12. Esmé
12
ESMé
T he next morning, bright and early—just like clockwork—I found Matteo waiting on the gallery doorstep. And like every other day for the past week and a half, he arrived with strong coffee and pastries.
Claudette faithfully trailed at his heels. She’d taken to arriving with him and then staying all day, rarely leaving his or my side. It was like we’d formed a weird mutual appreciation society.
I doubt he felt too appreciated last night, though, when she’d claimed his jacket for all of cat-kind. She’d covered it in a blanket of white fur. I’d tried to remove as much as possible, but even my best intentions and a roll of sticky tape barely made a dent.
And now he stood on the step, as if the late-night wine and the way he’d set my pulse racing had never happened.
Today, he carried my pink cardigan over his arm and a smirk on his lips. “Good morning, boss,” he said, running his eyes over my face. “I have something to return.” Matteo lifted my knitwear. “I thought I’d give it back before I got too attached. Like I said last night, the colour really suits me. ”
I stifled a laugh. Matteo had a way of brightening my mornings. "It does give you a glow. You know, I could give you your own key to the gallery—then you could borrow it anytime you like."
Matteo grinned. “Today, my own key. Tomorrow, the world!”
As he wandered in, he put my cardigan on my desk, then moved to the back of the gallery to turn on the coffee machine. He knew I needed a second cup straight after my morning takeaway order.
I picked up my knitwear, and the faint scent of Matteo’s cologne filled my senses—the same pine and apple mix I looked forward to each day. I smiled, breathing him in. But before I could enjoy the moment, a voice grated through the air behind me.
“What’s that old thing doing here? It’s hideous.”
I whipped around to see Lola and my face heated. I bundled the pink monstrosity onto my desk.
“Morning. How was your night?” Judging from the sneer on her face, the answer was “pretty average.” If Matteo had spent his time here with me instead of partying with her, I suspected she was thoroughly disappointed.
Just then, he returned to my desk with Claudette draped over one shoulder. He held his fur-coated jacket in the other. “When you said it was bad, I didn’t realise you meant almost fatal.”
The moment he saw Lola, his grin faded to a regular smile. “Hi. How’s your hangover?”
One of Lola’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t get hangovers. What’s that?” she said, pointing to the jacket in his arms.
“A casualty of cuteness,” Matteo said. His eyes glowed as he tickled Claudette behind the ear. But the moment Lola stepped closer, the air seemed to shift—like someone had cranked the tension dial up to one hundred.
“Claudette used it as a bed last night,” I said. “Matteo came over on the way home to …” At the tight clamp of Lola’s jaw, my words trailed off. After her jabs about my age and Matteo’s supposed interest in me at the table last night, perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned he stopped by after her party.
She crossed her arms over her chest. “How lovely. You really are a surprise, Matteo. A talented dancer, and a cat lover. You’re the complete package.”
Her voice could cut through steel, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.
Almost immediately, Maurice blustered into the gallery, holding two coffee cups. Lola glared at him, then flounced off to her desk.
Matteo beat a hasty retreat, putting Claudette down on the floor. He tied on a scarf and headed to the door with a wave.
“Where are you going?”
“I have an errand to run. I won’t be long,” he said.
My mouth gaped as I stared after him, fully aware I probably resembled a beached fish. What the hell was going on? Where had all my staff disappeared to, and why were they all so tense?
I turned to Maurice, who looked as shell-shocked as I felt. “Is everything okay?”
He gave a theatrical sigh. “What can I say? One minute Lola blows hot, the next cold. I never know where I stand with her.” He sat on the corner of my desk, coffees still in hand, the shape of his mouth rivalling an upside-down horseshoe.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d meant between Lola and Matteo, not him and her.
“Rough night?” I asked. Was I fishing for information? Absolutely. I knew that any designs Lola had on Matteo hadn’t gone the way she’d wanted, because he’d been here with me. And based on Maurice’s physical and emotional hangover, he’d been the one to take Lola home.
“I’m sorry. You really do care for her, don’t you? ”
He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Why, I don’t know. But no matter. I’ll soldier on. I just wish I knew how to please her.” He stood, shrugged his shoulders and headed to Lola’s desk.
I drew my brows tight together. Matteo had high-tailed it off to who knows where, and my two mainstay team members had obviously fallen out over some misunderstanding. I puffed a breath through my cheeks, feeling a swath of softness against my arm.
I looked down to see Claudette. Her green eyes closed in a slow, knowing blink, as if she understood everything I didn’t. She at least was unbothered by the chaos.
I scratched behind her ears with a sigh. If only the rest of my team was this easy to manage. With the exhibition looming, I needed everyone on the same page—and ideally, still on speaking terms.
The late afternoon sun streamed through the gallery’s front window, bathing everything in a golden glow. Claudette lay on her back, soft belly up, sprawled luxuriously in the new cat bed Matteo had bought during his mysterious morning disappearance.
I’d not been impressed when he vanished without a word, but the moment he returned with a pink, bow-adorned bed—complete with Claudette’s initial embroidered on the cushion—my heart melted.
