5. Matteo
5
MATTEO
T he streets of Paris bustled around me. People were busy getting on with their days—sharing coffee with friends, rushing to meetings, shopping. Me? I was about to throw myself into the lion’s den.
My Grandfather’s voice echoed around my skull.
“I want you to make the most of this opportunity. Listen to Mademoiselle Laurent, and for once in your life, pay attention. Your work with her could shape your future. The future of our business and our family’s reputation.”
His words were meant to encourage, but they verged on either a veiled threat or a stern talking to. I was well on my way to thirty, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t need training wheels.
The agreement he’d made with this Parisian gallery owner offended and intrigued me in equal measure.
He knew my heart wasn’t in the family business or being his successor. But what he’d promised—six long months of incarceration at this Laurent woman’s side—could buy Antonio and me enough time to settle into our business and show my grandfather I was more than capable of finding my own path.
In fact, I aimed to look upon this “fact finding mission” as a mini holiday. A break from the norm. I hadn’t spent time in Paris for years.
“Mademoiselle Laurent.” I chuckled. Her name alone sounded terrifying. If she was anything like my grandfather’s usual art contacts, she’d be grey-haired, wildly dramatic, and permanently decked out in a kaftan. I didn’t doubt she’d send my grandfather regular reports on my ability and commitment.
I should’ve Googled her name—learned a little about my prison-guard. Instead, I’d spent my weekend settling into my new apartment and talking to the lodge investors. Soothing their furrowed brows, as Antonio had called it. I’d spent my time well. Though I had less money in the bank, renovations were on track and our second trip fully booked.
I turned a corner into a small Parisian square encircled by pale sandstone buildings. A few skateboarders gathered in one corner, trying out tricks on a set of flagstone steps. The scrape of their boards echoed around the walls. In the centre, a ring of benches surrounded a little flower garden. A flash of colour to one side caught my attention. I tightened my eyes, my pulse kicking up.
A woman in a bright pink jacket sat on a bench. She struggled with a map, twisting the paper around in her hands, bringing it closer to her face.
No earmuffs.
She had no earmuffs, no glitter, and her hair was blonde, not the deep chestnut brown of the woman on the chairlift. My heartbeat slowed. What the hell was wrong with me? Ever since my “elevated” adventure with the woman in Tiano, I’d been unable to look at the colour pink without my stomach flipping.
That afternoon occupied my thoughts way more than was healthy. The woman’s terror at the swing of the lift, her large brown eyes, soft and warm, and the feel of her mouth against mine. The tiny breath she let out when we accidentally kissed.
In fact, it was true to say, I’d thought of little else in the early morning hours as I’d tossed and turned in my bed. I cursed myself every day for skiing away without asking her name.
I came up to an ornate building on one side of the square and stopped to check my reflection in the large front window. I needed to make a good impression on my jailor. But as I ran my hand through my hair, I noted the grey smudges of shadow under my eyes.
An image of my chairlift partner danced through my thoughts again. I huffed a wry laugh. We hadn’t spoken for long but damn my terrible timing and the way she’d burrowed into my brain. Perhaps she’d left a permanent scar? Maybe I had a case of PTSD—Pink Traumatic Snow Disorder.
I glanced at the shiny sign next to the door. Galerie du Reve . I sighed. Gallery of Dreams? The only dreams I had were a thriving business and a drama-free six months with Mademoiselle Laurent.
I pushed open the heavy door and a little bell tinkled above my head. Quaint.
I stepped inside the cavernous space. The gallery looked like an average shop from the outside, but inside, its high ceilings and expansive walls hung with paintings, large and small.
The calm and orderly symmetry made me smile. There wasn’t a thing out of place, from the subtly lit pieces of sculpture on solid white plinths to the name tags placed neatly under each artwork. If this was what dreams were made of, I’d like a side order of chaos. A touch of the unexpected.
I stepped further into the silence, about to call out to see if anyone was around, when a figure in the room's corner drew my gaze. A woman kneeled over a large canvas. She worked, wrapping the artwork in bubble-wrap.
