11. Matteo
11
MATTEO
W ith a light covering of frost, the streets of Paris crunched under my feet. I left the bar about twenty minutes ago. Lola and Maurice were locked together on the dance floor—thank goodness—and I just finished a call with my grandfather.
I’d explored the neighbourhood as we’d talked, wondering which cafes were Esmé’s favourites and which salon kept her chestnut hair gleaming the way it did.
I didn’t feel the cold. Talking to my grandfather had been more enjoyable than I expected. He’d asked about the gallery—giving me the perfect excuse to talk about Esmé. I answered his questions, offering my own insights, painting my boss in the glowing terms she deserved.
And Gio had listened—actually paid attention to what I said. He’d always been attentive when I was a child, but as I’d grown older and moved away from his vision of what or who I should be, so had his interest in me. Tonight, I’d felt the tiniest tendrils of reconnection. And I had Esmé to thank.
Warmth spread in my chest at the thought of her. She’d been so calm tonight—so completely together under the combined onslaught of Lola being a birthday diva and my teasing. Something tugged behind my ribs.
I knew I shouldn’t have told the story of our meeting, but I couldn’t help it. She looked so adorable when her cheeks flushed pink.
I pulled up at the little square outside her gallery. Butterflies danced in my stomach. Was Galerie du Reve on the way back to my apartment? Not exactly. Had walking here been an unconscious decision? Perhaps. And if I knew Esmé was still up, would I knock? Undecided. But something invisible pulled me to the gallery, and I crossed the square.
As I moved closer to the long front window, a dim light somewhere in the back of the showroom caught my attention. Esmé’s desk. I recognised the glow of the quirky industrial lamp she loved so much. My heart picked up, and I craned my neck, leaning in to see if I could glimpse her. She should be in bed. When I saw no movement, I took three steps to the front door and held my breath.
Dare I knock? She probably wouldn’t hear me—had probably left the lamp on by accident. According to Esmé, her ideal evening ended with a good book in bed. The thought made me smile. What did she prefer to read? Thrillers? Mysteries? Books on art?
I chuckled, pillows of breath surrounding me. No. Esmé would read romance. Hot romance. Romance that made her heart beat hard in her chest. The thought of her wetting her lips as she read made my pulse shift a gear.
Before I realised, I knocked on the door. Silence greeted me through the glass, and I flexed my fingers before pushing them back into my pocket. I let out a breath, about to turn around and walk the rest of the way home, when a clatter and a whispered “ merde ” reached my ears.
“Who is it?” came her voice.
“It’s Matteo. ”
Silence kept me company for five long seconds before the rattle of the lock hit my ears. Esmé pulled the door open just a little way, as if not trusting it was me standing on her doorstep.
Her eyes glowed in the faint light of the vintage lantern above our heads. “What do you want?”
Did I even know? I couldn’t explain why I was here, but I had to see her.
Esmé opened the door a little wider. She wore a pair of oversized pyjamas, her hair piled into a bun, a pen tucked behind her ear. I couldn’t help the grin that took over my face.
She peered over my shoulder. “Are you alone?”
I nodded. “Yes. I wondered if I could have my jacket back. It’s cold out here.”
Her eyes opened wider. “Oh, of course, hang on.” She closed the door and unchained the lock. As I waited, I stepped from foot to foot, encouraging the blood to move and reheat my bones.
Finally, she opened the door, letting me into the gallery. The chill inside nearly matched the temperature outside. I glanced around into the shadows, my gaze landing on an opened bottle of wine on her desk. Was she alone? “What are you doing up so late?”
She closed and re-chained the door. “Why aren’t you still at the party? Is everything okay? Is Lola okay?” Esmé ran her eyes over my face. “I thought the two of you were having a good time?”
I chuckled, taking a step further into the gallery, my shoes tapping against the floorboards. “Lola’s fine. Let’s just say her kind of partying isn’t on my to do list.” After she’d tried to kiss me on the dance floor, I’d gently let her down and pointed her toward her lovesick co-worker. Maurice had been more than happy to distract her.
Esmé drew level, and I breathed in the faint scent of her perfume. The dim light from her desk lamp accentuated a small crop of freckles on her nose. Why hadn’t I noticed them before?
