Page 43 of My Italian Love Affair

“Well,” one of the journalists mutters from beside me. “That was…interesting.”

Mark is glaring at me like I’ve personally offended him, and he scoffs under his breath.

He exhales sharply through his nose before shaking his head as if I’m some lost cause.

“Jesus, Sinclair. In future, could you try a little harder to sound like you belong here?”

I stiffen.

The earlier satisfaction I’d felt at holding my own vanishes in an instant, deflating like a punctured balloon.

That’sit. I’ve had enough of this condescending, passive-aggressive bullshit.

Especially whenhe’sthe asshole who went and put me on the spot like that.

“Excuse me?”

My voice is sharp, but despite my obvious irritation, Mark doesn’t bother to even look up from his bag as he shoves his notepad inside.

“This isn’t some artsy book club discussion,” he mutters. “He’s afootballer, for fuck’s sake - not some tortured poet. Stick to the basics next time. It’s really not that difficult.”

The words hit harder than they should, stoking a flare of irritation in my chest.

But before I can fire back, a familiar voice cuts in.

“Well, that was fun.”

The blonde journalist from earlier saunters over to us, his grin wide and knowing.

He claps a hand on Mark’s shoulder, clearly entertained, before turning his attention to me.

“Enjoyed that little moment with Rossi, did you?”

“I was doing my job,” I say curtly.

The blonde snorts, folding his arms across his chest.

“Looked more like flirting to me.”

A few of the other journalists close by chuckle under their breath, their amusement low but unmistakable.

My jaw tightens, heat prickling at the back of my neck.

Seriously?

I don’t even know this guy’s name - he hasn’t introduced himself or bothered to exchange any pleasantries with me whatsoever - and yet here he is, making snide remarks and insulting my professionalism as though I’m some giggling school girl making eyes at a famous footballer, rather than a journalist doing her fuckingjob.

“Oh, come on,” the blonde continues.

Apparently, he’s not prepared to take my silence for an answer.

“You must at least appreciate that he’s easy on the eyes. That’s probably why you got a question in.”

A few more laughs echo around us, and I will myself to stay composed, to bite back the hundred cutting responses sitting on my tongue.

Because the reality is that no matter how unfair or ridiculous it is - and no matter how much I want to tell him exactly where he can shove his opinion - it wouldn’t make a difference.

To them, I’m still an outsider. I’m still the woman in a room full of men.

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