Page 99 of My Italian Love Affair

I exhale slowly, pushing a hand through my hair as I straighten up from where I’m still leaning against the bathroom counter.

Well,fuck.

Thatdidn’t go the way I thought it would.

I drag my fingers down my face, trying to make sense of what just happened. What Ithoughtwould happen.

For weeks, she’s been under my skin, burning at the edges of my thoughts, taking up space in my head that no one else hasever occupied. And I told myself that if I could just have her - if I could justfuckher - it would solve everything.

I told myself that it would get her out of my system.

But I don’t feel any better.

In fact, I somehow feelworse.

I push out of the stall and into the empty bathroom, adjusting my shirt, smoothing down the mess she made of me. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, at my mussed hair, my slightly swollen lips, the faint scratch marks she left at the back of my neck.

I smirk.

She wanted me. That much is undeniable.

But then I think of the way she bolted out of here, her green eyes wide with something that wasn’t just post-orgasm bliss.

The way she looked like she was seconds from passing out - not from pleasure, but from panic.

Shefled.

Usually, it’s the opposite. No woman ever flees from me -I’mthe one who leaves. I’m the one who untangles myself from limbs and sheets and painted lips whispering for me to stay just a little longer.

But Daphne Sinclair?

She was out the fucking door before I could even get a word in.

It’s unnerving.Frustrating.

I yank open the bathroom door and step into the dimly lit hallway.

I make my way to the entryway, ready to turn into the hall-

But then my gaze instantly sharpens as I catch sight of her.

She’s leaving - stepping into a sleek black car. Her shoulders are stiff, her auburn hair is still tousled from my hands, and her dress slightly wrinkled from where I’d gripped her hips like I couldn’t let go.

I can’t move. Instead, I just stand there, feeling something heavy settle in my stomach as the car pulls away.

I don't know what she’s thinking.

And I fuckinghateit.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply before stepping further into the main reception area. I can still hear the muffled hum of music from the ballroom, the soft clink of glasses, the murmur of voices drifting through the hallway.

I should go back inside. Should shake hands with a few more people, maybe charm my way through another conversation I don’t give a shit about before saying goodbye to my teammates.

But the thought alone makes me want to punch something.

Instead, I keep walking.

I pull my phone from my pocket as I step outside, scrolling through my messages until I find the one I need. I tap the number, bringing the device to my ear as the driver picks up on the second ring.

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