With her head bowed, I couldn’t see her face, but she had to be young—probably a gallery assistant. Her pose was yoga-worthy, demanding serious core strength, and there wasn’t a kaftan in sight. Instead, she’d folded her long legs beneath her, and those heels looked capable of punishing the toes of anyone over fifty.
I cleared my throat, stepping towards her. “I’m looking for Esmé Laurent.”
“Finally! You’re late,” the woman said, her tone sharp. She didn’t turn around but wrestled with a large sheet of bubble-wrap that clung to the canvas. “Just leave the paperwork on the desk—and please, don’t scratch the floors with your trolley this time!”
I stepped forward, moving toward the woman. She can’t have heard me over the crackle of plastic, because she didn’t turn—didn’t even acknowledge my presence. I stopped right behind her and put my hands in my pockets. “I think you need more tape.”
She spun her head in my direction, like a compass to a magnet. The second her eyes met mine, they widened, and my chest gave an enormous somersault.
It was the woman from the chairlift. She didn’t look quite the same. With no earmuffs, her hair was pulled back into a stylish chignon. But there was no mistaking her small, upturned nose, her soft brown eyes, and full lips. At the sight, my heart kicked up a beat.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, taking the words right out of my mouth. Still crouched, she put the bubble wrap on the floor and spun to face me, her shoes squeaking on the floorboards. “Are you working for the delivery company?”
“Sorry?” It was the only word my brain could produce.
She stood. In her heels, she was taller than I remembered. A small line appeared between her brows. “Are you here to collect the painting?” She pointed to the canvas she’d just wrapped. “I’m pretty sure it’s going to Spain, not Italy.”
What the hell was she talking about? “No. I’m not here for a painting. I’m here to see Esmé Laurent. I’m Matteo Romano. Gio Romano sent me. I’m his grandson. ”
Her eyes doubled in size. She opened her mouth and blinked three times before tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re Gio’s … grandson?”
I gave my shoulders a shrug and pulled a hand from my pocket, offering it in greeting. “Matteo.”
She didn’t take it. Instead, she stared at me. The colour drained from her face, and I swear she’d stopped breathing. “You have all your teeth,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Again, my brain struggled to compute what was going on. “Of course I do.”
The woman shook her head, as if trying to clear her thoughts. She stepped forward, and a series of tiny pops filled the air between us. We both looked down. A sheet of bubble wrap was stuck to her shoe, speared on the stiletto like a marshmallow on a skewer. She must’ve planted her heel straight through.
At first, she shifted her weight subtly, glancing down like sheer determination might release the plastic. When that failed, she gave her foot a little shake, then a sharper one, but the bubble wrap refused to move.
With a sigh, she balanced on one leg and tugged at the plastic.
I honestly meant to help her, but when she started hopping toward me, each bounce punctuated by a sharp pop, I couldn’t hold it together. My lips betrayed me, curling into a grin I had no hope of hiding. It sounded like someone had slipped firecrackers into her shoes.
She was coming at an alarming speed now, closer and closer. I braced for impact, holding out my arms, and a tiny whimper escaped her as she careened straight into me, landing squarely against my chest.
We collided, and I glanced down at the top of her head. “Sorry,” she murmured, tilting her face up.
Just like before, on the chairlift, our mouths were so close I could feel the soft brush of her breath against my lips. The surrounding air sizzled and the scent of newly washed hair, sweet and light, filled my senses. I fought the urge to close my arms around her.
But before either of us could say another word, a crash sounded from somewhere behind us.
“Lola!” came a shout.
I turned to see a young woman, all wide eyes and flustered movements, darting between the gallery’s display plinths, holding what looked like the remains of a shattered vase. Hot on her heels was a man with slightly silvery temples, waving his arms dramatically.
“What did you do? That took me hours!” The man’s voice trembled with theatrical despair.
“Calm down!” she said. “I’m sorry, but it’s hardly the end of the world!”
The moment they spotted us, they stopped still as statues, eyes bouncing between our faces.
With another barrage of “pops,” the woman at my side stepped away as if I had an infectious disease. Grimacing, she took off her shoe and tugged the bubble wrap from the heel.
