Page 217 of My Italian Love Affair

I try to distract myself by scrolling through my emails and skimming through my half-finished articles, but nothing sticks.

My mind instead is stuck on one simple fact:I’m spending the weekend at Matteo Rossi’s house.

Hismansion, really. Because calling it a house feels like calling the Colosseum a building.

The closer the train pulls towards the small station on the outskirts of the city, the more surreal it all becomes.

The moment I step out of the platform and onto the streets with my weekend bag slung over my shoulder, I see him. He’s leaning casually against a black Maserati, sunglasses perched on his nose and his arms crossed over his broad chest.

"Ciao,amore," he calls as I approach.

"Hey yourself," I reply, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth in my cheeks.

He pushes off the car and takes my bag before I can protest,tossing it easily into the boot. Then, without warning, he wraps me in his arms and kisses me, right there on the street where anyone could see us.

The kiss is deep and unapologetic as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the low growl he makes when I melt into him turns my legs to liquid.

When he finally pulls back, I'm breathless.

"I thought you said you were just picking me up," I murmur.

"I am,” he grins, brushing a thumb along my lower lip. "But I've been thinking about doing that fordays."

He opens and closes the car door for me before walking around the vehicle himself. I smile as I sit myself down, the bare skin of my thighs brushing against the plush leather as my sundress rises up slightly.

I cross my legs and revel in the familiar weight of his hand coming to rest on my thigh as he starts the engine and begins to drive us away from the station.

The drive to Matteo's house is short, winding through tree-lined roads that grow increasingly more secluded as we leave the outskirts of Rome behind.

His estate is nestled on a hill, behind tall iron gates that slide open at the press of a button.

Last time we arrived here, it was much later into the evening; but in the light of the late afternoon, I can’t help but think of how the driveway alone could double as a jogging track. It stretches up towards the sleek, modern villa surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens, and he parks beside the entrance and steps out, coming around to open my door before I can do it myself.

"I still can’t get over the fact that you actually live here," I tell him, taking in the wide stone terrace and the panoramicview of the city in the distance.

"Yeah." He glances at the house. "A bit much, eh?"

"A bit?" I huff a laugh. "Matteo, this place isobscene."

"Obscene?Cara mia, I'll have you know it's tastefully extravagant." He smirks and takes my hand. "Come on. Let’s put your things away before we go to dinner."

*

Dinner turns out to be at a small, candlelit restaurant a short drive down the hill from his home. I tell him that we can walk, but he insists on calling a taxi for us to save my feet in my heels.

The restaurant is quiet and tucked away from the main road, and from the moment we step inside, I can tell it’s a clear favourite among locals.

"This," Matteo announces as we settle into a table on the shaded patio, "is arealdate."

I raise an eyebrow.

"Oh, we're doingactualdates now?" I say. “Not just picnics in the park?”

"Absolutely," he replies. "None of this sneaking around press boxes or running into each other at stadiums." He leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tonight, you're just a woman having dinner with an incredibly charming footballer."

"An incrediblymodestfootballer, you mean."

"You know, you're lucky I find your British sense of humour so attractive,” he winks.

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