Page 120 of My Italian Love Affair

For a second, there’s silence.

And then her entire face lights up.

She beams so wide and so bright that it physicallyhurtssomething inside me. The kind of smile that could knock the wind right out of your lungs if you weren’t prepared for it.

(Heaven knows I am not at all prepared for it.)

Tears prick hot at the back of my eyes, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed.

More than I expected to. More than I know what to do with.

I need a moment.

I needair.

I stand abruptly, handing the rabbit back to her with careful hands.

“I’ll be right back,” I mutter, though I don’t even know if I’m saying it to her, to myself, or to no one at all.

And then, before I embarrass myself, I head out of the room and step into the hallway, swallowing past the lump in my throat.

The cool air outside the room is a relief, but it does nothing to quiet the storm brewing in my chest.

My emotions feel tangled. Too big. Too raw.

Toomuch.

The little girl’s smile, the weight of the stuffed rabbit in my hands, the sheer unfairness of it all - how some children are born into love, while others have to wait andhopefor it…

I exhale sharply, pressing my fingers against my eyes, willing myself to get it together.

You cannot cry in the middle of a press event, Daphne.

Mark would never let me live it down.

I’m not thinking straight, not paying attention to my surroundings, and in my heightened state, I end up walking straight into a wall.

Except that it’s not a wall.

It’s Matteo Rossi.

Because, of course it is.

I stumble back, but his large hands come up swiftly, gripping the tops of my arms to steady me. His hold is firm and steady, and the heat of his skin sears straight through the fabric of my blouse.

I freeze, though my stomach flips violently at the unexpected contact.

He’s warm.Toowarm.

I look up, lips parted slightly and still trying to gather my bearings. His dark eyes flicker as he takes me in, his brows knitting together ever so slightly.

For a second, neither of us speaks. The hallway feels too quiet, the air too heavy.

It’s been days since I last saw him, and our post-match encounter had been nothing short of disastrous. He’d been rude and short and snappy and had given me practically nothing to work with.

Somehow, I’d still managed to pull together an article that Richard adored - though I suspect the article views combined with the flood of commenters demanding to see actual footage of our exchange had more to do with that than my writing.

More than that, it has also been an entire week since Matteo’s hands were last on my skin, and I hate the way my heart reacts to his touch.

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