Page 177 of My Italian Love Affair

Because all I can think about isher.

Daphne Sinclair - smart-mouthed, sharp-eyed, and still somehow a complete fucking mystery to me.

She was all knowing smiles and quick remarks in our post-match interview, but I’ve checked my phone a hundred times since then, and there’s still nothing.

Justsilence.

And I hate it.

This woman has somehow managed to take up every inch of space in my head, and I don’t even know how she did it. One minute, she was just another journalist - a persistent, slightly annoying one, at that - and now?

Now she’s the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I sleep.

We made progress after the charity event. Then after the locker room. And again, after I took her out to one of my favourite spots, and then took her home.

So why is she hesitating?

Why is shefighting?

It’s frustrating as hell, but I’m not the type of man to just sit back and accept things I don’t understand. I need answers.

I need to fix this.

Which is why I showered and changed at record speed and am now standing in the stadium’s car park.

Her rental car was easy enough to spot, and I hang back, watching and waiting. I’m almost beginning to wonder whether she’s decided to ditch her car and take metro when I finally see her -

And something is off.

She’s moving too fast. Her shoulders are hunched, her fingers curled too tightly around her keys.

She’s looking over her shoulder, scanning the car park and surrounding area like she’s expecting someone to jump out ather.

My jaw locks.

Chapman.

I instinctively know that this asshole is responsible for it.

Did that prick say something to her tonight to spook her?

The thought makes my blood boil. My fists clench at my sides as I move, closing the distance between us.

I don’t bother hiding my footsteps, making sure she hears me coming -

But then she spins, her keys raised like she’s about to stab me in the eye.

I grin.

Even now, even on edge, she’s got fire.

"Easy,bella," I say, watching as she exhales sharply and sags against her car.

"Jesus, Matteo!" she hisses, pressing a hand to her chest. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Waiting for you," I say simply. "That text you promised me… It must’ve gotten lost in the cloud."

Her eyes narrow.

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