10. Esmé
10
ESMé
I pushed open the glass door of the bar, and a wave of heat enveloped me. Scanning the room, I heard Lola before spotting her. Her loud, tinkling voice cut through the chatter. She sat next to Matteo in a large booth, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and Maurice.
By the time I reached the corner of the square earlier, she and Matteo had already left. I couldn’t blame them. I’d spent too long fiddling with my outfit and makeup. They’d have turned into ice blocks waiting for me. Now, cursing myself for not bringing a jacket, I lingered under the door heater before making my way to the booth.
The bar buzzed with laughter, a band setting up in one corner. The piano’s soft notes filled the air.
When I arrived, all heads turned in my direction. Aside from Maurice, Matteo and Lola, there were four other people whom I’d never met.
“Hello,” I said, with a shrug. “Sorry I’m so late. I had to feed Claudette. It’s a chilly night, and she still refuses to stay over.”
Blank stares greeted me.
“She’s my cat,” I added quickly. As if that clarified anything. I opened my mouth to elaborate, but Matteo stood, drawing my focus. His smile sent heat straight to my cheeks.
“Esmé,” he said, “It’s …”
Before he could say more, another man scrambled to his feet. He had sandy blond hair, a shiny suit, and practically trampled over two other guests to get to my side.
“Esmé,” he said. “Please, will you join us?”
I blinked at him, then glanced around the booth, my gaze landing on Lola. Her perfectly contoured and highlighted cheeks plumped in a smile. She looked radiant, and I fought a scowl. How had she touched up her face since leaving work? Did she carry a professional makeup kit in her handbag? A personal glow-up team on call? I struggled to apply eyeshadow.
“We’re so glad you could make it,” Lola said, her smile staying firmly in place. “Some of us more than others.”
“What do you mean?” Was she regretting inviting me?
Her eyes widened. “Oh, just that my friend Bruno has been champing at the bit to meet you.”
The blond man stepped even closer, and I stared at him. Immediately, I wished Lola hadn’t used a horse metaphor. Her friend had a long face and an enormous nose. He was quite good looking, but I couldn’t un-see his equine features. His profile reminded me of a thoroughbred, sleek but undeniably … horse-like.
“Bruno,” he said, offering me his hand in greeting. “I’m delighted to meet you at last. I’m such a big fan.”
I took his hand on autopilot, my skin crawling at his clammy skin. Was he kidding? Last time I checked, gallery owners weren’t celebrities. We didn’t have fans .
“Why don’t you sit down?” Matteo asked, pulling my attention.
I turned to find him, and the second our gazes met, the corners of his eyes crinkled. My heart burgeoned.
“You look lovely,” he said, his voice barely audible .
Did I really, though? I glanced down at my outfit, mentally revisiting my choices. It’d taken me twenty minutes to decide what to wear. I didn’t want to look too dressy, like I’d made a huge effort, but I didn’t want to look like I’d spent eight hours on my feet, either.
I’d settled on a short, long-sleeved dress and patent leather boots. They resembled something you might wear to go riding, so at least I’d dressed appropriately for Bruno.
“Yes, you do,” said Bruno, pressing my hand again. I’d completely forgotten he held it. “Here, come and sit beside me. I have so many questions.”
“Yes,” said Lola, reaching from her seat to pull on Matteo’s arm. He sank into the banquette next to her, his smile disintegrated.
Bruno grinned. He made space for me on the end of the couch, landing an elbow on the table, gazing at me like a puppy waiting for me to throw a ball. “Tell me about yourself,” he said.
I glanced around the table. Everyone else stared at me, too. “Er … what would you like to know?” The way his eyes bored into me, I wondered if he wanted my bra size, my body count, my favourite sexual positions or all three. I moved as far away from him as possible without falling off the seat.
“I, for one, would like to know what you want to drink,” Matteo said from the other side of the table. “Wine, champagne, or something a little stronger? I know it’s been quite a day.”
It had been. Mostly because I’d occupied myself by ignoring him . That Iris had noticed me blushing over Matteo made my stomach churn.
“Whatever’s open,” I said, eyeing the bottles on the table.
“Allow me,” said Bruno. He stood again, the fabric of his suit rustling like crinkling paper. He poured a glass of red wine before handing it over. The moment our fingers touched, a stinging bolt of static passed between us, and I let out a little gasp.