We breathed together in the gallery’s stillness, eyes locked on each other. My mind raced for something to say, a witty remark or a joke to make, but nothing came.
Mercifully, distraction arrived in the shape of noise. A steady purr kissed the air, like someone revved a mini motorbike, and I narrowed my eyes into the gloom. As they became accustomed to the light, I made out dark material and a little mound of white on Esmé’s desk. “Is that my …”
“Jacket,” said Esmé quietly.
I stepped towards her desk to see Claudette curled up and on her way to falling asleep. “Well, at least someone missed me.”
Esmé stepped forward to move the cat.
“Leave her,” I said. “She looks too comfortable. I can freeze.”
Esmé smiled. “She doesn’t normally stay overnight. But she found your jacket and hasn’t moved since.”
“Well,” I said, “If you can’t offer me warmth, you can offer me a drink.”
Esmé glanced at the open bottle of wine on her desk. “Sure.”
She pulled a glass from a drawer in her desk.
“Handy. I’d say you’d done this before.”
She poured the red wine. “Done what?”
“Entertained a guest after hours. Alone.”
One of her eyebrows kicked up. “It’s not unusual. Client entertainment goes with the territory.”
“Particularly when you’re a one-woman show,” I said. Esmé eyed me steadily, as she handed me the glass. Her face gave nothing away. I softened my voice. “Running the gallery alone can’t be easy.”
She huffed a wry laugh, settling into her chair. “It’s not. There’s a lot of responsibilities, expectations and … judgement.”
“Judgement?”
Esmé swirled her wine in her glass before taking a healthy slug. “Yes. I don’t know about Rome, but the art community in Paris is old-fashioned. Few women own successful galleries, let alone run them solo. In the beginning, I had a partner who helped me fund the gallery. Actually, we were more than business partners.” Her cheeks coloured. “My ex shielded me from gossip. He was the acceptable face of the business.”
“Meaning he took the glory?”
Esmé smiled. “Meaning we shared the glory, and I made do with the knowledge I’d made it happen.”
I chuckled, and the triumphant look on her face made me smile. I sat on the edge of her desk. “Did you always know what you wanted to do?”
She tipped her head to one side and looked up at me through her long, dark lashes. “Yes. It’s crazy really. Luc, who I grew up with …”
“Luc Du Comtois?”
“Yes.”
“You grew up with him?”
Esmé nodded. How did I not know that?
“His mother was a talented painter, and he inherited her skill. Perhaps it was infectious. I’ve always found art so inspiring and beautiful.”
I took a sip of my wine, toying with my words. “I always heard Luc Du Comtois was a playboy. A bored billionaire.”
Esmé smiled. “Then you don’t know Luc. He’s wonderful. He opened my eyes to art. We travelled as teenagers, finding inspiration. Thanks to him, I’m at my happiest exploring tiny galleries or discovering new artists.”
Her smile lit up her already beautiful face, and something tugged in my chest. “So, you really don’t mind being alone? With the business, I mean.”
She took another sip of wine and ran her tongue over her lower lip. I could barely tear my eyes away.
“No. As a woman in this field, I’m judged on a steeper curve than my male counterparts. I’ve spent years hitting the glass ceiling, but now that Luc has sold his work in his own name and through me exclusively, I’ve gained a new recognition. A new respect.”
She reached out and ran a palm over Claudette’s soft, white fur. “That’s why this next exhibition has to go well. Two years ago, your grandfather would never have considered investing in me.”
“I can’t imagine that,” I said, brushing my fingertips over the cool wood of the desk.
Esmé smiled. “Well, I’m just grateful he’s interested now.”
And as much as I knew I shouldn’t be, I was interested in Esmé too, but in an entirely different way.
Yes, she was talented and inspirational, but there was something else about her that made my pulse quicken. A calmness and control. Most of the women I met were risk takers. And while casual and crazy had always been enough, there was something irresistible about the way Esmé did serious
When we first met on the chairlift, she’d been scared. I felt necessary. Important. And she’d clung to me as the chair rocked in the wind as if I could help her. As if what I said or did mattered. I hadn’t felt those emotions in years.
“My grandfather is a good man. Though he’s traditional, he values talent.”
