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)
I roll my eyes.
"You think I care?"
"You should," Diego says, nudging my arm. "People are obsessed with your life, man. Just embrace it."
Before I can respond, a voice cuts through my thoughts.
"You still planning on training tomorrow?"
I glance over at Luca, one of my teammates.
He’s been around long enough to understand that I don’t do downtime well. That even after a win, even after a long night, I’ll still be up at the crack of dawn, putting in extra hours at the gym.
"You already know the answer," I say, taking a sip of my water.
Luca shakes his head, amused.
"You need to loosen up, man. We won. Relax a little."
But I don’t want to relax.
I want to push myself harder.
I want to keep going.
I want to make sure that we get to the final, and that when the final comes, I’m at my absolute best.
I barely hear the rest of their conversation as I scan the room -
And that’s when I see her.
Auburn hair, big green eyes, and an expression that tells me she’s not enjoying herself.
She’s standing slightly off to the side, arms crossed, clearly unimpressed with whatever Mark Chapman - the journalist beside her - is saying. He leans in slightly, smirking as he talks, but she doesn’t laugh, doesn’t lean back towards him.
If anything, she looks like she’s barely tolerating his presence.
I can’t hear their conversation, but I don’t need to. I’ve been in enough of these rooms to recognise the dynamic.
He’s talking at her, not with her.
I study her for a moment, intrigued.
I’d noticed her earlier, of course - it would be near impossible not to. She’s stunning, but it’s more than that.
It’s the way she held herself in that press conference.
The way she pushed back when I expected her to back down.
Women don’t usually look at me like that - don't usually talk to me like that, either.
They usually look at me with interest and hunger combined with some desperate need for attention. They preen under my gaze, eager for any scrap of interest I throw their way.
But her?
She just narrowed her eyes, like she already knew exactly who I was, and didn’t care.
No - worse.
Like she was annoyed by me.
That caught my attention more than anything.
I tilt my head slightly, watching her with amusement.
Truthfully, I look at her for longer than I should, but there’s a part of me that’s curious to know what she’ll do if she catches my eye, a part of me that’s curious to know how she’ll react.
After a long moment of waiting, her eyes finally flicker in my direction, and for a second, I swear I see something there - something sharp, something assessing.
Instead of looking away, she raises an eyebrow - like she’s challenging me.
I can’t help but smirk.
Interesting.
I have half a mind to walk over there, to see just how much of that attitude is real and how much is just an act.
But before I can really consider it, Mark leans in and says something else, and she exhales sharply, looking away.
For now, I let it go.
But I make a mental note of it.
Because something about this woman - the way she carries herself, the way she didn’t hesitate to push back, the way she doesn’t look at me or speak to me the way most women do - has me intrigued.
And I don’t do intrigued.
Not by women.
And certainly not by beautiful, sharp-tongued English journalists who seem like they’d rather be anywhere but here.
Toxic? Maybe.
But I’ve always loved a challenge.
Chapter Nine
Daphne
It isn’t until the next morning that I finally have a few hours to myself.
No press events, no interviews and no frantic scribbling to meet deadlines since I already typed up all of my notes and drafted an article about yesterday’s press conference.
I’ve made a mental note to really explore more of the city this morning.
After all, I’m not here just to work. I’m here to experience Rome, to let it seep into my bones and fuel the part of me that still dreams of writing my novel.
I pull on a comfortable pair of high-waisted jeans, a cute cropped tee, a soft cardigan and sandals. Typical tourist attire, I’m sure, but I don’t care.
The early spring air has a slight chill at such an early hour of the morning, but the sun peeks out from behind a haze of clouds and casts a soft light on the cobblestone streets. I let myself get lost in the rhythm of the city, wandering down narrow alleys and wide piazzas as I follow the map on my phone.
I might have been here for a good few days now, but I still can’t help but marvel about how the hum of life is so much different here. How it’s slower and more deliberate, with a sense of history woven into every stone, street and corner.