Page 53 of Ice To Meet You

Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the number before sending Matteo a smile. “It’s Papa. He probably wants a run-down of the evening.” Minus Matteo’s impromptu shower and seventies porn star vibe, of course. “As well as a pasta disaster, I may have had a tiny wine emergency, too. He was on hand to advise.”

Matteo nodded. “I read your father’s an incredible winemaker.”

A warm glow filled my chest. “He is.”

Matteo shifted on the couch. “Then I can leave knowing he and I have both looked after you tonight. Marianne would be so pleased.”

His cheeky grin almost stopped my heart, but when he stood, I leaned forward. “You’re going?” I cringed inside. Did I sound disappointed or, heaven forbid, desperate?

“It’s late,” he said, staring down at me. “And I have a date with my bed. You see, I have this incredible boss, but she works me so hard, I need to rest.”

The sparkle in his eyes made my head spin. When he offered his hand, I took it, our skin meeting in a press of heat.

“She’s that mean, huh?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “A tyrant.”

I chuckled, and he pulled me off the couch.

“And I’ll need to prep for any rope-related emergencies next weekend. My cruel boss has decided to put her life in my hands.”

Our eyes met and molecules bounced in the air.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, his voice quiet and low.

“And thank you for helping charm my guests into potentially parting with their money.”

“Like I said earlier, I aim to please.” He turned and walkedto the hallway, throwing a smile over his shoulder. “Maybe I can get a bonus at Christmas.”

When we reached the door, he stepped aside, allowing me to open it. With a dip of his head, he picked up his running clothes from the side table and paused. “I’ll see you on Monday?”

I nodded, staying quiet. I didn’t trust what I’d say if I opened my mouth.

Matteo lingered on the step, his lips a tight line. After a long beat, he leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek, his soft lips warming my skin. “Goodnight.”

I breathed in, fingertips grazing the spot where his lips had touched. My skin tingled, and I pressed my hand there, as if to hold onto in his touch.

“Goodnight,” I whispered.

All too soon, he turned and took the stairs to the street, not through the gallery. His footfall echoed in the hallway, his broad back shifting inside Didier’s shirt with each step.

“Twenty-seven,” he called out, his words bouncing off the walls.

“Sorry?”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

I blinked, but before my brain could catch up, Matteo was halfway out the door.

I did a quick mental calculation—there were only four years between us. Maybe it was his playful energy that made him seem so much younger. And really, did a few years—or a shift in decades—matter that much?

I stood on the step, fighting my quickening breath. What was I even doing? None of this should matter. I shouldn’t think of Matteo as anything other than my assistant.

But memories of him standing in my bathroom, shirtless in just his track pants, came crashing into my mind. Heat rushedto my cheeks as I pressed a hand to my head, to banish the image.

No. I had to remember who he was—and who I was.

"I turned and closed the door, my heartbeat slowing. We were just going zip lining—that was all.

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