Page 103 of My Italian Love Affair

I wasn't thinking.That’sthe problem.

I was acting on impulse, on frustration, on whatever twistedchemistry has been crackling between us from the moment we met.

And now, in the cold light of day, it feels like the worst mistake I could have made.

I made some rushed excuse before leaving the gala last night, barely stopping to say goodbye. I didn’t see Mark again. Didn’t see Matteo, either.

I just fled.

And now reality is here, sinking its cruel claws into me.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. For a second, I consider ignoring it, but then I sigh and reach over, glancing at the screen.

It’s a message from Richard.

Even on my day off, I can’t escape work.

Sinclair. That last piece was bloody brilliant. People are eating it up.

When are you next seeing Rossi? Let’s keep the momentum going.

I stare at the message, my fingers tightening around the phone as my stomach twists.

When am I next seeing Matteo?

Ideallynever.

I don’t want to see him. Not because of what happened - well, not just that, anyway.

I don’t want to see him again because I cannot trust myself.

Because the moment I lay eyes on his beautiful yet infuriating face again, I’ll remember how his voice sounded in my ear, how his body felt against mine, how he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.

And I know I’ll want it again.

I shake my head, sitting up and tossing my phone onto the bed as I swing my legs over the edge. I push myself up and walk over to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.

Rome sprawls out before me, golden in the morning light, bustling and alive. A city full of endless opportunities; and yet here I am, completely stuck inside my own head.

My eyes drift blankly over the streets below as my thoughts spiral beyond my control.

I hate myself for sleeping with him. Not because it wasn’t good - it was almosttoogood - but because it feels like I’ve played directly into Matteo’s hands.

Mark’s words from our earliest meeting gnaw at me.

He doesn’t think women belong in football journalism.

And now look what I've done.

I’ve proven his point entirely. I’ve become exactly what Matteo and Mark and every other arrogant, sexist asshole in this industry expects:

The naive girl who lets herself get swept up by a handsome footballer.

I could vomit.

That’s not who I am. That’s not why I’m here.

I came here to prove myself. To get away from D-list celebrity gossip, to write, to make a name for myself -

---