Page 23 of My Italian Love Affair

They usually look at me with interest and hunger combined with some desperate need for attention. They preen under my gaze, eager for any scrap of interest I throw their way.

Buther?

She just narrowed her eyes, like she already knew exactly who I was, and didn’t care.

No -worse.

Like she wasannoyedby me.

Thatcaught my attention more than anything.

I tilt my head slightly, watching her with amusement.

Truthfully, I look at her for longer than I should, but there’s a part of me that’s curious to know what she’ll do if she catches my eye, a part of me that’s curious to know how she’ll react.

After a long moment of waiting, her eyesfinallyflicker in my direction, and for a second, I swear I see something there - something sharp, something assessing.

Instead of looking away, she raises an eyebrow - like she’s challenging me.

I can’t help but smirk.

Interesting.

I have half a mind to walk over there, to see just how much of that attitude is real and how much is just an act.

But before I can really consider it, Mark leans in and says something else, and she exhales sharply, looking away.

For now, I let it go.

But I make a mental note of it.

Because something about this woman - the way she carries herself, the way she didn’t hesitate to push back, the way she doesn’t look at me or speak to me the way most women do - has me intrigued.

And I don’tdointrigued.

Not by women.

And certainly not by beautiful, sharp-tongued English journalists who seem like they’d rather be anywhere but here.

Toxic? Maybe.

But I’ve always loved a challenge.

Chapter Nine

Daphne

It isn’t until the next morning that I finally have a few hours to myself.

No press events, no interviews and no frantic scribbling to meet deadlines since I already typed up all of my notes and drafted an article about yesterday’s press conference.

I’ve made a mental note to really explore more of the city this morning.

After all, I’m not here just to work. I’m here to experience Rome, to let it seep into my bones and fuel the part of me that still dreams of writing my novel.

I pull on a comfortable pair of high-waisted jeans, a cute cropped tee, a soft cardigan and sandals. Typical tourist attire, I’m sure, but I don’t care.

The early spring air has a slight chill at such an early hour of the morning, but the sun peeks out from behind a haze of clouds and casts a soft light on the cobblestone streets. I let myself get lost in the rhythm of the city, wandering down narrow alleys and wide piazzas as I follow the map on my phone.

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