Oui,” my father said, his voice sounding tinny through the phone, a stark contrast to its usual earthy warmth.

I dragged a hand through my newly blown-out hair. “But I thought you said Merlot, not Montepulciano. Does Merlot even go with tomatoes?”

Papa chuckled. “Cherie, be calm. It’s an easy mistake to make. They sound similar.”

I rolled my eyes. Maybe in an ideal world Merlot and Montepulciano sounded similar. I’d wanted to serve Italian wine tonight, but let’s face it—I hadn’t been paying attention. Not to wine, not on my exhibition, and not on impressing investors. No matter how hard I tried, my thoughts always drifted back to one thing—or person—Matteo.

“Will anyone notice the difference?”

"Well … one is drier on the palate, but if you decant it now and are generous with the aperitifs before you eat, you might just get away with it."

I grimaced. His words weren’t comforting, but I’d invested in a bottle of Aperol spritz and one of Limoncello,so at least there was hope. My gaze drifted to a pigeon pecking at my windowsill, his beak gnarly and chipped. His feathers looked greasy and patchy. I hoped the bird wasn’t a portent of doom—an omen of failure.

Shaking my head, trying to dislodge my gloom, I tucked my phone under my chin. According to the recipe, it was time to let my pasta dough rest. I wrapped it snugly in cling wrap and gave it a brisk slap, as if that might inspire it to behave. It looked a bit lumpy, but surely that’s what the resting was for?

“How are things looking for Rome?” my father asked. “What progress have you made?” Glasses or bottles clinked in the background, and I imagined Papa in his wine cellar surrounded by dust and barrels.

I turned my back on my pasta dough, leaning against the counter. “I think I’ve got an investment locked in from an Italian backer.”

“You think?”

“No, I’m sure. But there are conditions I have to meet to secure the full amount.”

My tummy shifted. Did I dare mention Matteo? After all, he was a vital part of the deal. I could only rely on Gio Romano’s money if he stayed with me for six months and I taught him about the art business. So far, the only business I’d taught him was taking care of my coffee habit and my cat.

“But I have other irons in the fire. That’s what tonight’s about. I’m trying to impress another interested party. The more investors I have, the more money I have to spend. And I’ll be honest, Luc’s name is a huge draw card.”

Papa chuckled. “Don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need any help building his ego. So, these new investors are the ones you’re having over tonight? Which caterer did you use?”

“Oh, I’m not using caterers … I’m cooking for them.”

Silence greeted me over the phone, followed by my father clearing his throat. “Esmé? Have you thought this through?”

I narrowed my eyes at the hesitation in his voice. “Papa, you sound like Iris.”

Iris and Luc had a running joke I couldn’t be trusted within ten meters of a kitchen. Personally, I thought they were being dramatic. I could follow a recipe as well as the next person. But my father had as much confidence as they did, it seemed.

“I’m sorry,cherie, but I have to agree with her. Didn’t you give both her and Luc food poisoning at Christmas?”

I rolled my eyes. “I told you before, the veal must have been spoiled. It had nothing to do with my cooking.”

Something tightened in my chest at the memory, though. Luc and Iris had been bedridden for days, pale and miserable. Me too.

I glanced at the upscale pasta sauce I’d bought after my hair appointment and clamped my teeth together. I’d honestly meant to get fresh ingredients at the market, but by the time I got there, the vegetables looked anything but crisp.

Wary of using squidgy tomatoes and wilted basil, I’d picked up a jar of sauce from a boutique food store. The label on the front had a jaunty picture of the tower of Pisa. I only hoped the sauce wasn’t as wonky as the landmark.

“It’ll be fine,” I said. Was I trying to convince myself more than my father? “I’m making pasta. I’m going to give them an authentic Italian experience they’ll never forget.” I turned around and slapped my dough again. This time, it completely refused to give way beneath my hand. Surely, I’d rested it long enough. Shouldn’t it be at least alittlesofter?

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