Page 42 of Ice To Meet You

Of course. I still had my hand wrapped around it. “No. My pasta machine.”

Matteo smirked. “And that’s more logical because …?”

I rolled my eyes. “I have dinner guests I’m trying to impress, and the machine has other ideas.”

He tipped his head to one side, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Show me. Maybe I can help.”

I gripped my bottom lip with my teeth, running my eyes over his face. A shadow of stubble clung to his jaw and his usually tame hair hung in unruly waves. Something fluttered in my tummy. Was inviting him inside a good idea? Would he get the wrong idea … would I?

But I needed help. He probably had stronger fingers than me. He might get the worst of the rust off and get the machine’smechanism working. Against my better judgement, I stepped aside. “Come in.”

One minute later, Matteo looked at my pasta machine and chuckled. “Was this an unwanted Christmas present? I don’t think you’ll be able to return it.”

I grimaced. “It’s a lost cause, isn’t it?”

Matteo reached out and squeezed at my pasta dough with a smile. “I don’t think the machine is the only lost cause.”

“Sorry?”

“What kind of flour did you use?” he asked, side-eying my dough.

“Just normal flour. The type that comes from fields and ends up in windmills.” I regretted the slight edge to my voice, but Matteo didn’t react.

“You need semolina flour,” he said.

“I do?”

He nodded like he was stating the obvious. “It’s finer. The gluten acts differently. The shape of the dough holds together better.”

I narrowed my eyes, drying my hands on a cloth. “You know an awful lot about flour and pasta.”

He chuckled, his tone deep and dreamy. “Esmé.” His voice dripped over me like a thick molasses. “I’m Italian. We learn to make pasta before we can walk.” He moved to my still open cupboard and crouched in front of it, reaching inside.

His solid thighs strained against his sweatpants, revealing muscles I’d never noticed before. The smart pants he wore to work had done womankind a disservice.

“Here,” he said, bringing out an innocuous blue and white bag in his fist. “Semolina flour.”

I had semolina flour. Who knew? That solitary bag must be a hangover from when my ex lived here. I had no clue what to do with it.

Matteo joined me at the sink, turning on the tap.

I stepped back. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to remake your dough.”

I ran my eyes over him. His T-shirt was plastered against his chest, held in place by perspiration. I pulled my brows together. His current state followed no food hygiene regulations I’d ever heard of.

Matteo followed my gaze.

“Do you think you should take a shower?” I asked.

He curled an eyebrow and sent me a cheeky grin. “Only if you want me to.”

My chest fizzed, and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. You're quite, well … sweaty. Cooking in that state isn’t sanitary.” I wasn’t sure food-poisoning-by-perspiration was a thing, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

“I’ve been out for a long run. I wasn’t expecting to help you. Besides, I have nothing to change into. I suppose you have your pink cardigan downstairs, but other than that, I’d be naked. Unless, of course, you have an apron.”

The curve of his lips made me fold my arms across my chest. Damn him, he was laughing at me, but there was no way I was going to let my new assistant remake my pasta dough wearing just an apron. There had to be laws against that sort of thing.

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