13. Esmé
13
ESMé
“ P apa! Are you sure?”
“ Oui ,” my father said, his voice sounding tinny through the phone, a stark contrast to its usual earthy warmth.
I dragged a hand through my newly blown-out hair. “But I thought you said Merlot, not Montepulciano. Does Merlot even go with tomatoes?”
Papa chuckled. “ Cherie , be calm. It’s an easy mistake to make. They sound similar.”
I rolled my eyes. Maybe in an ideal world Merlot and Montepulciano sounded similar. I’d wanted to serve Italian wine tonight, but let’s face it—I hadn’t been paying attention. Not to wine, not on my exhibition, and not on impressing investors. No matter how hard I tried, my thoughts always drifted back to one thing—or person—Matteo.
“Will anyone notice the difference?”
"Well … one is drier on the palate, but if you decant it now and are generous with the aperitifs before you eat, you might just get away with it."
I grimaced. His words weren’t comforting, but I’d invested in a bottle of Aperol spritz and one of Limoncello, so at least there was hope. My gaze drifted to a pigeon pecking at my windowsill, his beak gnarly and chipped. His feathers looked greasy and patchy. I hoped the bird wasn’t a portent of doom—an omen of failure.
Shaking my head, trying to dislodge my gloom, I tucked my phone under my chin. According to the recipe, it was time to let my pasta dough rest. I wrapped it snugly in cling wrap and gave it a brisk slap, as if that might inspire it to behave. It looked a bit lumpy, but surely that’s what the resting was for?
“How are things looking for Rome?” my father asked. “What progress have you made?” Glasses or bottles clinked in the background, and I imagined Papa in his wine cellar surrounded by dust and barrels.
I turned my back on my pasta dough, leaning against the counter. “I think I’ve got an investment locked in from an Italian backer.”
“You think?”
“No, I’m sure. But there are conditions I have to meet to secure the full amount.”
My tummy shifted. Did I dare mention Matteo? After all, he was a vital part of the deal. I could only rely on Gio Romano’s money if he stayed with me for six months and I taught him about the art business. So far, the only business I’d taught him was taking care of my coffee habit and my cat.
“But I have other irons in the fire. That’s what tonight’s about. I’m trying to impress another interested party. The more investors I have, the more money I have to spend. And I’ll be honest, Luc’s name is a huge draw card.”
Papa chuckled. “Don’t tell him that. He doesn’t need any help building his ego. So, these new investors are the ones you’re having over tonight? Which caterer did you use?”
“Oh, I’m not using caterers … I’m cooking for them.”
Silence greeted me over the phone, followed by my father clearing his throat. “Esmé? Have you thought this through? ”
I narrowed my eyes at the hesitation in his voice. “Papa, you sound like Iris.”
Iris and Luc had a running joke I couldn’t be trusted within ten meters of a kitchen. Personally, I thought they were being dramatic. I could follow a recipe as well as the next person. But my father had as much confidence as they did, it seemed.
“I’m sorry, cherie , but I have to agree with her. Didn’t you give both her and Luc food poisoning at Christmas?”
I rolled my eyes. “I told you before, the veal must have been spoiled. It had nothing to do with my cooking.”
Something tightened in my chest at the memory, though. Luc and Iris had been bedridden for days, pale and miserable. Me too.
I glanced at the upscale pasta sauce I’d bought after my hair appointment and clamped my teeth together. I’d honestly meant to get fresh ingredients at the market, but by the time I got there, the vegetables looked anything but crisp.
Wary of using squidgy tomatoes and wilted basil, I’d picked up a jar of sauce from a boutique food store. The label on the front had a jaunty picture of the tower of Pisa. I only hoped the sauce wasn’t as wonky as the landmark.
“It’ll be fine,” I said. Was I trying to convince myself more than my father? “I’m making pasta. I’m going to give them an authentic Italian experience they’ll never forget.” I turned around and slapped my dough again. This time, it completely refused to give way beneath my hand. Surely, I’d rested it long enough. Shouldn’t it be at least a little softer?
“Papa? Shouldn’t pasta dough bounce?”
He laughed. “Are you planning on throwing it around the room?”
“No.”
“Then why do you need it to bounce?”
“Not bounce exactly. More like squash under pressure. It has to go through a pasta roller, after all. I read something about gluten doing something scientific when it’s rested.”
