Page 212 of My Italian Love Affair

And then her stomach lets out a low, unmistakable growl.

My chest rumbles with laughter before I can stop it.

"Was that you, or did a wild animal break into your apartment?"

She groans, burrowing deeper into me like that’ll make me forget what I just heard.

"Shut up.I had an early lunch, okay."

"The pizza," I remember suddenly, smirking. "The pizza I brought is still in the fridge,no?"

"Right," she mumbles, reluctant to move. "The pizza you promised me last night before we…got distracted. I had some earlier, but the rest of it is in the fridge."

I smirk, running my hand up and down the soft skin of her back.

"I brought it for moral support." My fingers dip lower, squeezing her waist. "Can't help it if I’m more distracting than carbs."

She rolls her eyes and pushes herself up, clearly preparing to get out of bed.

"I’ll go heat it up."

But before she can even swing her legs over the edge, I tighten my arm around her waist and pull her right back down against me, pressing my lips to her temple.

"No," I say firmly. "I’lltake care of it. You stay put."

She tilts her chin, blinking up at me in surprise.

"You'll heat up the pizza?"

"Shocking, I know," I smirk, fingers brushing her bare hip beneath the sheets. "But I can handle an oven,giornalista. I’m not completely useless outside the stadium."

"Debatable," she quips, but I see the way her face softens, the way her lips twitch, like she’s trying to hide how much she likes this.

I press another kiss to her temple, then slip out of bed, grabbing my boxers.Ifeelher watching me as I walk toward the kitchen, and the knowledge sends a rush of smugsatisfaction straight to my chest.

Let her look.

Shelikeslooking.

And fuck if I don’t like being looked at byher.

By the time I disappear from view, I hear the softthumpof her head hitting the pillow, and I smirk to myself as I pull open her fridge.

*

Fifteen minutes later, I return with the pizza box balanced in one hand, two bottles of water tucked under my arm.

"Delivery," I announce, setting everything down on the nightstand. "One slightly stale pizza, reheated to perfection."

Daphne props herself up on one elbow, reaching for a slice.

She takes a bite and hums in appreciation, clearly not giving a shit that it’s slightly overcooked.

We eat in comfortable silence, elbows brushing occasionally, our legs tangled beneath the sheets.

For a guy who’s spent the better part of his career surrounded by noise - stadiums full of roaring fans, coaches barking instructions, the media constantly pressing in - this kind of quiet should be unsettling.

But with her, it’s not.

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