Page 84 of My Italian Love Affair

I almost laugh.

She’s fighting it so hard, anddio, do I love watching her fight it.

But before I can take even a step toward her, my manager claps a hand on my shoulder, derailing me.

"Ah, Matteo," he says, beaming. "Come, there are some people you need to meet."

I barely suppress a sigh as I turn to face him.

Of course.

This is part of the price of being at the top. The constant shaking of hands, the networking, the small talk.

I know it’s part of the job, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

"Who?" I ask, dragging a hand through my hair, already irritated that I’ve been momentarily pulled away from her.

"Important people," he says cryptically, steering me toward a small gathering of men in tailored suits. "Be nice."

I barely hold back an eye-roll.

Beingniceis easy - he acts like I don’t already know exactly how to play this game.

So, I shake hands, exchange pleasantries and nod along at whatever some club sponsor is saying about theimportance of legacy.

All while my mind is elsewhere.

Becauseshe’sstill in the room.

And no matter how hard I try to focus, my eyes keep drifting back to find her.

"Matteo," one of the club executives says, clapping me on the back. "Excellent game last weekend. You’re in incredible form."

"Grazie," I say smoothly, offering a polite smile.

"We were just talking about the upcoming title race," another man jumps in. "Surely, you’re feeling confident?"

I take a sip of my drink, eyes flicking to Daphne briefly before answering.

"The confidence is there," I say. "But we don’t get ahead ofourselves. There’s still work to do."

"A good mentality," one of them nods approvingly. "That’s why you’re one of the best."

I flash another easy grin - the kind I know puts people at ease, the kind that keeps conversations moving.

But I’m still watching her.

Still tracking her movements, keeping her in my periphery.

I tell myself that it’s because she’s with Chapman, and I fuckinghateit.

It’s painfully obvious that the prick has already had too many drinks. His posture too loose, his laughter too loud.

And he keeps leaning in when he speaks to her.

I grind my teeth, my fingers tightening slightly around my glass.

He’s exactly the kind of pathetic bastard who thrives in places like this. He doesn’t actuallybelonghere - he’s not a player, not a coach, not an important executive, not even a fuckingeditor- but he knows how totalk, how to flatter the right people, how to make himself seem more relevant than he is.

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