Page 59 of My Italian Love Affair

Sleep had been a distant, stubborn thing, slipping through my fingers every time I came close to grabbing hold of it. I’d spent the night tangled in my sheets, my thoughts spinning endlessly between the events of the press conference, Mark’s fury, and - most annoyingly - Matteo Rossi.

That might be the most frustrating part. How he lingers in my head despite every reason I have to push him out.

The sound of his voice, smooth and confident, laced with teasing arrogance.

The sharp focus in his eyes when he’d stepped closer, like he actuallysawme.

I shake those thoughts away, forcing my focus back to the present as I step into The Tribune's headquarters. The Roman office is already in full swing, filled with the familiar hum of ringing phones and clacking keyboards, the low murmur of conversations blending together into white noise.

My stomach tightens as my gaze sweeps over the bullpen,half-expecting to find Mark waiting for me, ready to deliver another condescending critique of my performance last night.

But he’s not.

Instead, he’s in his office, the door propped open just enough for me to be able to see him. He’s leaning back in his chair, phone in hand, scrolling with an expression of complete ease - a complete contrast to the man who exploded and tore me apart in the stadium’s corridor last night.

The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease. If anything, it coils tighter.

I hesitate for a moment, thrown off by his complete lack of reaction to my presence.

Then, squaring my shoulders, I make my way over.

"Good morning," I say cautiously, lingering in the doorway and waiting for the tension to snap.

"Sinclair,” Mark says in greeting as he glances up from his phone. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Figured I might have scared you off last night."

I blink.

"What?"

He chuckles, shaking his head.

"Oh,relax, would you? You know I was just messing around."

Messing around- is that what we’re calling it now?

His words from last night are still fresh in my mind, but now he’s acting like it never even happened. Like it was all some harmless joke.

"Right,” I say, hating myself for the way I force a fake smile. “Of course."

I feel impossibly more uncomfortable now. I hadn’t expected this reaction, so I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Mark seems to sense it, and I watch as he lets out a long breath before leaning back in his chair, tossing his phone carelessly onto his desk.

"Look, just take it as a learning experience. Next time, stick to the basics, yeah? No need to overcomplicate things."

I don’t reply. I don’t trust myself not to start a tit-for-tat war about howhewas the one that started it.

Instead, I turn to leave and sit down at one of the free desks.

I pull out my laptop, pretending to be engrossed in my notes from last night, but it doesn’t take long for Mark to re-appear.

I try my best not to act bothered by his presence, but it’s impossible to concentrate when he’s standing directly behind me.

"By the way," he says, leaning over slightly. "Be careful with Rossi."

My fingers pause over my keyboard, tension curling through my shoulders as I glance up at him, frowning.

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

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