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)
"Chapter Forty."
I jump slightly, my fingers freezing over the keyboard.
Matteo leans over my shoulder, his damp hair still tousled from training.
He reads the words aloud, his accent wrapping around the syllables in a way that almost distracts me from the fact that he’s blatantly invading my personal space.
I snap the laptop shut, embarrassed.
"Don’t you have anything better to do than coming here and bothering me?"
Matteo ignores my question entirely, straightening up but still standing too close.
"Busy writing," he muses. "But not for an article."
I exhale slowly, already regretting my life choices.
"It’s nothing."
He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with curiosity.
"You’re a terrible liar, cara."
I press my lips together, knowing him well enough by now to realise there’s no getting out of this. He’s like a dog with a bone when he wants something, and apparently, that something is my dignity.
"It’s a book," I admit finally, my voice quieter than I mean for it to be. "A novel."
Matteo blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that answer.
"So you write fiction,” he nods. “Explains a lot."
"What’s that supposed to mean?" I glare.
"Journalism, gossip, making things up..?”
I roll my eyes at the sight of his stupid smirk, but before I can fire back, he suddenly moves, placing his hands on either side of my chair and leaning in again to re-open my laptop.
I barely have time to react before his voice turns smug.
"So, what’s it about? A journalist falling for a devastatingly handsome footballer?"
I snap the laptop shut again, harder this time.
"Don’t even think about it, Rossi."
"Why not?" he grins, completely undeterred. "Come on, let me read it."
I let out an exasperated sigh.
"Do you ever respect personal space?"
"Not when I’m interested in something."
I shake my head, but I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me.
"You’re hopeless."
Matteo’s smirk deepens, his gaze flicking to my lips for just a fraction of a second.
"And yet, you like me anyway."
I freeze.
He says it so easily, so confidently, and yet… there’s something almost expectant in the way he watches me.
Like he’s waiting for me to deny it. Waiting for me to fight him on it.
I don’t.
Because I don’t know how to.
Because liking him is the problem, isn’t it?
And neither of us has mentioned the fact that in just a few weeks, the season will end.
And I’ll be leaving.
We haven’t spoken about it, but we both know it’s coming.
Feeling awkward, I clear my throat and try to deter him all over again.
"It’s in English," I say, as if that will be the end of it.
"I’ll manage,” he shrugs.
"Wait, you really mean it?” I gasp, feigning surprise. “You can read?!"
Matteo places a hand over his heart. "You insult me."
"I state facts."
“You could always read it to me,” he grins, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
I let out a sharp laugh.
"You want me to read out an entire novel just for you?"
“I like the sound of you doing anything that’s just for me,” he smirks.
I shake my head, turning back to my iced coffee.
“Don’t you have a job to do?”
He simply laughs before he turns on his heel, and my shoulders sag slightly as I let out a long breath.
But even as he finally walks away, I can feel the weight of his attention lingering.
Fuck.
Chapter Forty
Daphne
The press room hums with the usual post-match energy, the away stadium still buzzing even though the match ended over an hour ago. Around me, there are journalists typing frantically, players filtering in and out, PR reps keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.
I should be focused on work. I am focused on work, even.
Until he appears.
Matteo Rossi strides into the press area like he owns the place, still in his match kit, a fresh sheen of sweat along his hairline. His jersey clings to his muscular physique, his collarbones visible beneath the fabric, and I hate that I notice.
I glance down at my notes, pretending to type.
Ignore him. Ignore him.
It doesn’t work.
Matteo spots me immediately, his lips curving into that devastating, self-assured grin that makes my stomach clench. His interview with the local TV networks wraps up, and instead of heading straight to the changing area so that he can get ready to hop on the team bus like a normal person, he detours.
Right. To. Me.
I stiffen, suddenly hyper-aware of my surroundings.
There are too many eyes here. Too many ears.
And one particular pair that I absolutely do not want listening in.
My senior journalist is somewhere nearby, lurking like an ever-present shadow.
He’s been watching me lately - more than usual. I can practically feel his disapproval burning into me every time I so much as glance in Matteo’s direction, though he hasn’t said anything more about it since my outburst in the office.
Yet.
“Rossi,” I greet, my voice prim and professional.
Matteo doesn’t even flinch. Just tilts his head, grinning like he knows exactly why I’m acting like this.
I hate him.