His eyes widened. “I’m so sorry,” he said, his cheeks glowing crimson.
He looked crestfallen, mortified, and a line of perspiration sprang above his upper lip. I smiled and patted the seat beside me. “How about you tell me a little about yourself first?”
With a sheepish grin, he sat down next to me. Did I really want to hear all about Lola’s friend? No, I didn’t. But that didn’t stop him from obliging.
His hands trembled in his lap, but I listened to him talk about the bank he worked at, his love of poetry, and the impact of fishing quotas on the foreign exchange markets. At the first mention of his collection of cactuses, my mind—and my eyes—wandered.
Matteo and Lola sat directly opposite, pressed together in the booth. He talked—annoyingly quietly—and she giggled, touching her hair and looking up at him from under her long lashes. My gut sank. They looked beautiful together.
I glanced around. All of Lola’s friends were beautiful, young, and glamorous. Only Maurice and I looked out of place. We were the only two who likely had ties and commitments.
Just then, Matteo laughed at something Lola said, tipping his head back. The overhead light bounced off the olive skin of his neck, and I tugged at the corner of my lip with my teeth. What would he taste like? I’d tried to relive our accidental kiss every night, but the memory slipped further away with each passing hour.
Lola batted his arm, and he straightened up. The second he did, his eyes locked onto my mouth. His expression shifted—quick, almost imperceptible—and I released my lip. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and when he smiled, I ran my hand over the tablecloth, desperate to repatriate my fingers with my glass.
His eyes sparkled, and I wanted to curse him out loud for being so achingly handsome, so distracting, and everything I didn’t need in my life right now.
“What do you think?” Bruno asked at my side.
I turned to face him. “About what?”
He tipped his head to one side as if I’d asked him about the current time in Bolivia. “About the impressionists.”
I blinked. When had we moved on from fishing quotas and succulents?
“I’d love to hear your opinion,” he said, draining his glass. “I think they’re a little overrated.”
“Well, I … ah …” What had his question even been?
“I’m afraid you’ll have to join the queue, Bruno,” said Matteo from across the table.
Bruno quirked a blond brow. “I beg your pardon?”
Matteo settled back in his seat and folded his arms. “You’ll have to make an appointment to get an answer to your question. Do you know how many excitable men we turn away each day at the gallery? They’re lining up to hear Esmé talk about art. I’m surprised she doesn’t have her own fan club.”
Bruno stared at Matteo like he had two heads. I almost joined him.
Lola giggled nervously. “Stop teasing, Matteo.”
Yes, stop teasing, Matteo. His ribbing Bruno was just like his exchange with Marianne Rossi all over again. It verged on the ridiculous. I wasn’t sure of his motive, but the way he watched Bruno, jaw tight, made it impossible not to wonder—was he jealous I was talking to Lola’s friend?
Lola turned to Bruno. “How about you and Matteo organise some more drinks?” She tipped back her almost full glass. “I’m nearly empty.”
“Of course, your highness,” Matteo said, getting to his feet and squeezing past Lola and Maurice.
He and Bruno headed to the bar, and Lola settled back in her seat. She ran her eyes over me, and they sparked with mischief. A pit formed in my stomach. Why did I have the feeling I was in for trouble?
“You know, Esmé, I admire you. Not only are you a successful gallery owner, but you never lose your cool. And you have that timeless elegance thing going on. Like Grace Kelly or … Queen Elizabeth.”
Maurice guffawed into his wineglass. “Aren’t they both dead?”
I raised an eyebrow, willing the pressure building in my chest to dissipate. “I’m not sure that’s a compliment.”
Her smile widened, with a side helping of saccharine sweetness. “Oh, I just mean you’ve got that whole composed and in-control vibe going on. Confidence, you know? It must come with age.”
My lips tightened, and I took a sip of my drink to stall my reply. “Must it?”
I narrowed my eyes at my employee. These were technically after work hours, and she hadn’t been outright offensive, but the edge to her voice made my teeth grind together.
Before I could suggest we drop the subject, Lola’s gaze slid to the bar, where Matteo and Bruno stood. Matteo chatted with the bartender, a smile on his face. Bruno faded into the ether in comparison.
