18. Esmé
18
ESMé
I closed the door on the Rossis and turned to face Matteo. He leaned casually against the hallway wall with a massive grin on his face.
“Congratulations,” he said. “I think we should have a drink to celebrate.”
And who was I to turn down a handsome man in a tight, unbuttoned shirt?
“Why not?” I said, grinning. “I think the evening went well.”
I led Matteo back to my sitting room. “Take a seat,” I said, gesturing to the couch. “More wine, or something a little stronger?”
“I wouldn’t turn down a brandy or whisky.”
I raised my eyebrows and tipped my head to one side. “I’m sure I can come up with something.” I turned a key to open my liquor cabinet and took out a dusty old bottle Didier had given me a few birthdays ago. “Cognac?”
“ Si ,” he said, sinking into my couch.
Damn, he looked good against the blush-pink cushions. I poured us each a glass and joined him, letting out a long sigh.
“Big day?” he asked .
“Yes, but I have to say, you added to its success. Thank you.”
He grinned and lifted his glass to mine, knocking them together. “I aim to please. Perhaps I’m not just the annoying coffee-boy anymore.”
I took a sip of my brandy and ran my fingers through my hair. “I don’t remember anyone calling you annoying, and while you do make wonderful coffee, you aren’t a boy, Matteo.”
Something flashed in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
I rolled my eyes. “What I mean is that you need to give yourself credit. Don’t underestimate your abilities. I think you’re perfectly aware of how charming you can be.”
He threw his head back and laughed, a throaty sound that made invisible fingers dance down my spine. “I don’t know about underestimating myself but never underestimate the power of squirrels. Marianne practically offered me a grant to write a research paper on the sacrifice of their tales for art. I told her once they’d removed the hair, the monks kept them in a special enclosure, feeding them nuts and honey until the end of their days.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Well, at least it’s your intelligence she’s interested in. She seems hell bent on marrying me off to someone who can ‘support me’ in the gallery. Like I can’t manage on my own.”
Matteo winced and placed his glass on the side table. “I did notice that. But if you ever need someone to defend your honour or fend off nosy customers, I’m your man.” He leaned back on the cushions, running a hand across the back of his neck. “But I had a thought earlier, when you and Alessandro talked about money. Technically, you’re only employing me for my grandfather’s investment. Does that make me a gigolo?” His eyes glinted and the dimples he’d apparently inherited from Gio appeared on his cheeks.
I huffed a breath. “Matteo! ”
“What? I don’t mind. Few men my age can say an older woman has used them for nefarious purposes. There must be some bragging rights.”
My shoulders sank at the reality of his words. Wasn’t that exactly what I’d done? Used him for nefarious purposes? I’d let him stay for dinner so he could charm and distract a woman while I secured a financial commitment from her husband. It wasn’t wrong, per se, but it left a sour taste. A taste I couldn’t entirely blame on the brandy warming my throat.
And then he’d mentioned my being older. A passing comment, perhaps. Casual. But it stung more than I cared to admit.
I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the clink of ice filling the silence between us. My gaze wandered over the planes of his face, taking in the firm lines of his jaw and the shadow of stubble. Then lower, to the golden skin of his chest, and the light dusting of dark hair teasing its way from his shirt. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a glossy magazine.
He was infuriatingly good-looking; the kind of man women threw themselves at—young, carefree women without a shred of responsibility. But then, there were moments like this—when his eyes lingered on me, and a gravitational pull tugged me into his orbit whether I liked it or not.
“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I murmured. “How old are you?”
His eyebrows lifted for a second. “That’s a bold question.”
And one I’d dreaded asking since he arrived. “It’s just that I have no idea. In fact, I know very little about you at all. What you do outside of the gallery or where you go every weekend.” Matteo had disappeared both weekends he’d been here, and I’d seen no sign of a girlfriend.
“You mean you haven’t stalked me online?”
I swallowed. I’d forbidden myself to do it. “No,” I said. “It’s against my staff policy.”
