Page 185 of My Italian Love Affair

The video loads, and there we are: Matteo and I during last night's post-match interview.

There’s a moment where he smirks and says "I thought you were supposed to ask me hard-hitting questions, Sinclair, not just swoon over me on live TV.”

The camera pans over just in time to catch my wide-eyed look, followed by my dry, "the day I swoon over you is the day Iquit journalism."

The comments are relentless.

The chemistry here is INSANE.

Look at that eye roll - classic sexual tension.

I feel like I’m interrupting something here.

When's the wedding?

Despite the early hour and the fact that I’m still half-asleep, a smile tugs at my lips.

The views are climbing by the second, and Richard’s right - the public seem to be eating it up.

My own inbox has exploded with engagement metrics, and when I finally drag myself out of bed and into the office, I can’t help but feel smug.

For once, I'm not the outsider.

For once, my work is getting the attention it deserves.

Whether or not it’s for the right reasons is irrelevant for now.

Unfortunately, the feeling evaporates the second I see Mark leaning against his office door, arms crossed.

"Sinclair," he says, jerking his head towards his office.

I swallow hard and follow him inside. He shuts the door with a little too much force and takes his seat behind the desk.

I remain standing.

"Big day for you," he says, voice flat. "I saw the clip."

"Yeah. Richard seems happy," I reply, forcing a casual tone.

"Richard," he repeats with a sneer. "Yeah, he's messaged me about it. Thinks you're the best thing since sliced bread all of a sudden."

"I'm doing my job," I say matter-of-factly.

"Are you?" he arches a brow. "Because from where I’m sitting, it looks a lot like you're cozying up to a player."

My jaw tightens.

"Matteo Rossi is a footballer I cover as part of my job. That's all."

"Is he?" Mark says as he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "You're sure you're not seeing him outside of work capacity?"

"No," I snap. "I'm not."

"You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Sinclair?" he asks, voice softening in that patronising way that makes my skin crawl. "Because that would make things...difficult. Professionally."

"I'm not lying."

He stares at me for a long moment, tapping a pen against the desk.

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