He chuckled again. “I’m sure it’s fine. Gluten does what gluten does. The true hero is the sauce you dress the pasta with.”
My gut twisted. I’d assumed my homemade pasta would save any flaws in the store-bought sauce, not add to them. First, the wine blunder—now this. If the pasta turned out like cement, what did that say about my ability to deliver a stunning new gallery? With the wrong wine and a jar of stir-in sauce, I was hardly selling myself as a solid investment.
Did the Rossis actually give a damn about my culinary skills? Probably not. But someone who couldn’t handle the pressure of a low-key dinner without spiralling wouldn’t make the best impression.
“Papa, I have to go.” Could he hear the shakiness in my voice? “Thanks for your help. I’ll call you later.”
I ended the call and laid my phone down on my shiny countertop. Sticking out my index finger, I prodded my pasta dough again. Nothing. No “give” under the pressure. I tipped my head to one side. Maybe I expected too much? Maybe not every pasta ball needed elasticity? I sighed. Only one way to find out. Time to find my pasta machine.
I found the machine hidden at the back of a cupboard. It was covered by a set of colanders and a biscuit tin decorated with teddy bears. I pulled out the box, brushing the dust off its top. I ran my hand over the cardboard, pulling my brows together. I’d only ever used the machine once, but I didn’t remember the brown spots on the box.
A sinking feeling settled in my chest as I tore open the cardboard. The once-shiny machine was ruined—not just speckled with rust, but utterly caked in it, like a forgotten metal bucket left out in the rain.
I grabbed a fork from the cutlery drawer and scraped at the damage with unsteady hands. It was no use. The rust had eaten deep into the metal. I could’ve sworn I dried it after washing, but the evidence told a different story.
When the fork made no progress, I pulled out the big guns, banging the machine with a large wooden rolling pin. A few determined whacks later, I tried the handle again, but the mechanism didn’t budge. “ Merde ,” I muttered, jabbing at the dough. It still refused to yield. Any fettuccine I made from this solid mound would probably taste like bicycle tires.
I crossed the kitchen, rifling one handed through my dry food cupboard for something, anything, to dig me out of the gaping culinary hole I’d dug for myself. I needed pasta. I couldn’t hand-roll my dough in its current state.
I pulled packets out, searching all the corners, but all I found were fancy spirals. There was no way to pass them off as homemade. They were too uniform. Too perfect. The Rossis would know I’d made none of the food myself.
“Non, non, non!” I shouted, my voice echoing off the high ceiling.
I was just going to have to use the spirals and the jar sauce. I had no choice. Any decent caterers would be fully booked, and I was too late to make reservations at a good restaurant. Standard take-away food just wouldn’t cut it—not tonight. A massive ball of pressure built up in my chest and I let out a growl.
The sound barely finished reverberating off the walls when a knock at the door startled me.
My blood ran cold, and I looked at the clock. If the caller was the Rossis, they were incredibly early. I’d heard no one out in the stairwell. My hallway was notoriously echo prone. Any visitor would have had to creep up the old stone steps to arrive in silence. I froze, listening. Maybe I had a burglar.
I tightened my fingers around my rolling pin and moved to my front door. When I arrived, I pressed my ear to the wood. Only soft shuffling. What did a burglar even sound like? I took a breath and tentatively opened the door.
Matteo stood on the step. He wore grey sweatpants, his skin glistening with a light sheen of perspiration. His chest rose and fell against the snug white T-shirt he wore, the outline of his pecs searing themselves into my mind.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been out for a run. I left a book downstairs.”
I leaned out into the hallway. The door leading up from the gallery hung open. He must have come upstairs that way. I’d given him his own gallery key yesterday. No wonder I didn’t hear him.
“You said you were going away this weekend.”
He shrugged. “I had a change of plans. Everything I needed to do I could do in Paris.”
He glanced behind me, scanning the apartment. “Are you okay? I heard shouting.”
I gave a wry laugh. “That was just me. I like to take my frustrations out on inanimate objects.”
His eyes tracked down to my hand. “A rolling pin?”
Of course. I still had my hand wrapped around it. “No. My pasta machine.”
Matteo smirked. “And that’s more logical because …?”
I rolled my eyes. “I have dinner guests I’m trying to impress, and the machine has other ideas.”
He tipped his head to one side, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Show me. Maybe I can help.”
