Page 154 of My Italian Love Affair

"Wait, you really mean it?” I gasp, feigning surprise. “Youcanread?!"

Matteo places a hand over his heart. "You insult me."

"I state facts."

“You could always read it to me,” he grins, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

I let out a sharp laugh.

"You want me to read out an entire novel just for you?"

“I like the sound of you doing anything that’sjust for me,” he smirks.

I shake my head, turning back to my iced coffee.

“Don’t you have a job to do?”

He simply laughs before he turns on his heel, and my shoulders sag slightly as I let out a long breath.

But even as he finally walks away, I can feel the weight of his attention lingering.

Fuck.

Chapter Forty

Daphne

The press room hums with the usual post-match energy, the away stadium still buzzing even though the match ended over an hour ago. Around me, there are journalists typing frantically, players filtering in and out, PR reps keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.

I should be focused on work. Iamfocused on work, even.

Untilheappears.

Matteo Rossi strides into the press area like he owns the place, still in his match kit, a fresh sheen of sweat along his hairline. His jersey clings to his muscular physique, his collarbones visible beneath the fabric, and I hate that I notice.

I glance down at my notes, pretending to type.

Ignore him. Ignore him.

It doesn’t work.

Matteo spots me immediately, his lips curving into that devastating, self-assured grin that makes my stomach clench. His interview with the local TV networks wraps up, and instead of heading straight to the changing area so that he can get ready to hop on the team bus like a normal person, he detours.

Right. To. Me.

I stiffen, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings.

There are too many eyes here. Too many ears.

And one particular pair that I absolutely donotwant listening in.

My senior journalist is somewhere nearby, lurking like an ever-present shadow.

He’s been watching me lately - more than usual. I can practically feel his disapproval burning into me every time I so much as glance in Matteo’s direction, though he hasn’t said anything more about it since my outburst in the office.

Yet.

“Rossi,” I greet, my voice prim and professional.

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