Matteo leaned forward and picked up his glass, taking a sip. “Well, I can’t boast such restraint. I’ve read all about you. Esmé Laurent, patron of the arts. Artistic visionary and entrepreneur. A curator with an eye for groundbreaking talent.”
A cold shiver swept over my shoulders. Those were the words from an article that appeared in last month’s Paris Match magazine.
He’d read about me.
“Writers often fabricate or exaggerate in articles.”
He shook his head. “I don’t doubt what the press says about you. Art is your passion.”
My face heated at the glow in his eyes. I shifted my position. “Well, seeing as I’m at a disadvantage, what do you do, Matteo? You know more than a little about my life. Where do you go when you’re not here in Paris? What’s your passion?”
His answer was immediate, as though he’d been waiting for the question. “Simple. I love speed. Snow. Danger. The exhilaration of being on the edge of control.”
I bit my lip. His response wasn’t what I expected, but the way his words coiled around my senses left my pulse thrumming. “Control?”
He nodded, his eyes sparkling. “I like to go fast. Scare myself a little.”
I didn’t know about being scared, but the way his lips curled into a smile was downright lethal.
"When was the last time your heart pounded in your chest?" he asked, leaning forward in his seat, his body heat meeting mine.
Was he kidding? My heart was racing out of control right now. I forced a laugh. "Do you mean in the life-threatening sense? Or just when my pasta machine decides to rust up?"
"Both," he said, his grin widening. "When was the last time you did something that terrified you?"
I blinked. Should I mention our after-dark rendezvous in the gallery last week? Or how about right now as the air crackled around us? I straightened. "I’ve done crazy things before."
"Like what?" His tone was casual, but there was an edge that made my stomach flip.
"Um …" I wracked my brain. Did spilling coffee on one of Luc’s paintings count? My heart had certainly raced as he’d paced around the gallery, ranting like a diva. "I’ve … well …"
"What have you done, Esmé? Tell me.” His voice was gentle, coaxing, bordering flirtatious. "Have you ever jumped out of a plane?"
My stomach churned at the mere thought. "You know enough about me to understand that would be a hard ‘no.’”
He shrugged. "Okay. Gone diving with sharks?"
"Absolutely not."
"Climbed a rock face without a rope or harness?"
“Again,” I said, waving a hand around me. “Heights. And I don’t know many people who’d be so stupid.”
Matteo’s smile implied he’d done all those things and more.
I pulled my brows together. With that smirk, was he suggesting I was dull? “Well,” I said, a little sharper than intended, "Clearly, you’re the one living life to the fullest. I’m happy with my feet firmly on the ground, thank you."
He took a sip of his drink, rolling the liquid around in his glass. "Wouldn’t you like to try? Feel a little out of control?" he countered softly. "You might surprise yourself."
I gave my head a tiny shake. "What exactly are you proposing?"
His eyes sparked with mischief. "There’s a zip line in the forest just outside the city. Come with me next weekend. Treat it as a warm-up for rock climbing."
My throat dried. "I said no rock climbing."
He gave a throaty laugh. "I know, I’m joking. No rock climbing. But you’ll be perfectly safe on the zip line with me." He leaned back, tipping his head against the cushions.
The olive skin at his neck glowed in the light of the side lamp, and I wet my bottom lip.
"Unless, of course, you’re afraid to loosen up," he whispered.
I tightened my eyes. Loosen up? Afraid? He had no idea. But there was something about the way he looked at me—as if I was already halfway to saying yes—that made my pulse quicken.
“How many times do I have to remind you I’m afraid of heights?”
“I know,” he said, leaning closer again.
He lightly grazed the back of his fingers across my forearm, sending shivers to every corner of my body. “But we can’t always live guarding ourselves against the things that could hurt or frighten us.”
He was so close; the air pulsed between us. His words were intense and loaded with challenge; did I dare accept?
“I’ll be there with you, and you really do owe me a favour. Two, actually. One, for the pasta rescue and two, for distracting Marianne.”
