Page 47 of Ice To Meet You

“Yes.”

“And can you stir sage leaves around in melted butter until it turns brown?”

She edged a little closer. “Yes.”

“Then you’re a natural. That’s literally it.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s too simple.”

I grinned. “The best things are. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

I dusted semolina flour onto the counter and reached for Esmé’s rolling pin. As I rolled out the dough, the soft rhythm of my strokes filled the quiet kitchen.

Esmé hopped up to sit on the counter, her legs swinging. “I think you’ve been a chef in a past life.”

“Maybe just a downtrodden housewife,” I teased, glancing at her.

“Well, I appreciate your help.” Her gaze followed the rolling pin’s movements.

“Something wrong with my technique?” I asked.

She blinked, pulling her gaze away. “No, it’s … perfect.”

I smiled. Perfect. Noted.

Esmé crossed her legs and leaned back against a cupboard door. The move seemed so familiar, intimate even, and my skin tingled under her gaze. I could seriously get used to being in her kitchen.

“How will you cut the pasta?” she asked.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it with this.” I picked up a squeaky old pizza cutter I found in a drawer. I ran the wheel down the now thin dough again and again, cutting long strips. “I’m glad you at least have some basic equipment.” I nodded to the now binned pasta machine. “I’m going to have to take you shopping. If my grandmother knew I’d left you culinarily naked, she’d never forgive me.”

Esmé’s eyes flared. “Naked?”

Just then, her phone buzzed from a text. She picked it up and read the screen. Her face drained of colour. “Merde. It’s Marianne. They’re early, and almost here. They’re having trouble with the front door. I better let them in. You can go down the gallery stairs and let yourself out that way.”

My stomach twisted. I hated that she wanted to hide me from her guests, but hadn’t I surprised her with my visit? She had no idea I’d be here when they arrived. “Sure.”

Esmé scooted off the counter and disappeared. She returned seconds later with my running clothes neatly folded into a pile, my trainers laying on top. I grabbed my shoes, pushing them onto my bare feet.

She smiled; her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t think my socks would fit you.”

I shook my head. “I’d be more worried they’d ruin the lookI have going on.” I glanced down at my clothes. “I’m going to attract some attention on my way home.”

Esmé ran her eyes over my open shirt, and the corners of her lips trembled. “Point taken. I’m sorry I’m rushing you out.”

“It’s okay. I understand.” I took the clothes in her arms, heading for the front door.

We stopped on the doormat, and she looked up at me. “Thank you again. I don’t know how I can pay you back.”

I grinned. “I’m sure I’ll think of something. I’ll see you on Monday morning. Good luck tonight.”

I turned to leave, but when Esmé pulled open the door, Marianne was standing at the top of the stairs. A huge smile lit up her face and her eyes bounced between both Esmé and I.

“Here you are! We managed to find you, after all.” Her eyes finally rested on me. “And Matteo, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Esmé’s eyes grew to the size of pizzas and her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

I stepped forward. “Marianne, it’s wonderful to see you.” I reached out to shake her hand, and my sweatpants slid off the top of the pile in my arms, landing on the floor. I bent down to pick them up, coming to stand right in front of her.

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