Page 188 of My Italian Love Affair

Who the hell would be knocking at this time?

I ignore it, hoping they'll go away, but the knock comes again - louder, this time. More insistent.

My heart races as I pad toward the door, each step cautious.

My apartment is small, and the coffee table in the living room offers a full view of my afternoon carnage: an empty ice cream tub with the spoon still inside, two crumpled chocolate bar wrappers and a half-empty bottle of rosé.

The knock comes again, and I curse under my breath.

"Okay, okay," I mutter, running a hand over my face before unlocking the door and pulling it open, silently praying that it isn’t Mark -

Only to find Matteo Rossi standing on my doorstep.

My stomachplummets.

He's dressed casually, wearing dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretches distractingly across his broad chest. His dark hair is styled in effortless curls that are brushed back off his forehead, and he’s holding a large paper bag in one hand.

"What..." My voice cracks. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"You didn’t answer my texts," he says simply, as though that’s the answer for everything.

"I told you that something came up," I mumble, highly self-conscious about the fact that my hair looks like a bird’s nest and my face is still puffy from crying earlier. “And -wait,howdo you know where Ilive?!”

His gaze flickers down before slowly dragging over my body, taking in my bare feet, my mismatched pajamas and the messy bun on top of my head.

His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.

"Can I come in?" he asks, pointedly ignoring my question.

"No," I say automatically.

My eyes dart to the living room, where the evidence of my comfort binge sits in plain view.

"Daphne," he says, voice softer than usual. "Please."

I hesitate, but the gentle concern in his eyes makes my chest ache, and I instinctively know that I’m not going to get rid of him easily.

This man is nothing if not determined.

And so I step aside.

Matteo walks in, his eyes sweeping over the expanse of my apartment.

It’s nothing in comparison to his stunning mansion, though I try not to betooconscious about that.

After all, this is only a temporary rental.

His gaze catches on the coffee table, and I watch as his dark eyes flicker between the empty ice cream tub, the scrunched-up chocolate wrappers and and the opened (cheap) bottle of wine.

I groan and cover my face.

"Don’t say a word,” I say in warning.

"I wasn’t going to."

"You’re lying."

"Maybe a little."

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