Page 60 of Polo Fever
As his jaw drops open with his gasp, I cackle with laughter.
‘I’mjoking!’
‘You…’ He blows the air out of his cheeks, shaking his head. ‘I’m going to make you pay for that.’
I’m still smirking as I step onto the open-air deck, gazing out at the breathtaking panoramic views of the entire city. I take a moment to appreciate how beautiful it is, how peaceful and calming it is up here, and how I wish Mateo was looking out at this with me.
‘This better be good,’ mutters a grumpy voice behind me.
I spin around to find him stepping out of the elevator in acomically dramatic fashion, clinging to the rail and pressing his foot down very slowly and carefully onto the deck.
‘Fuck me. This better bemagical,’ he emphasises in a strangled voice.
Rushing over to him, I throw my arms around him.
‘You came up here!’ I exclaim in disbelief.
‘Yes, I had to come find you,’ he says, in between deep inhales and exhales as he tries to steady his breathing.
I take a step back, holding his shoulders.
‘Aren’t you scared?’ I ask in amazement.
He swallows and nods after a long exhale. ‘Yes,’ he admits, his eyes shining at me. ‘I’m terrified. But usually, that means the reward is greater.’
My heart aches for him. Before I can think about what any of this means, I take his hand and lift it to my lips, planting soft kisses across his knuckles. When I look back up at him, he’s watching me intently, his mouth parted slightly, his eyebrows knitted together.
‘Here,’ I prompt, leading him cautiously to the edge. ‘Come with me.’
*
As a born-and-bred Londoner, I find it hard to imagine any other city ever coming close to being as cool as mine, but Paris sure does put up a good fight. There’s so much to see and do here, I’m disappointed we only have a day to enjoy it. After coming down from the Eiffel Tower, Mateo had an adrenaline rush so big, he could barely stand still, glancing back over his shoulder constantly as we walked away from it, going, ‘What thefuck? You see how tall that thing is? You see howhighit is? We were up there, Ash! Right at the top!’
It is such a gorgeous sunny day, we went for a coffee by the river and I sat there sipping from my tiny espresso cup, looking at the Seine through my sunglasses, feeling like Audrey Hepburn. We went on to the Louvre where both of us tried to out-bullshit the other talking about the exhibition, neither of us knowing anything about art, and sending each other into fits of laughter. My favourite moment was when Mateo gasped suddenly and I turned to see him waving me over eagerly.
‘There’s a horse in this one!’ he exclaimed, pointing at a painting in front of him.
He’s never been cuter.
He insisted on taking me for a long lunch at one of his favourite bistros, which thankfully turned out to be a tiny place down a narrow street I never would have come across without him. They greeted him warmly and treated us both like royalty. Mateo explained that there used to be a young French groom at Maycourt from Paris who once brought him here and introduced him to the maître d’ of this restaurant. Ever since, whenever he’s in the city, he makes a point to come here because the food is unlike anywhere else.
‘That groom has moved to Argentina now,’ he told me with a proud smile. ‘He was a talented player already. After his training, he’ll be up there with the best.’
I realise as the lunch is concluding that the conversation has mostly revolved around me. Without it seeming like an interrogation, Mateo has asked me questions about growing up in London, my close relationship with Jasper, and how I came to work for Ren through Mum. The questions continue as we stroll across the bridge towards Notre Dame, but take a pause while we stand in front of the magnificent, imposingcathedral, both of us awed into silence. I made it clear to Mateo this morning that I wanted to finish the day with a cruise down the Seine, emphasising it was non-negotiable as I suspected he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. But when I walk in the direction of the boat-tour signs, Mateo puts his arm around my shoulders and gently angles me another way.
‘Hey!’ I protest, ducking away from his arm. ‘We’re going on a boat tour, Mateo.’
‘Yes, we are.’
‘Then why are we walkingawayfrom it?’
‘We’re not. We’re walking away from the large, public boat tours, and walking towards the small, private boat tour that we’ll be going on.’
He nods towards a small boat bobbing at the jetty, a skipper standing next to it, waiting for us with a beaming smile. I stare at him in bewilderment before turning to Mateo, who looks very pleased with himself.
‘You… you booked a private boat?When?’
‘This morning, when you said you wanted to go on a boat,’ he replies simply.