“Our new recruit is really something, isn’t he?”
I swallowed, tucking some loose hair behind my ear. “He’s a diligent employee,” I replied, keeping my tone as even as possible.
She turned back to me, her expression full of barely hidden glee. “Right. Of course. He’s been diligent. Though, I hate to say it. If I were you, I’d worry about … appearances. People might get the wrong idea.”
My chest tightened. What was she insinuating? Yes, Matteo had been … attentive. He brought me coffee every morning, checked in on me more than was necessary, and had a way of be ing in the right place at the right time. But that was professional courtesy.
“What exactly do you mean?” I asked, my heart pounding.
“Oh, nothing specific. I can just tell how much he admires you. Maybe he and Bruno could form that fan club he talked about. You’ve certainly had an effect on both of them.”
I shook my head, my brain struggling to find words. At that exact moment, Matteo looked around at our table from the bar, seeking me out, before sending me one of his traffic-stopping smiles.
Lola let out a long breath, her lips forming a tight “O” shape. “It’s no wonder Matteo can’t take his eyes off you,” she said, her voice dropping, as though sharing a juicy secret. “He’s no doubt impressed by how in control you always are. But then, young guys love that whole older, ‘classic’ thing. Probably reminds them of their mother.”
The drink in my hand nearly slipped from my fingers. Mother? How old did she think I was? And what exactly did she mean?
Lola caught my expression. She tilted her head, her face all wide-eyed innocence. “I’m sorry, Esmé, I’m just saying you should be careful. I think Matteo has a crush on you. Let him down gently. He’s having fun at the gallery.”
An ember flared in my chest. How much had she had to drink? Lola could be abrasive, and I let her get away with more than I should. After all, she was popular with the customers. But no matter how much champagne she’d had, her behaviour was far from professional. I’d have to speak with her in the morning.
For now, I’d keep my cool, my expression neutral. If she wanted classy and “classic,” I’d give her exactly that. “Fun is very subjective, Lola. We all take pleasure in different things. I imagine you’ll come to realise that as you mature. ”
Lola’s smile faltered, the hint of a scowl creeping in before she caught herself. “I just thought I should let you know.”
Yes—me and the rest of the table. They all stared at her, too, in stunned silence.
Maurice shifted on the banquette. “Who’s for another drink, then?”
On cue, Matteo and Bruno reappeared, carrying bottles and an ice bucket full of fresh glasses. Without hesitation, Matteo made his way to my side of the booth, coming to a stop at my shoulder. Bruno arrived a second later.
Matteo popped the champagne with a loud crack and poured the frothy liquid into glasses. He passed them to Bruno, who handed them around the table.
Lola’s eyes lit up when she saw the label on the bottle. He’d picked one of the most expensive brands the bar offered. “Matteo, you shouldn’t have,” she said, her voice singsong, and her cheeks glowing.
He grinned, handing her a glass directly. “It’s your birthday, Lola. Only the best for my work colleagues.” At his words, her smile flattened.
The devil on my shoulder gave the universe a high-five. I’d say it was Lola who had a crush on someone, not Matteo.
Matteo poured the last glass and handed it to Bruno. Just as my supposed new admirer reached for it, Matteo’s arm shifted—so subtly it might have gone unnoticed. But I saw it. And the result? A cascade of champagne spilling over the rim, drenching Bruno’s sky-blue shirt.
He yelped, recoiling like he’d been shoved into an ice bath.
Matteo set the glass down with an expression of pure innocence. “I’m so sorry,” he said smoothly. “Must be all the excitement. Shall I help you clean up?” His hands hovered near Bruno’s top buttons, as if he might start undoing them right there.
Bruno backed away, fending him off with a frantic shake of his head. “It’s fine, honestly. I’ll go to the restroom. Thank you.” With a glare for Matteo and an apologetic smile for me, he turned on his heel, muttering about stains and expensive linen as he disappeared.
After his departure, Matteo slipped into the booth beside me. “That’s better,” he muttered, his face unreadable. Did he mean the loss of Bruno or sitting next to me? Either made my heart skitter. I shifted into Bruno’s old spot, meeting Matteo’s eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice doing that whole low and husky thing.
“Yes. Don’t I look okay?”
