Page 81 of Ice To Meet You

Iris shrugged. “Of course.” She grinned at me like I was about to spill the winning lottery numbers. “And don’t deny anything or give me a toned-down version. I’ll know.”

Looking at the mischief in her eyes, I didn’t doubt it.

“Are you and Matteo up to something?” she asked.

I shifted on my stool, its metal legs squeaking under the movement. “What do you mean, up to something?”

She rolled her eyes, slapping the countertop, making me jump. “You know what I mean. That man is gorgeous and follows you everywhere. Have you seen the glow in your cheeks? I thought you looked chipper this morning, but I assumed it was the spring air. Now I know exactly what—or who—has put a spring in your step.”

I pulled in a breath, grasping for an explanation, or even just words. Her eyes bored into me and under her playful gaze, I knew I was toast.

“Yes,” I ground out, covering my face with my hands. “Matteo and I are up to … something. Anything. Everything, really.Merde, what have I done?”

I lowered my hands. Iris sat on her stool, a look of joyful triumph on her face.

“I daren’t ask,” she said. “But just so you know, I whole-heartedly approve.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. Like I’ve always said, your assistant is excessively easy on the eyes, and he obviously has a thing for you.”

I swallowed. “He does?”

Iris took my hand. “Absolutely. His eyes are glued to you like tiles on a wall.” She squeezed my hand. “I’m still waiting for the details. This will only be a successful confession if you provide full disclosure.”

I shook my head. How the hell did I get here? “Okay. The whole situation is very new, very awkward, accidental really, and all kinds of wrong.”

Her brow creased. “Why wrong?”

I slipped my hand from hers, braced myself against the table, and palmed my forehead. After a moment, I peeked at her through my fingers. “He’s younger than me.”

She shook her head like she was trying to rearrange her fringe without using her fingers. “Remind me how much younger?”

I pushed out a bitter laugh. “I never told you in the first place. He’s twenty-seven.”

She held up her hand, counting on her fingers. “And you and Luc are the same age?”

I nodded. We even shared a birthday.

“So, it's only a four-year difference?” She stopped to double check her finger-math. “Yes, four.” She shrugged. “Well, that’s hardly illegal. I have to say, he seems a verymaturetwenty-seven.” She wiggled her eyebrows, nudging me in the arm.

“Stop it.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, draping her arm around my shoulders. “But are you seriously worried about that? It’s only a few years, and both of you are solidly out of your teenage angst.”

I chuckled and shook my head. “I know. It’s just that everyone in my world—the customers, critics, the people who matter, are so conservative. Being a single woman, I can’t afford to put a foot wrong.”

“Or a stiletto,” she said, glancing down at my sky-high shoes. “But honestly, who said having a bit of fun with a toy-boy is wrong?”

I sighed. She meant well, but her choice of words was anything but reassuring. “No one’s said it outright, but I can already feel the judgment. And he’s not my toy-boy.”

“Who are you worried about? Whose judgement?”

I waved a hand around the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know. Anyone who realises I’m having a raging fling with the grandson of the man I want investing in my next gallery.”

“Oh,” she murmured, her thumb massaging the tightness in my neck. “I forgot about that. But are you really just having a fling? I haven’t known you that long, but a quick roll in the sack doesn’t seem your style.”

“It’s … it doesn’t feel like a fling. But we only kissed for the second time a week ago.”