I sighed, then tipped my glass back, finishing my wine. When I put it down on the desk, a shiver ran through me. “I should go.”
A tiny line appeared between Esmé’s brows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to evict Claudette? I can find somewhere else for her to sleep.”
I looked at the little white ball of fluff that had made my jacket home. “I think I’ll leave her. And I’ll leave this creative genius to get some sleep, too.” I gestured towards Esmé, looking out of the window at the sparkle of frost on the square. “Do you have anything warm I can borrow instead of my jacket? Maybe a spare roll of bubble-wrap?”
She chuckled. “I used up all my bubble wrap.” As she spoke, her brow quirked, and she glanced towards the back of the gallery. “Hang on. I might have something. It’s a bit old, but if you’re not too fussy …” her words drifted off to silence.
Given the choice of wearing something old and freezing to death, I’d definitely opt for shabby. “Great.”
With a smirk, Esmé disappeared to the back of the gallery. After about thirty seconds, she reappeared with something in her arms.“I don’t think you’ll like it.” Esmé unbundled whatever she held with a grimace.
I tightened my eyes to see in the dark. “What the hell is that? Is it alive? Should someone feed it?”
She giggled—the most wonderful sound I’d ever heard—and placed it in my arms.
I turned towards the lamplight and unfurled a long, fluffy cardigan. It was bright pink, just like the ski jacket she wore when we first met. “When did we go back to the nineties?” I asked, shaking my head.
“I confess, it’s a little avant-garde . Luc’s grandmother gave it to me for Christmas last year. I left it here in case the heating stopped working.”
I held the cardigan out in front of me. “I thought you said you didn’t like pink.”
“Not true. I said I didn’t like heights. Pink has its place in the world. Only I’m not sure that place is on your back.”
I glanced at Claudette. She was still curled up in my jacket, oblivious to my fashion—and potential frostbite—emergency. I didn’t have the heart to disturb her.
“It’s dark outside. I’m happy to take my chances. I’ve been told before that I can wear most colours.” I tucked my arms into the sleeves and pulled the cardigan around my body.
Esmé stood by her desk, hands on her hips, lips quivering at the corners. She looked me up and down. “It’s certainly a ‘look.’”
I dropped my mouth open. “I’m surprised at you. As an art connoisseur, you of all people should be able to recognise this cardigan’s aesthetic charm.” I turned around, examining my reflection in the window. “As long as nobody confuses me with a Sesame Street character, I’ll be fine.”
Esmé grinned, and the angels sang a chorus somewhere in heaven. In that moment, she looked utterly beautiful, and it was all I could do to stop myself from kissing the end of her little turned-up nose. “I think I’m all set. I’ll get out of your hair.”
She turned and led me towards the door, un-slipping the chain and resting her hand on the handle.
I stopped at the step, leaning against the wall. “Bruno seemed nice. A little loud, with terrible taste in suits, but nice. Though I don’t think he was quite your type.” Was I being obvious? Did Esmé know I was fishing for her opinion of Lola’s friend? And perhaps her opinion on me?
She smiled, chuckling under her breath. “Bruno was very ‘nice’, but I doubt I’ll be seeing him again.”
My pulse kicked up in my chest. I reached for the door handle, but instead I gently brushed the back of my hand over Esmé’s. Her eyes widened for a moment before her cheeks fired pink.
“I’m glad,” I said. “Goodnight, boss.”
With a final wink, I stepped into the night, draped in Esmé’s pink fluffy cardigan .
She didn’t say a word; just watched me go with her large brown eyes.
“Sleep well,” I said over my shoulder.
The fresh air in the square hit me immediately, and I pulled in a breath. I didn’t want to leave—quite the opposite—but staying would only play havoc with my peace of mind. I had to keep my cool and not rock Esmé’s boat—or my own. We both had too much to lose. She, her reputation, and me, my focus.
I listened out but didn’t hear the door close behind me—didn’t hear her draw the chain across the lock. Was she still standing there watching me? I shook my head in the dark.
No matter how badly I wanted to, I couldn’t look back. If I did and found Esmé staring at me, I’d stop walking. I’d turn back and kiss her. Run my hands through her hair and pull her hard against me. I’d cross a line from which there was no return, and the thought terrified me.