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)
But now, in one afternoon, I have a collection most women dream of.
I pull my phone from my pocket and snap a picture of the sea of bags before I type out a quick message to Priya.
Look at this insanity. He actually bought all of this. What is my life right now???
Her reply comes through immediately.
OMG. You’re living every girl's dream.
Also… if you don’t send me pictures of what’s inside those bags ASAP, we’re no longer best friends.
I snort and tuck my phone away.
Matteo is watching me from the other side of the room, his hands casually placed into the pockets of his jeans. His dark hair is brushed back from his forehead, and the sun has left a faint bronze glow on his skin.
"You're freaking out," he says.
"I'm not freaking out," I protest, though the tension in my shoulders probably gives me away. "I'm just… processing."
"Processing what?" He steps closer. "It's just stuff, mi amore. Nothing that should stress you out."
"Yeah, but it's not just stuff, and you know it. It’s designer stuff," I gesture to the pile. "You spent more today than I probably make in three months."
"Exactly." He shrugs. "What's the point of working hard if I can’t spoil you a little?"
I open my mouth to respond, but the sincerity in his gaze stops me short.
He isn't flaunting his wealth to impress me. It seems like he genuinely enjoys being generous and sharing what he’s worked for with the people he cares about.
"I've never been spoiled before," I admit softly.
Matteo’s lips quirk into a smile.
"Well, get used to it, bella. I plan on making a habit of it."
I roll my eyes to cover the way my heart stutters.
"You're too much, sometimes."
"And here you are," he says, stepping into my space.
His hands settle on my hips, pulling me closer until my chest brushes against his.
"Still here."
"Yeah," I murmur, my hands coming to rest on his forearms. "Still here."
His lips find mine in a slow, lingering kiss that makes me forget the bags, the unfamiliar extravagance and the faint ache in my legs from wandering round Rome’s luxury quarter all afternoon.
Eventually, Matteo pulls back, resting his forehead against mine.
"Hungry?"
"God, no," I say with a groan. "That pasta at lunch nearly killed me."
He laughs.
"I told you not to finish it."
"And leave handmade ravioli on the plate? Are you insane?"
The memory of the late lunch makes me smile. We'd stayed there for ages - in the tiny, family-run trattoria - talking, laughing, and letting the afternoon drift past as we sipped our drinks and listened to the distant chatter of locals.
Matteo had been dressed discreetly, a baseball cap pulled low and glasses perched on his nose, doing just enough to keep him under the radar. It helped that he knew exactly where to go - the quieter spots, the places where people were less likely to recognise him, where he could just be for a while.
And now, here we are.
It all feels surreal. My life is absolutely ridiculous right now.
I step away from Matteo and sit on the edge of the bed, running my fingers along the rim of a Valentino bag.
"So," I say, glancing up at him, "next week is going to be crazy, huh?"
He groans and rakes a hand through his hair.
"Don’t remind me."
"Final game of the season. League title on the line. The entire country watching." I grin. "No pressure."
Matteo narrows his eyes.
"You are a menace."
"I’m a journalist. I'm supposed to ask the tough questions."
He collapses onto the bed beside me, staring up at the ceiling.
"Yeah, it’s going to be intense. The whole team's been laser-focused. The fans are… let’s say, passionate."
"Passionate is an understatement," I say, thinking of the flare-lit scenes outside the stadium after Roma’s last home win. "And if you win?"
"When we win," Matteo corrects. "The city will go insane."
I smile at his confidence.
"I'm not supposed to say this out loud, but… I really hope you win."
He turns his head to look at me.
"Not supposed to say that?"
"Well, you know - professional impartiality and all that."
Matteo laughs and props himself up on one elbow.
"Daphne Sinclair, my giornalista, impartial? Never."
"Rude."
"True," he says, tapping the tip of my nose with his finger. "But I appreciate the support."
I chew my bottom lip.
"Seriously, though. Next week… it’s huge."
"It is." He sobers slightly. "But it's just football. We'll go, we’ll play, we’ll win." He shrugs. "Then we’ll celebrate."
"And you'll get your big moment lifting the trophy?"
"Exactly." His eyes glint with mischief. "And you'll be there to witness it. Front row."
"I’ll be there," I promise.
He holds my gaze for a long moment, something unspoken passing between us.
"Come on," he says suddenly, gesturing towards the array of bags. "Let's open some of these up so that you can show your friend."
I hesitate for a moment, but for the first time in a long time, I push away the anxious thoughts about work and the uncertainty of the future.