Page 152 of My Italian Love Affair

Matteo’s jaw tightens, and before I can think better of it, the words are out of my mouth.

"Pretty sure if Rossi scored any more, we’d have to start renaming stadiums after him."

There’s a beat of silence before Matteo lets out a short, surprised laugh. He glances at me, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

The journalist - apparently annoyed at being upstaged - glares at me before moving on.

Once everything has wrapped up, Matteo hovers behind me, leaning in slightly as people shuffle around us, his voice a low murmur.

"Defending me now,bella?"

I huff as I pack my notes away.

"Don’t let it go to your head."

There are the moments that feel like old times - the banter, the eye rolls, the insufferable arrogance - but then there are the new ones.

The ones that threaten to throw me completely off balance.

And despite everything - despite how much we supposedly irritate each other - I’ve stopped pretending that I don’t look forward to seeing him.

And I think that maybe -just maybe- he’s stopped pretending, too.

*

It happens during one of those in-between moments, when the team is training and I’m sitting in the small café inside the stadium, half-distracted by my laptop screen.

I have my iced coffee, my notes and an ever-growing sense offrustration with the words refusing to cooperate.

I don’t even notice him at first.

Not until a shadow falls over my screen and a voice murmurs, far too close to my ear.

"Chapter Forty."

I jump slightly, my fingers freezing over the keyboard.

Matteo leans over my shoulder, his damp hair still tousled from training.

He reads the words aloud, his accent wrapping around the syllables in a way thatalmostdistracts me from the fact that he’s blatantly invading my personal space.

I snap the laptop shut, embarrassed.

"Don’t you have anything better to do than coming here and bothering me?"

Matteo ignores my question entirely, straightening up but still standing too close.

"Busy writing," he muses. "But not for an article."

I exhale slowly, already regretting my life choices.

"It’s nothing."

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity.

"You’re a terrible liar,cara."

I press my lips together, knowing him well enough by now to realise there’s no getting out of this. He’s like a dog with a bone when he wants something, and apparently, that something is my dignity.

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