Page 68 of Ice To Meet You

I plastered on a steady smile that didn’t match the pounding of my heart. I’d just spent the last few minutes under the shower jet practicing all the yoga breathing I could remember, but nothing had slowed its rhythm.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t drive away the memory of Matteo’s hands on my skin, his body wrapped around mine against the onslaught of the rain as we’d made it off the zipline course. And then, in the car, how he’d reached out and touched me. And, crazily enough, I held his hand.

Was it because he’d opened up about losing his family? Maybe. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t wanted to touch him, too. Yes, he was younger than me, and pursuing him was miles outside my comfort zone. But there was something about Matteo that drove me to distraction. The moment he touched me, all sense and reason evaporated.

I moved toward the kitchen, my feet padding gently against the old floorboards. He looked up and grinned his usual lop-sided smile, and my heartbeat kicked up anew.

When we got back to Paris, Matteo was still wet. I gave him access to my ex’s old dresser, and he’d chosen a white cotton shirt. He’d left it unbuttoned at the top, just like before, and the glimpse of his chest resembled a rich, polished oak. I bit at my bottom lip. Didier who?

Matteo had dried his sweatpants. They now clung snugly to his thighs as he leaned over a little pot on the counter, holding a tiny spoon in his hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

He ran his eyes over me before returning to his work. Along with the bowl, one of my dad’s ancient pestle and mortars lay on the side and the most amazing smell of fresh herbs tickled my nose.

“I made something to help with your …” he glanced down at the top of my legs. “Your burn.”

I leaned over to look inside the bowl. A dark green paste clung to the sides. The mixture filled my tiny kitchen with a fresh, earthy scent. The door of one of my cupboards lay open, and I prayed to the kitchen gods that I hadn’t left a mess inside. “Where did you…?”

“Your herb pots,” he said, answering my question before I’d asked. The corners of his mouth danced as he worked. “Like I said before, I’m useful in the kitchen.”

And damn if he wasn’t. Last time I’d left him alone in my apartment, he’d made pasta and the most incredible sagebutter sauce. This time, I had the feeling his concoction wasn’t for eating.

He put down his spoon and popped a fingertip into his mouth, sucking it with a smile. As he moved, his dark curls clung to his forehead, leaving his eyes in shadow. “It’s medicinal. For burns. Honey and herbs, some olive oil. My grandmother would use it in summer when I got sunburnt at the beach.”

The childhood picture of Matteo from the lodge flashed in my mind, and I pushed a strand of damp hair behind my ear.When I met his gaze again, he held the bowl out to me. “Try it.”

I blinked. “Show me.”

He smiled, faint creases forming at the corners of his eyes. Matteo dipped a finger into the bowl, then gently grasped my hand.

With his eyes on mine, he turned it over, exposing the delicate skin at my pulse point. He paused for the briefest moment, drawing a soft breath, before spreading the green mixture onto my skin.

“Like this,” he said.

His touch was featherlight—like I was made of fine porcelain and might break at any moment. The surrounding air contracted, and I let out a shaky breath at his touch. The second I did, he stared at me, eyes on fire. They were alive with heat and desire that had nothing to do with friction burns or harness straps.

I pulled my hand away, rubbing the sticky mixture into my skin. “This could get messy.”

He gave a shrug. “I can help, if you like.” His voice was so low, so thick, that his words sent my heart into a skitter.

“How?” I whispered.

He picked up the bowl on the counter, took my hand, andled me to the rug in the middle of my sitting room. He steadied me at its centre, then turned me to face the window.

Paris lay shrouded in darkness, with only a few lights glimmering in the little square outside. My cheeks glowed scarlet in the faint reflection. But when Matteo dropped to his knees behind me, my eyes flew wide.

“What are you doing?”

“Shhh,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s fine. I’m helping you.”

I bunched my fingers to stop them trembling. I didn’t know if I should be grateful or terrified. And what exactly was he helping me with?

He settled on his knees and took a scoop of the herb mixture with his fingers. He looked up at me with dark, hooded eyes, and brought his other hand to the bottom of my robe. He hesitated there for a second. “You’ll need to take this off,” he said, his voice barely registering decibels. “I don’t want to get it dirty.”

I didn’t say a word—literally couldn’t. Instead, my breath hovered somewhere in my throat.

“Esmé?”

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