I shouldn’t have asked, because his gaze drifted over me—slow and unhurried. “You look beautiful.”
Heat rushed through me, and for once, it had nothing to do with body temperature or basic survival. Under his steady gaze, every nerve under my skin fired, ready for fight, flight, and, if I was honest, delight. Oh, yes—I was in trouble.
“I’m going on a blind date.” Lola’s voice crashed into my racing thoughts, breaking the tension forming between me and Matteo.
We all turned to face her, and I fought to calm my racing pulse.
She grinned directly at Matteo, then took a sip of champagne.
Maurice rolled his eyes. “You’re always going on blind dates. You could write an advice column on the subject.”
She curled an eyebrow in his direction. “I like to think of myself as a veteran, but then I prefer variety. To keep things fresh. The mundane and every-day bores me.”
Maurice’s lips sank, and he played with the stem of his champagne flute.
At that moment, Bruno returned to the table, his gaze landing squarely on me—and Matteo, now ensconced in the seat he’d vacated. In contrast, Matteo glanced up at the overhead light, the picture of nonchalance.
Bruno’s brow creased, and I bit back a chuckle. Matteo’s seat switch was hardly chivalrous, but I had no complaints about his little manoeuvre.
With no response from Matteo, Maurice and Lola scooched in to make room for Bruno. Lola leaned into the table, her grin turning into a smirk. “Have you ever been on a blind date, Matteo?” Her eyes danced all over his face.
He shifted at my side, pressing his arm into mine as he moved. “Not quite, but I had an unusual meeting once that left quite an impression.”
With his words and the low tone of his voice, the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention.
I swallowed. Hard. I knew what was coming. I wanted to tell him to stop, but Lola’s eyes lit up.
“Ooh, do tell,” she said, her voice sugar-coated.
“Well, a little while back, I met the most gorgeous woman on a chairlift.”
My belly rolled.
“In the snow?” asked Maurice.
“Yes,” Matteo said, his lips bowing.
“What happened?” asked Lola.
“Well,” he said, leaning forward. “I’d rescued her from falling over at the bottom already. Her ski was loose. She had on this crazy outfit. I thought she might be part of an eighties tribute band from one of the resort hotels. But let me tell you—the second I saw her properly, I swear I lost my breath.”
In that instant, I lost mine too, right here in the bar. My cheeks fired and I dare not look at Matteo. Blood sang in my ears and my entire body went rigid.
“Honestly?” Lola asked, her eyes wide.
Matteo nodded slowly. “Honestly.”
At the quiet lilt of his voice, the entire table leaned in .
“So, what happened?” asked Maurice.
The corners of Matteo’s lips lifted. “Well, after some small talk, the lift got stuck. It was pretty cold up there on the mountain, so … I suggested we share body heat.”
Lola let out a squeal, like an excited child. “And did you?”
“We did,” he said, his voice husky and deep.
I swallowed the lump that’d lodged in my throat. I tapped my foot, desperate to release some tension. As I did, Matteo applied the barest pressure—his thigh against mine—like he was sending me a message. It was all I could do not to grab it.
“We had to think of our survival, after all. But then the funniest thing happened. The lift started suddenly, and the motion threw us together.”
“Oh, my goodness!”
I closed my eyes against Lola’s high-pitched onslaught.
“And?”
“We kissed,” he said simply. “Or really, she kissed me. Afterwards, when we reached the top, she swore it was an accident, but I rather hoped it wasn’t.”
Lola let out a huge breath, fanning her face with her hand. “Oh … my … goodness. How romantic! Kissing a stranger in the snow!”
Matteo’s lips curved. “It felt special.”
My heart pounded in my chest. I’d assumed my actions amused him, not impressed him.
Lola’s eyes gleamed with delight. “Did you ever find out her name? Who she was?”
At Matteo’s delayed response, my heartbeat hovered somewhere near my tonsils. Would he reveal the truth? Let everyone know I was the woman who’d kissed him?
He leaned back, the chair’s leather creaking under his shoulders. “Unfortunately, not. I had to leave, so we never talked properly.”
“How very Cinderella of her,” sneered Bruno, still clearly put-out by his accidental cold shower. “Did she leave a ski pole behind as a calling card?”
