Page 173 of My Italian Love Affair

"Fine," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush mine. "But next time, don’t pretend you don’t want to stay."

I don’t reply. Ican’t.

I don't want to admit it to myself - but deep down, I already want there to be a next time.

When I finally make it home later that morning, I collapseonto my bed and stare at the ceiling, replaying the events of the past twelve hours in vivid detail.

Matteo had taken my phone before I left, saving his number with a winking emoji next to his name and made me promise to text him this evening.

"Just in case you need a quote for an article," he said with a mischievous grin.

"Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll need it for," I’d muttered, earning a laugh that had lingered long after I walked out his front door.

I don’t text him, though. Not that day, or the next.

I tell myself it’s because I’m busy with work, catching up on match reports and stats, preparing pieces that Mark will inevitably try to nitpick.

But in truth, I’m scared of what texting him will mean.

Of what this thing between us is becoming.

*

Two days later, as I sit at my desk with a lukewarm cappuccino and a blank Word document mocking me, my laptop chimes with an incoming video call.

It’s Richard.

I click on it to answer and his face appears on the screen, framed by the familiar clutter of his London office.

"Sinclair," he greets, direct as always. "How's life in Rome treating you?"

"Morning. Can’t complain," I reply, forcing a casual tone. "Just trying to soak up as much of the city as I can before I have to come home."

"That’s right - it’s your last month," he muses. "Well, I’ve gotto hand it to you, you've actually done a cracking job so far. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but our readers are still loving the dynamic between you and Rossi."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes as he continues on.

"Engagement stats are through the roof. Your latest interview got more comments than we’ve ever had."

"Well, what can I say? He certainly knows how to wind me up."

"Just make sure that whatever you're doing, you keep it up," Richard says.

He glances off-screen for a moment before continuing.

"And, look, I know Mark's been helping you along the way, but I was kind of hoping you’d be writing your own pieces by now. Especially the match predictions - they seem to be the other thing that brings us the most engagement."

My brow furrows.

"Mark? Helping me?"

"Yes. Mark. Your supervisor…?” he says, like I’m stupid and don’t know which Mark he’s referring to. “He's mentioned how much time he's been dedicating to helping you out. Said that’s why he's had to cut back so much on his own pieces to help get yours across the line."

I sit up straighter, heat rushing to my face.

“I -what?”

“Now, Sinclair, don’t go and get your knickers in a twist. I know you didn’t need this level of help when you were here, but that was different, wasn’t it? You were just doing the fluffy gossip stuff back then - easy work, really. But this? This isproper journalism. Stats, tactics, real analysis. It’s only natural you’d need a bit of guidance.”

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