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)
"Fine," I bite out, plastering on a saccharine smile. "Let’s talk tactics. The team’s attack has been particularly aggressive in the last few matches -"
Matteo grins.
"That’s what happens when you try to score goals."
Oh my fucking -
"Right. And what about your chemistry with your teammates?” I press on. “How have you been working on strengthening that?"
"Mostly by passing the ball to each other."
I huff out a quick breath through my nostrils and close my eyes for a second before turning to face the small crew.
“I think that’s enough for now,” I say. “Should we take a breather for a few minutes and then re-group?”
“Sure thing, Daphne,” the camera man says, shooting me a sympathetic smile.
The moment the camera stops rolling, I let out a long breath, rubbing at my temples like it might somehow erase the last ten minutes of my life.
The crew shuffles out of the room, some of them murmuring something about grabbing a coffee.
I nod absently, too busy mentally replaying every obnoxious, infuriating answer Matteo Rossi has just given me.
The door clicks shut behind them, and then it’s just the two of us.
I exhale slowly, turning back to face him.
"Okay. What the hell is your problem?"
Matteo blinks at me, all faux innocence.
"Problem? Me?” he says, those big brown eyes wider than ever. “No problem."
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.
"No problem?" I gesture wildly. "That might have officially been the worst interview I have ever conducted. And I’ve interviewed players who barely speak English!"
"Well, I did answer all your questions."
"With absolutely zero effort!"
"Maybe you just need to ask better questions."
I gape at him.
"You’re getting worked up again," he comments.
"Because you’re acting like a child."
"I think it’s because of that crush."
My brows shoot up.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he says, his accent deliciously thick. "Don’t worry about it. It’s perfectly natural to feel this way towards me. I don’t mind it. Actually, it’s… cute."
I stare at him, utterly floored by his audacity.
"I - you think I -" I let out a disbelieving laugh. "Oh, you wish, Rossi."
"Hmm." He raises a brow, clearly amused. "I think you’re protesting a little too much."
I clench my jaw.
"I am a professional journalist."
"Uh-huh."
"I take my job seriously."
"Sure you do."
"And I do not -" I jab a finger towards him for emphasis, "not - have a crush on you."
Matteo just watches me, clearly enjoying every second of my fury.
He grins lazily.
"Whatever you say, Daphne."
Oh, I could actually kill him.
“You know what - why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Rossi. Is this what you think - that a female journalist can’t interview you without falling head over heels?”
"What can I say? A lot of people find me irresistible,” Matteo shrugs. “You aren’t the first journalist to get a little flustered around me."
My entire body is stiff with indignation.
"Flustered?"
"Yeah," he says, smug as ever. "You get all pink when you're mad. It’s adorable."
I feel my face heat, and the worst part is - he’s right.
Fuck.
The thought only makes me angrier.
I snap my notepad shut and stand abruptly, forcing a tight smile as I move to stand.
"You know what? I think we actually got everything we need. Thanks, Matteo."
Matteo just grins up at me, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Anytime, cara mia."
I grit my teeth.
As I turn on my heel and storm out of the room, ready to tell the camera crew that we’re finished after all, one thought is glaringly, infuriatingly clear:
I definitely do not have a crush on Matteo Rossi.
Chapter Twenty
Matteo
I wait.
One… two… three…
I hear her footsteps begin to fade.
Four… five… six…
She’s fuming.
Seven… eight…
And I fucking love it.
Nine… ten.
Ready or not.
I push myself up from my seat and follow her out of the room, my strides long and measured.
The soft soles of my sneakers keep my footsteps light, allowing me to stay just out of sight.
Because I’m not done with her yet.
I have no real plan here - just an undeniable, insatiable need to push her. To press all her buttons until she snaps, until she gives me something.
Because Daphne Sinclair might act like she’s indifferent, like she barely tolerates me, but I see through every little crack in her facade.
The way her green eyes flash when I get under her skin. The way she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s fighting to keep her composure. The way her breath catches - just slightly, just for a second - whenever I get too close.
She wants to pretend she doesn’t feel this, but I know better.
And maybe it’s toxic - maybe it’s reckless - but I need to hear her say it. Need to make her react.
Because hate is a reaction.
And hate is closer to want than it is to indifference.
She turns the corner, muttering something under her breath - probably a detailed list of ways she’s going to kill me in my sleep.