Page 227 of My Italian Love Affair

"I'm not supposed to say this out loud, but… I really hope you win."

He turns his head to look at me.

"Notsupposedto say that?"

"Well, you know - professional impartiality and all that."

Matteo laughs and props himself up on one elbow.

"Daphne Sinclair,mygiornalista,impartial?Never."

"Rude."

"True," he says, tapping the tip of my nose with his finger. "But I appreciate the support."

I chew my bottom lip.

"Seriously, though. Next week… it’s huge."

"It is." He sobers slightly. "But it's just football. We'll go, we’ll play, we’ll win." He shrugs. "Then we’ll celebrate."

"And you'll get your big moment lifting the trophy?"

"Exactly." His eyes glint with mischief. "And you'll be there to witness it. Front row."

"I’ll be there," I promise.

He holds my gaze for a long moment, something unspoken passing between us.

"Come on," he says suddenly, gesturing towards the array of bags. "Let's open some of these up so that you can show your friend."

I hesitate for a moment, but for the first time in a long time, I push away the anxious thoughts about work and the uncertainty of the future.

For now, I'm here. With him.

Living in the moment, and all that jazz.

Chapter Fifty-Five

Daphne

Walking into the office on Monday morning feels strange.

Not because anything looks particularly different. If anything, everything looks exactly the same.

The same outdated carpet, the same flickering overhead light near the break room, the same faint hum of conversation from my colleagues.

But for the first time since arriving in Rome, I'm not walking in with a pit of dread lodged in my stomach.

Because Mark Chapman isgone.

I don't have to brace myself for condescending comments. I don't have to anticipate him cornering me by the printer to question my sources or undermine my ideas.

And I don't have to sit through yet another lecture about how women don't know what they’re talking about when it comes to sports journalism.

I step into the newsroom with a coffee in hand and a faint smile on my lips.

Mark's office is still empty. The blinds are open, revealing the shelves that are now bare except for a single abandonedcoffee cup on the window ledge. His desk remains, along with the computer monitor, a few stray sticky notes, and one large cardboard box filled with the remains of his belongings.

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