Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
The thought brings me more relief than I want to admit.
*
After a morning spent finishing my articles, I grab my bag and head out into the city for lunch. The mid-afternoon sun is warm and bright, the sky a vivid blue overhead as I make my way down cobblestone streets toward my favorite café near Piazza Navona.
The air is thick with the smell of freshly baked pastries and flavoured gelato as I settle at an outdoor table. The waiter brings me a sparkling water and a menu, and I order a simple caprese panini and a glass of chilled white wine.
After all, why not indulge myself?
As I wait for my food, I let my gaze drift across the piazza. Tourists gather in clusters around the Fountain of the Four Rivers, their phones raised to capture the sculptures. A street musician plays a soft melody on his violin, the sound drifting gently through the air.
It’s then that it hits me: I’ve been here for two months.
Rome. The Eternal City.
And in all that time, I’ve barely stopped.
Sure, I’ve wandered the streets, visited the Colosseum, sipped aperitivos in sunlit piazzas. But I’ve been so wrapped up in work, in clumsily navigating the testosterone-laden world of football journalism that I haven't really let myself absorb how lucky I am to be here.
The architecture, the food, the people. The undeniable magic that lingers in the air.
My gaze shifts toward the fountain, where a young couple pose for a picture. The man wraps his arm around the woman’s waist and kisses her temple, and she beams with happiness.
The sight makes something ache deep in my chest.
Because when I think about Rome now, I don’t just think about the city. I think about him.
Matteo.
The way he teases me relentlessly.
The way he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world.
The way he holds me when everything feels like it’s falling apart.
The waiter arrives with my drinks, and I smile in thanks before I reach immediately for my wine. I sip it slowly, the cool liquid crisp against my tongue as my thoughts swirl.
This thing with him - it can’t last. I know that. I’m only here for another month.
And yet…
My eyes linger on the couple by the fountain, on the warmth in their smiles.
What if…?
No. I shake the thought away.
This isn’t forever.
The waiter arrives with my sandwich, and I force myself to push the what-ifs aside.
I need to stay focused. I have bigger problems to solve.
Chapter Fifty
Matteo
I spend the entire day counting down hours.
Training should have distracted me - should have given me something else to focus on.
But all I’ve been able to think about is Daphne.
She told me she was fine. Told me not to worry.
But I’d been the one to hold her, to comfort her, the one who had seen her cry.
I barely made it through training without losing my temper. Every misplaced pass, every shot that didn’t hit the back of the net only made my frustration worse. When my teammates noticed, I shrugged it off, played it cool.
But my mind was elsewhere.
So, once we were finished, I called my agent. Told him exactly what I wanted done.
He assured me he'd speak to his wife. Given her position at The Tribune, as far as we’re both concerned, Mark Chapman’s career is as good as fucking over.
Good.
By the time I’m pulling up outside Daphne’s apartment building, my blood is still running hot - not just from training, but from the promise I made to her that I’ll sort this mess.
And I mean it. I will.
I am.
I don’t hesitate before knocking.
A few seconds pass before the door swings open, and there she is.
Daphne blinks up at me, her auburn hair falling in waves around her face, her lips curving up into a small smile. She looks a little tired - like she’s been carrying too much today - but still, she’s fucking beautiful.
“Oh,” she breathes. “It’s you.”
"Buonasera, Daphne," I murmur. "Miss me?"
Her breath hitches for half a second - barely noticeable, but I see it.
I feel it.
She crosses her arms, arching an eyebrow, clearly trying to mask whatever reaction she just had.
"How did you know I’d be home?" she asks. "I could have been working this evening.”
I shrug.
"I called your boss."
"Richard?! You did not."
"No, not Richard," I say, enjoying the way her irritation sparks so easily. "Your neighbour. The old guy with the limp. Really chatty. He told me everything about your schedule."
She laughs despite herself, shaking her head.
"Signor Benedetti would absolutely do that."
I grin, then let my gaze drop, assessing her carefully.
"You okay?" I ask, voice softer now.
The laughter fades from her lips.
"I'm fine,” she nods.
I narrow my eyes.
"I know what fine means when you say it."
I step forwards as she steps back, and I follow her inside, shutting the door behind me with a quiet click.