She hadn’t left it since.
I glanced up at Matteo, perched on the stepladder in the centre of the gallery. He’d spent the afternoon hanging paintings as part of our trial run for the exhibition layout. The unusually warm weather had coaxed him into just a plain white T-shirt and jeans, his neat hair falling into soft, feathered strands over his forehead .
In one hand, he balanced a thin wooden frame; in the other, he held a hammer—his jaw tight with concentration.
“That man is a machine. He doesn’t have an ‘off’ switch, does he?” Maurice’s voice drew my attention. He stood behind me, coffee in hand, gazing up at Matteo with a bemused expression.
I smiled. No, Matteo didn’t have an off switch. But if his constant state of “on” involved keeping my gallery in order, spoiling my cat, and occasionally making me laugh, who was I to send him to the electrician for a rewire?
With a creak of the ladder, Matteo reached up to adjust a frame. The added stretch caused his T-shirt to ride up slightly, revealing a sliver of tanned skin and a faint trail of dark hair vanishing beneath his waistband.
My breath hitched, heat flooding my cheeks. He reminded me of an angel with the way he hung above me. Just give him a pair of wings and a halo.
“It’s a thing of glory, isn’t it?” Maurice asked.
I blinked, my mind scrambling to refocus. “Maurice!” I hissed. “You can’t talk about another staff member like that. It’s not professional.”
He smirked, his eyebrows arching. “I don’t know about you, but I was talking about the portrait.”
The second his words registered my stomach plummeted. My face flamed hotter than the gallery lights. “I didn’t mean … I wasn’t … I don’t…” Words deserted me entirely.
Maurice chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Whatever you say. But you’re only human.” He glanced at Lola. She wore dark glasses inside and was obviously ignoring him today. “I wish I knew his secret.” Maurice sauntered off with a scowl.
I let out a shaky breath and sank back into my chair. As much as I hated to admit it, Maurice wasn’t wrong. I dared another glance at Matteo. His focus hadn’t shifted, his chiselled features illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the windows.
My stomach fluttered. Yes, Maurice had it right the first time—Matteo was a thing of glory. And, if I wasn’t careful, I’d end up as crazy about him as Claudette.
As if he heard my thoughts, he looked down and caught my eye. My heart stuttered, pressure bubbling in my chest. Without thinking, I grabbed a pen and started scribbling on the nearest scrap of paper, desperate to appear busy.
Matteo’s brow lifted slightly, his gaze dropping to my desk. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. “Careful,” he said, his voice laced with amusement. “Even if you are an art connoisseur, I think that still counts as vandalism in France.”
Confused, I followed his gaze and froze. My pen had gone rogue, drifting off the edge of the tiny Post-it note in my haste. A long, looping scrawl now decorated my desk’s polished surface.
“ Merde ,” I muttered under my breath. My antique desk—an expensive investment—now looked like it belonged in a kindergarten classroom.
Matteo’s grin widened. “You might want to focus on your paperwork.”
Damn him. He knew I’d been watching him, and the merest hint of his abs made me deface my furniture. With a “tut,” I snatched the Post-it to hide the evidence. “Just testing … uh, pen durability. I’m thinking of ordering some to give away at the exhibition.” Damn the traitorous high pitch of my voice.
Matteo chuckled, his laughter rich and warm. “As long as nothing distracts you from your testing.” He punctuated his sentence with a wink. Not a leering wink, but a cute, and oh-so-sexy-Matteo-type wink.
An inferno crept up my chest and across my face. I couldn’t hold his gaze any longer. I muttered to myself, spinning my chair to face the wall .
“ Focus, Esmé. Work, not angels. ”
By late afternoon, Lola was testing my boundaries. She had her plus points—her popularity with customers, her education in art history, but today, nothing could please her.
She pointedly ignored me, Maurice, and Matteo, her sometimes frosty demeanour sharper than usual. Incredibly beautiful as always, today she looked tired and a little green around the gills—no doubt from too much champagne, a hefty dose of regret, or both.
I looked at my watch. Fifteen minutes until closing time. Maurice had already called it quits and left early. Under the onslaught of Lola’s scowls, I couldn’t blame him. Even Claudette had abandoned her new bed. Perhaps Lola’s mood had turned her bowl of milk sour.
I closed my eyes to daydream the rest of the day away, when the bell over the gallery door rang, accompanied by a jingle of jewellery. I looked up and my heart plunged. Marianne Rossi headed towards my desk in a cloud of white fur and perfume. She wore heels sharp enough to cut glass, and I wept for my polished floorboards.
“Esmé!” she said, her jowls wobbling with her quick steps. “I’m so glad I caught you before you closed. I didn’t want to wait until Monday. What I have to say is too important.”
I stood, my chair scraping against the floor. “Is it?”
She threw her arms around me, air kissing the space next to my ears.
“Marianne, what can I do for you? What can’t wait?” Maybe she was about to leave the country forever and stopped by to say farewell. I could only hope.
“I wanted to see how things were progressing for the exhibition.” She glanced at the test paintings Matteo had hung— then at Matteo himself. He’d put his business shirt back on and was washing his hands at the back of the gallery. “Nicely, I see.”
