Page 116 of My Italian Love Affair

I lean back in my chair and give myself a mental high-five forfinallymaking some progress in my book. My word count has practically doubled, the plot’s picking up, and the ideas are constantly flowing.

Not bad for a woman who spends most of her time drowning in football stats and gossip from men who think it’s cute to underestimate her.

I glance at my phone, and the screen lights up with a voice message from Richard. I swipe it open, expecting some sort of lecture or task that’s going to require all my patience and restraint.

Sinclair!he greets, sounding uncharacteristically chirpy.I’ve got a new assignment for you.

I roll my eyes, even though no one’s around to see it.

“Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath.

It’s a recovery press piece after Roma’s defeat, he continues, as if I didn’t already know how terribly they played.You’ll be covering the players’ visit to a local children’s home. Charity work, community service - you know the drill. Get those good vibes flowing after the loss.

I can practicallyhearRichard’s self-satisfied smile.

Because if there’s one thing I know about my editor, it’s that helovesmaking me do fluff pieces.

I pause for a moment, considering how much of my soul I’m willing to sell for this job.

You’ll be going with Mark, Richard adds, his tone still way too chipper for my liking.He’ll handle the photo ops. You just get some quotes from the players and write something inspirational. I know you’re good at that.

Sure. I’mfantasticat writing articles that are 80% fluff and 20% actual football knowledge.

“Great,” I mutter, already picturing the day’s events.

No doubt it will play out with Mark smiling like a robot in front of cameras while pretending to care about the kids and me trying not to gag on the forced positivity while thinking about how much I’d rather be here, working on the next chapter of my book.

But the worst part?

I already know who’s going to be there.

The one person I absolutely do not want to see again.

Matteo.

Of course he’ll be there, recovered from his defeat and grinning like the cocky asshole he is. I can picture it now: the messy hair, the sharp jawline and the smirk that says he knowsexactlyhow irresistible he is while he takes one photo with the kids and then disappears.

Just thinking about it makes me want to crawl into a hole and never come out.

It’s time to face the inevitable, though.

So I shove my laptop shut, quickly get dressed into something slightly more casual, grab my things and move to leave.

But not before I glance at my reflection in the mirror.

“You’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath as I brush through my auburn hair and pull it up into a tight, high-ponytail. “Just smile, nod, ask the right questions, and pretend like you’re completely over the fact that Matteo Rossi is a literal human god walking among mere mortals.”

I let out a dry laugh before I step out of the front door.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Daphne

The children's home is tucked away on a quiet street, a worn-out but well-loved building with bright murals painted along the outer walls.

There’s a massive, colourful sun with cartoonish rays stretching out over a patch of flowers, and just below it, a group of smiling children holding hands.

Someone - a very ambitious artist, clearly - has attempted to paint a footballer mid-bicycle kick. His proportions are slightly off, and his face looks alarmingly like an owl, but the effort is there.

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