Page 222 of My Italian Love Affair

I swat lightly at his bare chest. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," Matteo murmurs, voice low and gravelly.

He rolls me beneath him in one fluid motion and presses a lazy kiss to my lips. His hair is a mess, and the rough stubble on his jaw scratches deliciously against my skin.

And, of course, the arrogant bastard is right.

I don't hate him at all.

"Come on," he says, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "Let’s go have breakfast. Then maybe a swim."

I stretch beneath him, already feeling the pull of sore muscles from the night before.

"You meananotherworkout?"

He laughs as he moves to stand, stretching his arms over his head. The sheet slips down his body, and my eyes can’t help but follow the line of his torso.

The sharp cut of his abs, the V of muscle that disappears into his boxers…

Yeah, okay; maybe I'm not so opposed to another workout after all.

"You're staring," Matteo says, not even bothering to hide his smirk.

I yank the pillow from behind me and throw it at him.

"I wasthinkingabout how unbearable you are."

"Uh-huh." He catches the pillow mid-air and tosses it back onto the bed. "Shower, breakfast, swim. In that order,mi amore. Let's go."

*

After a quick shower, I wander downstairs to find Matteo already in the kitchen.

The room is massive, with sleek marble countertops and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the garden. The morning sunlight streams through the glass, and outside, the shimmering turquoise pool glistens beneath the bright blue sky.

Matteo stands barefoot at the counter, clad in gray sweatpants and nothing else. He’s fiddling with an espresso machine that looks more complicated than the entire kitchen setup in my London flat.

"That thing looks like it belongs in a spaceship," I comment, crossing to lean against the island.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes lighting up at the sight of me.

"Don’t insultLa Signora. She's delicate."

"La Signora?" I echo. "You named your coffee machine?"

He shrugs, turning back to the machine with exaggerated focus.

"Certo.She takes good care of me. Best espressos in Rome."

I laugh softly as I watch him work. The domesticity of the moment hits me unexpectedly - this international football star, standing here in his kitchen, making me coffee while the morning sun streams in.

This doesn't feel like something fleeting. It feels natural.

Easy.

"Okay," Matteo says after a moment, turning toward me with a cappuccino in one hand and a small pastry in the other. "For you,bella. Freshly made, no sugar. Just the way you like it."

I blink at him, surprised.

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