Everyone at the table sent him a sharp look before turning back to Matteo.
“Sadly, no. Now I’m destined to always wonder what could’ve been,” he said.
Everyone around the table visibly deflated, leaning back.
“So romantic,” Lola said, searching Matteo’s face with her blue eyes.
At that moment, the band started, and Lola’s face lit up. “Let’s dance,” she said, glancing around the table. “It is my birthday!”
Maurice immediately stood, taking Lola’s hand. They practically stampeded over Bruno and headed to join the small crowd gathering on the dance floor.
As the chatter at the table restarted, I turned to Matteo, my face on fire. I ran my hand over the cool of the tablecloth.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his eyes roaming over my face. “Did I go too far?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. He hadn’t, really. Nobody knew the truth. And how could they? Although he’d walked a fine line, apparently Matteo didn’t kiss and tell.
He sent me the tiniest smile, and I bunched the napkin under my hand. “I have to go.”
He blinked twice. “I’ll walk you back.”
I shook my head, looking around for my purse. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
Oh, I don’t know. How about my sanity? My dignity? The more time I spent alone with Matteo, the greater the risk that I’d say something I shouldn’t. Do something I oughtn’t. Even now, trapped in the booth, it was hard to ignore his heat at my side and the brush of his breath on my cheek. I didn’t want a replay of the events on the mountain .
“You stay. Have fun.”Matteo didn’t move. “Please,” I said.
A furrow appeared between his brows, and he stood. I did the same, and he ran his eyes over my dress. “Are you sure?”
I nodded.
“At least borrow my jacket. It’s freezing outside and you know I’m all about body heat.”
The low pitch of his voice sent a prickle of warmth over my skin. “Thank you,” I said.
He moved behind me, tugging his arms out of his suit jacket before draping it over my shoulders. The scent of his cologne and the latent warmth of his body enveloped me. I closed my eyes for the longest beat.
“Esmé,” he whispered, his breath against my neck.
“Matteo!” Lola’s shrill voice broke any spell between us, and I sighed.
“Dance with me like you promised. I’ll be sad if you don’t.” She puffed out her bottom lip like a petulant child.
“I promised no such thing. I’m a terrible dancer.”
Watching his skill carving through the snow, I doubted that very much. Lola tottered on her heels, swaying into Matteo. He caught her and she wrapped her arms around him. How much champagne had she had?
“Well, it would be rude to turn a girl down on her birthday,” she said. “Even Maurice danced with me, and he’s about as coordinated as a goat on stilts.”
Matteo looked at me as if pleading for his life.
“I have to go,” I said again, heading to the exit.
“I can still walk you,” Matteo offered again, his voice barely making it past the noise of the bar.
I didn’t stop, only shook my head and carried on to the door. I hugged his jacket close around my body, an ache settling in my chest.
What I wouldn’t give to walk through the streets of Paris with Matteo. Show him all the places I loved. All the secret parks, the bars, the flower market. But I had to be serious; be practical. Matteo worked for me. His grandfather was investing in my new gallery and … and he was younger than me.
My body ran cold. There—I’d finally said it. Admitted to myself just one more reason I couldn’t ever be anything more than a boss or friend to Matteo.
I purposely hadn’t investigated his age. It’d taken superhuman strength not to look for the information online. But then I didn’t really seen the point.
I was under a spotlight, always trying to keep my head above water. To claw my way to the top in the strait-laced, conservative Paris art set. If anything remotely romantic happened, we’d be a laughingstock. I’d be a laughingstock. I’d look like some kind of desperate cougar art-dealer sleeping her way to the top with her investor’s grandson.
No. I had to keep my feelings to myself. Ignore the longing tearing through my body every day as he moved around the gallery.
I pushed open the door and the icy wall of the Paris air hit me, taking my breath, just like Matteo’s words had.
Leaving was the right thing to do. But as I stepped along the path, I glanced back through the window. The sight of Lola and Matteo dancing together assaulted my eyes.
She had her arms around his neck. To be fair, he looked more stoic than seduced. But Lola was gorgeous, funny and—more importantly—his age. It was only a matter of time before he fell for her.
I swallowed down the bitter taste creeping into the back of my throat and looked at the ground. Why did the thought gnaw at my very soul?