Page 13 of My Italian Love Affair

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By the time I return to my apartment, my arms are slightly aching from carrying bags full of food, but my mood is lighter.

I put everything away before I pour myself a very generous glass of wine and step out onto the small balcony, watching as the last of the evening sun dips below the rooftops.

Tomorrow, I have to be a serious journalist. I have to go to a press event, meet the players, pretend I know what I’m talking about.

But for now?

For now, I can sit here, sip my wine, and let myself believe - even if just for a moment - that this might actually turn out to be an adventure worth having.

Chapter Six

Daphne

Ishouldn’t be nervous.

That’s what I tell myself as I stand outside the grand hotel where today’s press event is being held, smoothing down my blouse and resisting the urge to check my reflection in the nearest window.

I’ve covered red carpets before and have literally elbowed my way through paparazzi to ask reality stars about their latest break-ups and social media scandals. This should surely be no different.

And yet, itfeelsdifferent.

For one, the people walking through the entrance aren’t actors or pop stars.

They’re athletes.

And not just any athletes, either.

These are some of the biggest names in international football, the ones with millions of followers and sponsorship deals with luxury brands.

The ones thatactualsports journalists would probably kill to interview.

I exhale slowly, watching as Mark strolls ahead of me, completely at ease. He hasn’t looked back once to check if I’m keeping up, and so I quicken my pace, not wanting to be left behind as he enters the hotel.

With a nod towards the security and a quick flash of my press badge, I step through the revolving doors.

The shift from the sunlit chaos of Rome’s streets to the pristine, air-conditioned calm of the luxury building is almost jarring, with every surface looking as though it’s been polished within an inch of its life.

I glance down at my outfit, brushing an invisible crease from my cream blouse.

The look I’ve gone for is professional yet approachable, with a silky blouse tucked neatly into tailored black high-waisted trousers, delicate gold jewelry, and, despite Mark’s warning, kitten heels.

Sensible shoes,he’d said yesterday.

Well, thesearesensible.

They’re barely heels at all.

Mark had given me a once-over when we met outside, eyes flicking down to my shoes and back up again, his expression unreadable. He hadn’t commented, which I assumed meant I’d passed whatever bizarre test he’d been giving me, but the disapproving quirk of his brow had been enough to irritate me.

Not that it mattered.

I looked fine.Professional,even.

And it’s not as if I’m planning on sprinting down a football pitch or anything.

Mark strolls ahead, weaving effortlessly through the crowd of suited men. He doesn’t once glance back in my direction, making it quite clear that he couldn’t care less if I still had him in my sights or not.

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