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 restaurant is quiet and tucked away from the main road, and from the moment we step inside, I can tell it’s a clear favourite among locals.
"This," Matteo announces as we settle into a table on the shaded patio, "is a real date."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, we're doing actual dates now?" I say. “Not just picnics in the park?”
"Absolutely," he replies. "None of this sneaking around press boxes or running into each other at stadiums." He leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tonight, you're just a woman having dinner with an incredibly charming footballer."
"An incredibly modest footballer, you mean."
"You know, you're lucky I find your British sense of humour so attractive,” he winks.
The waiter arrives with menus, and Matteo orders a bottle of red wine without even glancing at the list.
"Trust me," he says when I raise a brow. "This wine will change your life."
He's not wrong.
The wine is rich and velvety, smooth with just the right amount of bite. The food is even better. I order a plate of handmade tonnarelli cacio e pepe - thick, square pasta coated in a glossy, peppery cheese sauce - and nearly moan at the first bite.
"Good?" Matteo asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Good?" I gesture at the plate. "This might be the best thing I've ever eaten."
He leans back in his chair, satisfied.
"You see? Date night with me is always a win."
The conversation flows easily as we eat, drink and trade stories.
Matteo tells me about the pranks the players pulled during training this week - someone swapped the head coach's whistle for one that squeaked like a dog toy - and I tell him about my discovery of the vending machine at the office that serves the strongest coffee known to humankind.
It’s much later when the waiter sets the empty wine bottle on the table, and Matteo reaches for the bill before I can even pretend to search for my purse.
"I could've paid," I say weakly as we stand to leave.
"You could have," Matteo agrees, guiding me toward the restaurant's exit with a hand at the small of my back. "But you shouldn’t ever. You won’t."
I nudge him with my shoulder.
"You know, you're very smug for someone who just ate half my pasta."
"It would have been criminal to let that go to waste," he counters, shooting me a grin that does nothing to slow the warmth spreading through my chest.
The night air is warm and thick as we step onto the quiet street. It's late, the village silent except for the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional clink of cutlery from a nearby terrace.
Matteo pulls out his phone and orders a taxi while I tilt my head toward the sky, taking in the faint shimmer of stars against the deep navy canvas.
"Beautiful, eh?" he murmurs, his voice low.
I nod, lowering my gaze - and find him watching me, not the sky.
The tension that's been simmering beneath the surface all evening thickens, coiling tight between us. The soft lighting from the streetlamp casts shadows across his jaw, emphasising the sharp angles and the hint of stubble that I know will feel rough against my skin.
I want him. Badly.
The taxi arrives with a quiet screech of tires against gravel, breaking the moment. Matteo opens the door for me and follows me inside, sliding across the seat until his thigh presses firmly against mine.
The driver confirms the address, mostly out of politeness - as I’m sure he knows where Rome’s football celebrity lives - and Matteo gives a curt nod before draping an arm across the back of the seat.
His fingers find the bare skin of my shoulder, tracing lazy circles that leave goosebumps in their wake.
The car pulls away from the curb, and I glance sideways at him as his hand lowers further and further down.
"Are you always this handsy in taxis?" I whisper.
His lips twitch.
"Only with you, bella."
His fingers trail down my arm, skimming the inside of my wrist before settling on my thigh. The warmth of his touch bleeds through the thin material of my dress, and I shift slightly, my breathing growing uneven.
He notices, of course.
Matteo always notices.
His hand inches higher, his thumb stroking gentle patterns on the sensitive skin just above my knee. My thighs press together instinctively.
"Matteo," I whisper, voice full of warning.
He turns his head, his mouth so close to my ear that I feel the heat of his breath.
"Sì, mi amore?"
The words along with his frustratingly delicious accent send an inadvertent shiver down my spine. I force myself to keep my gaze trained on the blurred lights outside the window.
The driver's presence feels distant and irrelevant as Matteo's fingers slide a fraction higher.
"You're doing this on purpose," I bite out.
"Of course," he says, voice rough with amusement. "I love watching you pretend you're unaffected."
I grit my teeth against the surge of desire building low in my stomach. My body hums with anticipation, every nerve stretched taut as his hand continues its slow, torturous ascent.