Page 121 of My Italian Love Affair

As though he can read my mind, he releases me, stepping back like he’s been burned - like he’s just realised how close we actually are. His hands drop to his sides and he tilts his head, assessing me with those sharp, dark eyes.

“You okay?”

It’s not exactly gentle. He doesn’t soften his tone or offer any kind of reassurance.

But there’s something there - something that almost,almostresembles concern.

I swallow, straightening my spine.

“I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little.

His gaze lingers, studying me like he’s trying to piece something together.

He leans his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“You’re crying.”

“I amnotcrying.”

One dark brow lifts, radiating skepticism, and I huff out a breath.

“I wasmoved. There’s a difference.”

Matteo’s lips twitch like he’s holding back a smirk, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze flickers briefly toward the door I just fled from.

“The kids?” he asks.

I nod.

“They’re incredible.”

There’s a small pause before he nods too, his jaw tightening slightly.

“Yeah. They are.”

I blink up at him, caught off guard.

Matteo Rossi,agreeingwith me? Expressing a human emotion that isn’t arrogance or irritation?

I half expect the sky to crack open and lightning to strike us both down.

For just a moment - for one fleeting, unguarded second - he doesn’t look like the cocky, insufferable footballer who irritates me at every turn. He looks… Well.

Tired.

I hesitate, caught somewhere between confusion and something else - something I don’t want to name.

Because this?

Matteo beingagreeable?

It’s throwing me for a loop.

“Careful,” I say. “If you keep this up, I might start thinking you actually have a soul.”

Matteo exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

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