16. Matteo
16
MATTEO
T he smell of spring flowers hit my nose, and I lifted my head to see Esmé. Her damp hair hung in loose tendrils around her face. She wore a necklace of beaded flowers and had changed into a green dress that clung to her body. She looked like a forest fairy.
I refocused on my work, wiping down her countertop before chopping herbs on an old wooden board.
Esmé looked around at her sparkling kitchen. “What are you doing?”
I smiled. “I’m sorry, but I had to put your pasta sauce out if it’s misery.”
She ran her eyes over the counter. “What did you do with it?”
I chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s unharmed, but I put it into lockdown.”
“Sorry, what?”
“Let’s just say, I’d only recommend eating it in an emergency. Instead, you’ll be serving a burnt butter sauce with sage tonight.”
Her eyes widened. “I will?”
“Yes. I found some sorry-looking plants on your balcony. Thankfully, the snails hadn’t attacked them all.”
She sighed and wagged her head back and forth. “I’ve tried everything to keep the snails away, but they’re like a plague.”
“Coffee grounds,” I said.
“What?”
“Sprinkle coffee grounds around your plants. Snails hate the smell and the texture.”
A small line grew between her brows. “How do you know that?”
“I’m a good Italian boy. I listen to my Nonna .”
A grin erupted onto Esmé’s face and heat crept up my chest. She really was the most beautiful woman.
“Burnt sage sauce?” she asked.
“ Si .”
Esmé leaned against the counter at my side. “It sounds complicated. Are you sure I can manage? I mean, I can probably handle the burning bit.”
I chuckled and stopped my chopping, gathering the herbs to a pile with the blade of my knife. “Can you melt butter?”
“Yes.”
“And can you stir sage leaves around in melted butter until it turns brown?”
She edged a little closer. “Yes.”
“Then you’re a natural. That’s literally it.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s too simple.”
I grinned. “The best things are. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I dusted semolina flour onto the counter and reached for Esmé’s rolling pin. As I rolled out the dough, the soft rhythm of my strokes filled the quiet kitchen.
Esmé hopped up to sit on the counter, her legs swinging. “I think you’ve been a chef in a past life.”
“Maybe just a downtrodden housewife,” I teased, glancing at her .
“Well, I appreciate your help.” Her gaze followed the rolling pin’s movements.
“Something wrong with my technique?” I asked.
She blinked, pulling her gaze away. “No, it’s … perfect.”
I smiled. Perfect. Noted.
Esmé crossed her legs and leaned back against a cupboard door. The move seemed so familiar, intimate even, and my skin tingled under her gaze. I could seriously get used to being in her kitchen.
“How will you cut the pasta?” she asked.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it with this.” I picked up a squeaky old pizza cutter I found in a drawer. I ran the wheel down the now thin dough again and again, cutting long strips. “I’m glad you at least have some basic equipment.” I nodded to the now binned pasta machine. “I’m going to have to take you shopping. If my grandmother knew I’d left you culinarily naked, she’d never forgive me.”
Esmé’s eyes flared. “Naked?”
Just then, her phone buzzed from a text. She picked it up and read the screen. Her face drained of colour. “ Merde . It’s Marianne. They’re early, and almost here. They’re having trouble with the front door. I better let them in. You can go down the gallery stairs and let yourself out that way.”
My stomach twisted. I hated that she wanted to hide me from her guests, but hadn’t I surprised her with my visit? She had no idea I’d be here when they arrived. “Sure.”
Esmé scooted off the counter and disappeared. She returned seconds later with my running clothes neatly folded into a pile, my trainers laying on top. I grabbed my shoes, pushing them onto my bare feet.
She smiled; her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry. I don’t think my socks would fit you.”
I shook my head. “I’d be more worried they’d ruin the look I have going on.” I glanced down at my clothes. “I’m going to attract some attention on my way home.”
Esmé ran her eyes over my open shirt, and the corners of her lips trembled. “Point taken. I’m sorry I’m rushing you out.”
“It’s okay. I understand.” I took the clothes in her arms, heading for the front door.
