Page 9 of My Italian Love Affair

It’s chaotic. It’s loud.

And, for now, it’shome.

A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts, and I blink, turning towards the sound.

I don’t know anyone here yet, which can only mean one thing.

Work has officially found me.

Chapter Four

Daphne

Ihesitate for a second, staring at the door like it might suddenly vanish if I ignore it hard enough.

Maybe if I stay perfectly still, whoever it is will assume I’m out gallivanting through Rome like a glamorous, well-adjusted journalist who wants to be here for reasons other than pizza, pasta and sunshine.

Another knock, louder this time.

No such luck.

With a sigh, I force myself away from the balcony and swing open the front door, coming face-to-face with a man who is exactly what I imagined a seasoned sports journalist living in Italy would look like:

Tanned, slightly wrinkled and exuding the kind of self-assurance that suggests he’s never second-guessed a decision in his life.

Mark Chapman.

I recognise him instantly - not just because Richard told me I’d be working with him, but because his face has been plastered across sports news segments for as long as I can remember.

He’s a big deal in this industry. The kind of journalist who gets exclusive interviews, breaks major stories for The Tribune, and - if the smug look on his face is anything to go by - heknowsit.

Mark is, objectively speaking, a good-looking man in that rugged, middle-aged way. His hair - once probably a deep brown - has started to turn silver at the temples, and the lines on his face suggest a lifetime of either intense thinking or intense scowling. His build is solid and broad-shouldered, and I can immediately tell that he’s got that easy, old-school charisma that probably works wonders on rookie journalists desperate to impress him or PR reps who want to stay on his good side.

Me, though?

Yeah,no.

Not my type.

Maybe it’s the slight air ofI’ve seen it all, and I know better than youradiating off him, or the way his smirk suggests he’s already decided exactly how competent (or incompetent)I am before I’ve even said a word.

Either way, this isnotthe kind of dynamic where I’ll be left swooning.

“Sinclair,” he says, giving me a once-over like he’s assessing a new recruit in some kind of war zone.

I try to straighten up, subtly wiping my slightly sweaty palms against my sides.

After all, whether I like it or not, he is a pretty important man, and I know many of my colleagues working at a junior level would snap up the opportunity to work alongside someone as experienced and knowledgeable as he is.

“Mark. Hi.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Settling in?”

I glance back at the chaos that is my half-unpacked suitcase and cringe internally at the realisation that I haven’t even bothered to set up my laptop yet.

“Sort of.”

---