Her cheeks blushed a little, and I smiled. Lola and I weren’t the only ones with a crush on my new employee.
“Indeed. With all the team onboard, I’m sure the exhibition will be a success. Was that everything?”
“Sorry?”
“Was that everything you wanted to say? You said it couldn’t wait until Monday.”
She tore her eyes away from Matteo. “My husband,” she said.
I waited for her to continue, but her eyes momentarily drifted back to Matteo. “Is?” I asked. Would she ever get to the point?
She stared at me like I’d asked her about the square root of six. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your husband. You were trying to tell me something about him.”
Her eyes widened, and a smile crept over her lips. “That’s right.” Marianne curled an arm through mine, drawing me closer. “I wanted to speak to you in confidence. Alessandro, my husband, heard some interesting gossip, and I wanted to see if there was any truth to it.”
The skin across the back of my neck prickled, and I swallowed. “Gossip?” Had she discovered who Matteo was? Had she heard about our chairlift kiss, his late-night visit and the new bed he’d bought for Claudette? No, that was silly. He’d only bought the bed this morning. Still, the other options were plausible.
“He heard on the grapevine that you were opening a gallery in Rome.”
My stomach rolled. I’d hoped the news could stay secret until I was sure I could truly afford the move. With Gio onboard, I was more confident, but I couldn’t take anything for granted.
“Well, is it true? You know my husband is Italian. He admires your gallery and would be very interested in investment opportunities. He’s always wanting to dip his toes back into the art scene of his home country. According to him, France, and Paris particularly, is a little, shall we say, snobbish?”
I didn’t disagree with him. “But he’s never met me. Why would he trust me with his money?”
“But I’ve met you. And he knows how highly I think of you and your gallery. Esmé, I’m your greatest cheerleader.”
At that moment, Matteo walked past and sent Marianne a show-stopping smile.
Her face infused a bright raspberry, and she gave him a little wave of her fingers. “You, and your team.”
I smiled, fighting the urge to chuckle. Lola, Marianne, and I were indeed newly signed-up members of the Matteo Romano fan club.
“And can I be honest? Alessandro needs a project. Since his retirement, he’s been getting under my feet. I find him wandering our house like a lost soul. Investing in a new gallery would give him something to talk about. Something to boast about to his rich friends.”
At Marianne’s words, my brain fizzed into action. If I had other investors, I wouldn’t be so reliant on Gio’s money. I wanted Gio on board, but additional stakeholders would give me more breathing room.
More money to spend meant a sharper gallery and more influence. After all, two prestigious investors were better than one. Matteo’s grandfather and Alessandro must know each other—the art world was so incestuous.
“Tell me, what are you doing tomorrow night?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” Marianne said, tearing her eyes from what I highly suspected was Matteo’s buttocks. He was currently bent over, picking something up off the floor. I had to admit, I found his buttocks a distraction at the best of times.
“Tomorrow night. Let me take you both out to dinner. We can talk about art and business.”
Marianne nodded so vigorously I thought her head might pop off and bounce over the floorboards.
I quickly trawled through my limited knowledge of local Italian restaurants. Apart from the pizzeria which operated out of a window in the wall, I came up blank.
I couldn’t ask Matteo. I didn’t want him to know I was hedging my bets with his grandfather’s funding, and I couldn’t be sure his culinary tastes ran much further than baguettes. It was all I’d seen him eat since he’d been here.
“Better still,” I said, “Why don’t you and your husband come here? I live in an apartment above the gallery. I’d love to have you both for dinner and talk more about my plans.”
I’d always heard that Italians loved home cooked food. Though not known for my prowess with a skillet, surely even I could come up with something tasty. And after a few glasses of my father’s wine, who could really tell?
Marianne’s eyes sparkled. “We’d be delighted,” she said. “Shall we say seven p.m.? Can we bring anything?”
My mind raced. Damn, I hadn’t planned on shopping and cooking this weekend. But I didn’t want to look disorganised in front of the Rossis. I had a hair appointment, but if I visited the market on my way home, I could probably make do with what I had in the cupboard. I even had a pasta machine tucked away somewhere.
“Only yourselves,” I said. “You’ll find the entrance to my apartment at the side of the gallery. Ring the bell and I’ll come down and let you in.”
Marianne beamed. “Oh, how lovely! Alessandro will be so excited.”
I wasn’t sure if anyone could be more excited than Marianne, but if I could impress her husband with some decent home cooking, then my already sound business plan would only look better.
“Then I’ll see you both at seven,” I said, bundling her towards the door. She turned back, I swore to find Matteo, but I encouraged her on. I didn’t want her thoughts about him to muddy any waters. He was far too distracting, on many fronts. I needed Marianne and her husband to focus on me and my talents.
After what felt like an eternity, I got her out of the door, pulling the lock behind her. I pressed my head against the cool glass of the window.
Tomorrow had to go perfectly. The Rossis needed to leave impressed, well-fed, and ideally, having given me an investment promise. What could go wrong?