Page 44 of Ice To Meet You

I gripped the handle and pulled the door open. Esmé’s gaze shot straight to my chest and her eyes widened. Her throat bobbed and warmth spread across my skin. After a long beat, she looked away and held out a neatly folded pile of clothes.

“I think these might work.”

I took the items, running my gaze over the stack. “So, you were serious about the sequin ban? I thought you were joking.”

Her lips curled into a smile. “Take your shower, Matteo. I’m going to organise dessert.”

She started to close the door, but I stopped her, my hand catching the edge. “Hang on. Did you make the dessert yourself?”

She tipped her chin a little, a defiant look in her eyes. “No. I ordered it from the local pâtisserie.”

I nodded. “Good. After your dough debacle, it’s probably for the best.”

Her mouth hung open, and she scowled.

“A little privacy, please,” I said, grinning as if butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth.

She stared at me, her eyes flashing with irritation, before she pushed the door closed with a solid bang.

My gut fizzled. I needed to be careful. The last thing I wanted was to upset her—quite the opposite. I couldn’t afford to go back to my grandfather with a bad report card.

Even though I hadn’t originally planned on working with Esmé, I cared what she thought of me and right now, I found it hard to focus on anything else.

No. I’d take my shower, re-make her dough, and get out of her hair. Stop trying to make her blush. There were other things needing my attention—things that didn’t involve my beautiful boss.

15

ESMÉ

Ibusied myself in the kitchen. Trying not to imagine Matteo soaping himself in my shower. Trying not to think about that bronzed, perfectly sculpted chest he greeted me with at the bathroom door. Or the lazy smile on his lips.

The second he’d arrived; my pulse had been on a treadmill set to max. He’d teased me, made jokes like he normally did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was flirting with me.

I dragged my cloth over the countertop. Of course he was. Matteo was an Italian man. From my limited experience, they were masters of charm.

His words meant nothing. I’d just been so used to plain, steady and, yes, dull Didier. Matteo was younger. He was carefree, playful and handsome—all the things I should avoid.

My mind drifted to our meeting on the chairlift, as it so often did. To when our mouths touched. Those few seconds—the softness of his lips, and his warm sweet breath—was locked into my memory for eternity.

“Nurse, please ready the patient.”

Matteo’s voice shattered my fantasy. I turned around. Thesight of him in my ex’s clothes made me smile. The two of them couldn’t look more different if they tried.

Matteo grimaced. “The trousers fit, but the shirt is a little tight.”

A little tight? Damn right it was. Matteo and Didier had very different physiques.

He glanced down at himself. “I promise this isn’t a style choice.”

I followed his gaze. He’d unbuttoned the royal blue shirt to the top of his washboard stomach, and the cotton strained across his shoulders. The deep olive skin of Matteo’s chest was on full display. With his hair hanging in damp curls, he looked like a seventies porn star. All he needed was a gold medallion and pinkie ring.

I stepped away, stifling the grin threatening to erupt on my lips. “Everything is ready, doctor.”

Matteo stepped toward the counter. I’d laid out a fresh mixing bowl and spoon, but he moved them aside. Instead, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and picked up the bag of semolina flour, emptying it onto the counter.

I opened my mouth to protest at the mess, but he brought a finger to his lips, then shook his head.

Next, he took two fingers and made a well in the middle of the semolina, like a volcano crater. With a grin, he took an egg from the box and cracked it against the counter, tipping the insides into the hole he’d made.

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