15. Esmé
15
ESMé
I busied myself in the kitchen. Trying not to imagine Matteo soaping himself in my shower. Trying not to think about that bronzed, perfectly sculpted chest he greeted me with at the bathroom door. Or the lazy smile on his lips.
The second he’d arrived; my pulse had been on a treadmill set to max. He’d teased me, made jokes like he normally did, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was flirting with me.
I dragged my cloth over the countertop. Of course he was. Matteo was an Italian man. From my limited experience, they were masters of charm.
His words meant nothing. I’d just been so used to plain, steady and, yes, dull Didier. Matteo was younger. He was carefree, playful and handsome—all the things I should avoid.
My mind drifted to our meeting on the chairlift, as it so often did. To when our mouths touched. Those few seconds—the softness of his lips, and his warm sweet breath—was locked into my memory for eternity.
“Nurse, please ready the patient.”
Matteo’s voice shattered my fantasy. I turned around. The sight of him in my ex’s clothes made me smile. The two of them couldn’t look more different if they tried.
Matteo grimaced. “The trousers fit, but the shirt is a little tight.”
A little tight? Damn right it was. Matteo and Didier had very different physiques.
He glanced down at himself. “I promise this isn’t a style choice.”
I followed his gaze. He’d unbuttoned the royal blue shirt to the top of his washboard stomach, and the cotton strained across his shoulders. The deep olive skin of Matteo’s chest was on full display. With his hair hanging in damp curls, he looked like a seventies porn star. All he needed was a gold medallion and pinkie ring.
I stepped away, stifling the grin threatening to erupt on my lips. “Everything is ready, doctor.”
Matteo stepped toward the counter. I’d laid out a fresh mixing bowl and spoon, but he moved them aside. Instead, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and picked up the bag of semolina flour, emptying it onto the counter.
I opened my mouth to protest at the mess, but he brought a finger to his lips, then shook his head.
Next, he took two fingers and made a well in the middle of the semolina, like a volcano crater. With a grin, he took an egg from the box and cracked it against the counter, tipping the insides into the hole he’d made.
I watched in absolute silence as he worked it into the flour. Every move he made was exact. Precise. But somehow, he added a flourish. A touch of flamboyance.
“I had no idea you were such a show pony.”
He looked up at me and winked. He worked his hands through the flour, kneading and moulding it, the corded length of his forearms doing all sorts of things to my insides. As I watched, my mouth ran dry. What I wouldn’t give for a …
“Would you like a drink?” I asked, heading over to a bottle of the ill-fated merlot.
He shook his head. “Are you trying to get me drunk? I don’t want to be accused of kitchen-negligence. To Italians, making pasta is sacred business.”
“Fine,” I said, opening the bottle and decanting it into a carafe. “But I’ll need to taste it to check it’s okay.” I tipped a small amount into a glass and swallowed it.
Matteo smiled. “What are you serving the pasta with?”
“Just a sauce I picked up.” I pointed at the Tower of Pisa jar that sat on the end of the counter. “No judgment, please. I didn’t have a chance to get anything else.”
He stared at the small glass pot like it was radioactive, though he said nothing.
After much kneading—and a lot of me drooling over his forearms—Matteo finally announced the dough was ready. “It just needs to rest for a while. You may as well go do something useful.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe prep for this evening? I’m assuming your dinner is for something important. Who are you trying to impress?” He stopped, hands around the ball of pasta. “Is it a new lover?” His eyes flashed, and I swallowed.
“No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Who then?” he asked, moving to the sink and washing his hands.
My gut rolled gently. Should I tell him about the Rossis? He might tell his grandfather I was talking to other investors about my new gallery. But I couldn’t imagine Gio would mind. There’d been no mention of exclusivity in the deal we’d discussed.
“I’m exploring investment opportunities for my gallery in Rome. Your grandfather aside, it would be comforting to have options.” My skin prickled as I waited for his response .
After a long beat, Matteo shrugged his shoulders. “That sounds sensible. As my grandfather would say, sometimes it’s good to hedge your bets. Spread the risks.”
I pulled my brows together. “I hope your grandfather doesn’t think I’m a risk.”
Matteo gave a tiny shake of his head. “He’s a bit like me. He thinks you’re amazing.”
At the glow in his eyes, my heart tap-danced against my ribs.
“So, I ask again,” he said. “Who are you trying to impress tonight?”
I let out a breath. “One of my regular customers and her husband. He’s the one interested in investing, and he’s Italian.”
“Who are they?”
“The wife you’ve met.”
“Who?”
“Marianne Rossi,” I said.
A smile spread over his face. “I see. And her husband?”
“He’s a big art buyer. With the Italian connection, she thought he might be interested. He’s Alessandro Rossi. Do you know of him?”
Matteo shook his head. “Not personally, though I don’t move in the same circles as my grandfather.”
Matteo covered his dough, pausing to run his eyes over my hair.“Are you staying in that outfit?”
I glanced down. My chest looked like a snowstorm had slammed into it. “Oh.”
“And you have flour in your hair,” he said, lifting his hand to push a strand away from my face.
I looked into his eyes, my breath a little shaky as the room shrank around us. “Do I?”
Matteo nodded, a smile on his face. “Go and shower. I’ll stay here on dough duty. ”
I gripped one corner of my lips between my teeth. “Are you sure?”
“ Si ,” he said. “It’s what I do best.”
With the cheeky grin accompanying his words, I highly doubted it.