I gripped my bottom lip with my teeth, running my eyes over his face. A shadow of stubble clung to his jaw and his usually tame hair hung in unruly waves. Something fluttered in my tummy. Was inviting him inside a good idea? Would he get the wrong idea … would I?
But I needed help. He probably had stronger fingers than me. He might get the worst of the rust off and get the machine’s mechanism working. Against my better judgement, I stepped aside. “Come in.”
One minute later, Matteo looked at my pasta machine and chuckled. “Was this an unwanted Christmas present? I don’t think you’ll be able to return it.”
I grimaced. “It’s a lost cause, isn’t it?”
Matteo reached out and squeezed at my pasta dough with a smile. “I don’t think the machine is the only lost cause.”
“Sorry?”
“What kind of flour did you use?” he asked, side-eying my dough.
“Just normal flour. The type that comes from fields and ends up in windmills.” I regretted the slight edge to my voice, but Matteo didn’t react.
“You need semolina flour,” he said.
“I do?”
He nodded like he was stating the obvious. “It’s finer. The gluten acts differently. The shape of the dough holds together better.”
I narrowed my eyes, drying my hands on a cloth. “You know an awful lot about flour and pasta.”
He chuckled, his tone deep and dreamy. “Esmé.” His voice dripped over me like a thick molasses. “I’m Italian. We learn to make pasta before we can walk.” He moved to my still open cupboard and crouched in front of it, reaching inside.
His solid thighs strained against his sweatpants, revealing muscles I’d never noticed before. The smart pants he wore to work had done womankind a disservice.
“Here,” he said, bringing out an innocuous blue and white bag in his fist. “Semolina flour.”
I had semolina flour. Who knew? That solitary bag must be a hangover from when my ex lived here. I had no clue what to do with it.
Matteo joined me at the sink, turning on the tap .
I stepped back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going to remake your dough.”
I ran my eyes over him. His T-shirt was plastered against his chest, held in place by perspiration. I pulled my brows together. His current state followed no food hygiene regulations I’d ever heard of.
Matteo followed my gaze.
“Do you think you should take a shower?” I asked.
He curled an eyebrow and sent me a cheeky grin. “Only if you want me to.”
My chest fizzed, and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t get any ideas. You're quite, well … sweaty. Cooking in that state isn’t sanitary.” I wasn’t sure food-poisoning-by-perspiration was a thing, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
“I’ve been out for a long run. I wasn’t expecting to help you. Besides, I have nothing to change into. I suppose you have your pink cardigan downstairs, but other than that, I’d be naked. Unless, of course, you have an apron.”
The curve of his lips made me fold my arms across my chest. Damn him, he was laughing at me, but there was no way I was going to let my new assistant remake my pasta dough wearing just an apron. There had to be laws against that sort of thing.
My brain wandered to the old wardrobe in my room. It was still cluttered with Didier’s belongings. We’d parted on good terms, so he’d left a few items behind, promising to collect them eventually. That “eventually” had yet to arrive.
“I may have something you can wear.”
Matteo wiggled his eyebrows. “Nice. More knitwear? One of your pretty dresses? The one with the pink roses might show off my eyes. Or how about the green one that makes your hair shine?”
A breath stuttered in my throat. He’d noticed my dresses and my hair? I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Mary Magdalene, patron saint of hairdressers, for my timely visit to the salon earlier.
I tipped my chin up and shrugged. “I’ll see what I can do. But I draw the line at sequins. I don’t think they’d suit your colouring. Too showy.”
A glorious grin spread over his lips. “Agreed.”
I showed Matteo to my bathroom and handed him a fluffy towel from the side. I nodded towards my cupboard. “You can borrow anything you need, but fair warning—the peony shower gel might not be your vibe.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but I shut the door in his face with the sweetest smile I could muster.
I stood with my back pressed against the wood, heart thundering in my chest. Matteo was in my bathroom—about to be naked in my bathroom—in the shower in my bathroom. The sound of his humming filtered through the door, and I slapped my palm to my forehead.
What the hell was I doing? How had an innocent pasta emergency escalated into … this?
Matteo and Didier were not the same size. There was no way anything in the wardrobe would fit him. But my only other option was to have him wear a towel. A very small towel. And what if someone walked in? What if Maurice or, God forbid, Lola showed up for a surprise visit? They’d assume Matteo and I were sleeping together. That I was after his grandfather’s money.
I exhaled slowly.
Calm down, Esmé. No one would see him.