I clamped my jaw. He had a point. Without him, I’d have fed potential investors store bought sauce in a jar, and who knows how old pasta spirals. I met Matteo’s eyes. His long, thick lashes framed their cheeky glow, brimming with temptation.
“Okay.” The word came out of my mouth before I realised.
He smiled gently. “You will?”
I sighed, brushing the velvet arm of my couch the wrong way. “Yes, though I can’t believe I’m agreeing. I have so much work to do next week.”
His dimples reappeared. “Well, it’s too late to pull out now. You’d break my heart.”
Something in his voice—the way his tongue brushed over his bottom lip—tugged at my heart. He looked vulnerable, so different from the confident man I’d come to know. But who was I kidding? In the real world, Matteo would break my heart.
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I checked the number before sending Matteo a smile. “It’s Papa. He probably wants a run-down of the evening.” Minus Matteo’s impromptu shower and seventies porn star vibe, of course. “As well as a pasta disaster, I may have had a tiny wine emergency, too. He was on hand to advise.”
Matteo nodded. “I read your father’s an incredible winemaker.”
A warm glow filled my chest. “He is.”
Matteo shifted on the couch. “Then I can leave knowing he and I have both looked after you tonight. Marianne would be so pleased.”
His cheeky grin almost stopped my heart, but when he stood, I leaned forward. “You’re going?” I cringed inside. Did I sound disappointed or, heaven forbid, desperate?
“It’s late,” he said, staring down at me. “And I have a date with my bed. You see, I have this incredible boss, but she works me so hard, I need to rest.”
The sparkle in his eyes made my head spin. When he offered his hand, I took it, our skin meeting in a press of heat.
“She’s that mean, huh?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “A tyrant.”
I chuckled, and he pulled me off the couch.
“And I’ll need to prep for any rope-related emergencies next weekend. My cruel boss has decided to put her life in my hands.”
Our eyes met and molecules bounced in the air.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” he said, his voice quiet and low.
“And thank you for helping charm my guests into potentially parting with their money.”
“Like I said earlier, I aim to please.” He turned and walked to the hallway, throwing a smile over his shoulder. “Maybe I can get a bonus at Christmas.”
When we reached the door, he stepped aside, allowing me to open it. With a dip of his head, he picked up his running clothes from the side table and paused. “I’ll see you on Monday?”
I nodded, staying quiet. I didn’t trust what I’d say if I opened my mouth.
Matteo lingered on the step, his lips a tight line. After a long beat, he leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek, his soft lips warming my skin. “Goodnight.”
I breathed in, fingertips grazing the spot where his lips had touched. My skin tingled, and I pressed my hand there, as if to hold onto in his touch.
“Goodnight,” I whispered.
All too soon, he turned and took the stairs to the street, not through the gallery. His footfall echoed in the hallway, his broad back shifting inside Didier’s shirt with each step.
“Twenty-seven,” he called out, his words bouncing off the walls.
“Sorry?”
“I’m twenty-seven.”
I blinked, but before my brain could catch up, Matteo was halfway out the door.
I did a quick mental calculation—there were only four years between us. Maybe it was his playful energy that made him seem so much younger. And really, did a few years—or a shift in decades—matter that much?
I stood on the step, fighting my quickening breath. What was I even doing? None of this should matter. I shouldn’t think of Matteo as anything other than my assistant.
But memories of him standing in my bathroom, shirtless in just his track pants, came crashing into my mind. Heat rushed to my cheeks as I pressed a hand to my head, to banish the image.
No. I had to remember who he was—and who I was.
"I turned and closed the door, my heartbeat slowing. We were just going zip lining—that was all.
I headed for the kitchen, steeling myself for the dishes ahead. On the way, I silently prayed to Saint Joan of Arc for just a fraction of her bravery.
I couldn’t deny it—the thought of hurtling down a zip line made my heart race. But the idea of spending more time with Matteo outside the gallery? That was infinitely more terrifying.