We stopped on the doormat, and she looked up at me. “Thank you again. I don’t know how I can pay you back.”
I grinned. “I’m sure I’ll think of something. I’ll see you on Monday morning. Good luck tonight.”
I turned to leave, but when Esmé pulled open the door, Marianne was standing at the top of the stairs. A huge smile lit up her face and her eyes bounced between both Esmé and I.
“Here you are! We managed to find you, after all.” Her eyes finally rested on me. “And Matteo, isn’t it? I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Esmé’s eyes grew to the size of pizzas and her mouth opened, but nothing came out.
I stepped forward. “Marianne, it’s wonderful to see you.” I reached out to shake her hand, and my sweatpants slid off the top of the pile in my arms, landing on the floor. I bent down to pick them up, coming to stand right in front of her.
She ran her eyes over my open shirt, and one of her eyebrows lifted. “And it’s wonderful to see you too, only I’m used to seeing you downstairs and a little more … dressed.” She looked back at Esmé with a smirk on her red lips.
Esmé, for her part, looked like she wanted the earth to open and swallow her whole. Finally, she spoke. “Matteo’s been working in the gallery this afternoon. He was just dropping in …”
Marianne nodded at the pile of clothes in my arms. “To pick up some laundry?” Her cheeky grin made my skin prickle.
“I didn’t realise this was a costume party?” A deep baritone voice echoed in the hallway, and I squinted into the gloom.A man with silver hair and a moustache arrived at the top of the stairs, carrying a bottle of wine.
“Allow me to introduce my husband, Alessandro.” Marianne said
Esmé stepped forward, her smile becoming the one I’d grown used to at the gallery. Her public face, as I liked to think of it. Cool, professional, untouchable. “Monsieur Rossi, Marianne has told me so much about you. It’s a pleasure. I’m Esmé Laurent.”
Marianne’s eyes glowed as Esmé and Alessandro shook hands. Alessandro’s eyes drifted to me. “And this is?”
“Matteo,” said Esmé. “He’s been working with me on the new Luc du Comtois exhibition.Are you familiar with Luc’s work? Come inside and I can show you some preview pictures.”
Esmé took Alessandro’s arm and guided him into the apartment.
“Will Matteo be joining us?” Marianne asked.
“No.” Esmé said, her voice firm and clear. “Matteo was just heading home. He’s had a long day in the gallery.”
At her dismissal, my heart sank. I couldn’t blame her, though. She hadn’t planned on me being here, and my presence would only be a distraction.
Marianne shook her head. “Nonsense. Why don’t you stay? I’m sure Esmé can make room.”
“I don’t want to … impose,” I said.
“I’m sure you’re not. I, for one, would love to hear more of your fascinating insights into art.”
I grinned. “You remembered.”
“How could I forget? Esmé, please tell Matteo he’s welcome to stay.”
Esmé stood still, like a deer in headlights, and I longed to reach out and take her hand. I knew her well enough by now to know she hated being out of control. Being unable to decide for herself. Esmé blinked, looking at Marianne .
“Um…”
“I’ll only stay a little while,” I said. “I have things to do.” I willed Esmé to look at me. When she finally did, I gave her what I hoped was an apologetic smile. “And it’s a bit cold outside for this shirt.”
She ran her eyes to my chest, and the tiniest hint of a smile played on her lips. “Okay. Please, come in, everyone.”
I stepped aside and ushered Marianne through the front door, placing my running clothes on the hallway table. Esmé closed it behind me and caught my gaze with a look of pure pain on her face. “You could have said no,” she hissed under her breath.
I shrugged, keeping my voice low. “But who would keep Marianne entertained while you charm her husband? I’ll keep her distracted while you do your thing.”
She opened her mouth, as if she’d say more, but Marianne’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Esmé, do you need help with the pasta?”
Esmé spoke with a tight smile, her voice dangerously sweet. “It’s okay. I’m sure Matteo will be more than happy to assist.”
Esmé leaned in. “Please, just stay out of trouble,” she whispered, before turning to the kitchen.
Trouble? I could keep things above board for Marianne Rossi. The real test would be doing the same for my boss.