“Who’s this, Esmé?” the girl with the vase asked.
I glanced around the gallery for the famous Esmé. So far, I hadn’t seen a hint of a kaftan.
“This,” the woman from the chairlift said, “is Matteo Romano. He’ll be working with us for a little while.”
The girl with the vase’s face erupted into an angelic smile. “Will he?” She placed the broken remains of pottery on a plinth and stepped forward, eyes glowing. “I’m Lola Girard, Esmé’s right-hand woman.”
Again, I cast my eyes around, looking for Esmé Laurent.
“And this is my colleague, Maurice.”
The man who’d chased her earlier stepped forward, collecting the remains of his vase—cradling it like a baby. He nodded at me abruptly, then glared at Lola.
“How long is a little while, Esmé?” she asked, the sear in her eyes taking the skin off my face.
“Six months,” said the woman from the chairlift. Her voice barely registered in the gallery's still. She stepped away and slipped her shoe back onto her foot.
“You’re Esmé?” I asked, my voice a little less sure than I expected.
She turned to me and nodded.
“But you’re supposed to be old.” The words escaped before I could catch them, and the fire that lit up her cheeks made my insides twist into knots. If this woman—the same beautiful woman I’d met in the snow—was my new boss, calling her old wasn’t just a career-killer, it might’ve torched any chance I had of pursuing something more with her.
Lola folded her arms across her front and scoffed quietly.
Esmé scowled in her direction. “Both of you, please make Matteo welcome. Show him the ropes. He’ll be helping with the Du Comtois exhibition. Then, well, who knows?”
Lola wiggled her eyebrows and gave me an impish smile. “I’m sure we’d be happy to show you the ropes—give you some advice.” She glanced behind her shoulder at Maurice, who hovered, shifting from foot to foot behind her. “Only, don’t ask Maurice for pottery tips. He’s new to clay and needs to focus on making pots that don’t fall off shelves.”
The silver-haired man’s cheeks reddened, and he scowled. At the plum colour of his face, his head might pop off any second.
“Children, back to work,” Esmé muttered.
With a giggle, Lola backed away three paces, staring at me as if she expected me to break into a song or dance.
“A little privacy, please,” Esmé said, her tone clipped.
With an eye roll to rival a pre-teen, Maurice huffed a sigh, then ushered his colleague toward wherever they’d appeared from, still nursing his broken pottery like a newborn.
I bit back a laugh, glancing at Esmé. She pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “I need a drink.”
I nibbled at my lip, fighting the urge to grant her wish—to find somewhere quiet and dark where I could process the last few minutes; come to peace with her revelations; get to know her, even.
“Are they okay?” I asked.
Esmé shook her head. “It’s a love/hate thing. I know I shouldn’t condone it. But honestly, I wish they’d just get together and work it out of their systems.”
I was about to ask exactly what they should work out when she faced me full on, her eyes travelling over my face. My body crackled with energy under her intense stare.
“So, you’re Matteo Romano?”
I shrugged. “Guilty.”
She shook her head slowly. “You said you were a ski instructor.”
I smiled, bringing a hand to the back of my neck. “Well, technically, y ou said I was. I just didn’t correct you.” The line reappeared between her brows. “You told me you were a tourist. I take it that was a stretch of the truth, too?”
Emotions played over her face, until finally, she placed her hands on her hips. “Okay, I’m guilty, too. But now you’re here, I have to ask. What are you hoping to get out of this? I know your grandfather has his own ideas. But what do you want me to teach you?”
I didn’t dare speak. With the climb in my pulse, I didn’t know what would come out of my mouth. Instead, I made a great show of shrugging my shoulders. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Her eyes flared, and I ran my gaze from her face, down her long legs, to the half-packaged canvas on the ground. “But … I think my first responsibility should be to package your paintings. I’m exceptional with bubble-wrap.” I threw her what I hoped was a cheeky grin.
She glowered at me for a second, but then, as if admitting defeat, her face softened. She dug into the pocket of her skirt and handed me a small roll of tape. “Then get wrapping, Matteo Romano. Let’s see what you’ve got.”