My Italian Love Affair (The European Love Affair #2)

Chapter One

Daphne

"S inclair! Get your ass in my office. Now."

My heart lurches as I snap my head up to see Richard Maynard, my editor, standing in the doorway of his office, arms crossed and scowling over at me like I've personally offended him just by existing.

I've just been finishing off my latest article, the headline still screaming at me in bold lettering.

Did Noah Drayton Cheat on Fiancée Ruby - Again?

Did he? Probably.

Do I care? Absolutely not.

Unfortunately for me, the entire British public cares - well, if the traffic numbers on The Tribune's gossip website are anything to go by, at least.

Which is exactly why I'm still here, finishing this mind-numbing piece instead of being at home and working on my real writing.

I didn't even realise Richard was still here. He's usually the first to bolt, beelining straight to the nearest pub like it’s the promised land.

But apparently, he’s lingered - why, I have no idea.

He’s vanished back into his office, but his voice slices through the air like a villain in a low-budget horror movie.

“ Sinclair ,” he calls, dragging out my name in a menacing, sing-song tone.

Kill. Me.

I sigh, push back my chair, and stand, ignoring the amused glances from the few unfortunate souls still trapped in this corporate purgatory. With all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows, I trudge into Richard’s office.

The place reeks of stale coffee, lukewarm beer, and the unmistakable musk of unchecked ego.

A truly cursed aroma - like if regret had a signature scent.

Richard's there, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed like he’s about to interrogate a suspect on a crime procedural.

“How long have you been here now?”

“Six months.”

He tuts, shaking his head like I’ve just confessed to living in a cave, foraging for berries, instead of - oh, I don’t know, showing up to this office every single day like a semi-functional adult.

“And you still look like a frightened rabbit every time I call you in here.”

That’s because every time he calls me in, I assume I’m about to be fired - or worse, promoted into some hellish position that requires a complete lack of sleep and the ability to smile through sheer terror.

The thing is, I always thought my twenties would be exciting. Jetting off to new cities on spontaneous weekend trips, climbing the ranks in a career I actually cared about, making enough money to afford more for lunch than supermarket meal deals.

Most of all, I imagined finally publishing the fantasy novel I’d been working on since I was seventeen - the one that was supposed to be my big break into the world of bestseller lists, book tours, and seeing my name in gold lettering on a hardcover edition.

Instead, I’m stuck in an uninspiring London office at 8:47 PM, writing about a washed-up reality star’s latest cheating scandal.

“Was there something you needed?”

“I wouldn’t say something I needed, no. More like something you need.”

I arch a brow.

That could mean anything coming from Richard.

“I’ve got a career opportunity for you.”

Wait, what?

A career opportunity?

A promotion? A raise?

A golden ticket out of this hellhole?

“You… do?”

It’s difficult to be excited given that this was not the plan.

When I graduated last year with a degree in English Literature, I had big dreams. I was going to be a novelist - the kind that people lined up to meet at book signings; the kind who had a special dedication page thanking their family, friends, and professional team for believing in them from the start.

Instead, I’m writing about the romantic failures of D-list celebrities.

Which is ironic considering I’ve never been in love myself.

Richard nods, lips twitching like he’s enjoying the power trip of dragging this out.

“Three months in Rome.”

I stare at him.

“Rome? ”

“Yes, Rome. As in Italy. Where the pizza is better than whatever scraps you’ve been having for lunch here.”

I ignore his sly dig, feeling a grin forming.

Rome.

This is huge.

I try my best to swallow down the excitement, not wanting him to see just how much I’m internally screaming with joy.

“Can I ask - why exactly would I be going to Rome?”

Richard straightens up, all business again.

“You’ll be covering football.”

Well. That's one way to bring me crashing back down.

“Football?”

“Yes,” he nods. “ Football. This is a fantastic opportunity for you to branch out. We’ve been working in partnership with the Roma team, as part of a wider piece with Serie A. This is going to be huge. And honestly...”

He pauses, tapping his fingers on the desk like he’s about to drop a bomb .

“You’re the best we’ve got on short notice.”

I blink.

Of course. Why wouldn’t I be sent to Rome to cover football?

After all, who doesn’t love a sport that’s basically a bunch of grown men chasing a ball around for an hour and a half, pretending like they didn’t trip over their own feet?

“This benefits all of us,” Richard continues, with the confidence of a man who’s about to say something deeply stupid. “We really need a woman for this. It’s part of our agreement with the team - some sort of diversity… thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. It’s not just about football, it’s about how we cover it. Karen Atkinson was supposed to go, but, well - between us, she’s gone and gotten herself pregnant.”

Did he...

Did he really just say that?

“Karen’s pregnant?” I manage. “That’s… that’s a harsh reason to miss out on a job opportunity, don’t you think?”

“Yeah," he shrugs, utterly unbothered. "Don’t tell anyone, though - it’s a super high risk pregnancy, or something."

I open my mouth to respond, but the words just refuse to come.

My brain has officially crashed.

"Anyway, forget about that," he says, waving a dismissive hand like Karen’s uterus is a minor inconvenience to him. "You’re up now, Sinclair. Time to pack your bags. And remember: it’s a big deal.”

Great.

Pregnant senior colleague + company needing a token female voice = ground-breaking opportunity for me.

“ Right, " I force a smile, resisting the urge to scream. "Football. Diversity. And… all that.”

“Exactly. And you’ll be working closely with Mark Chapman,” he adds, his grin widening. “Big name in the industry. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

I nod slowly. Of course, I’ve heard of him. Everyone has. He’s a legend in sports journalism - and also old enough to be my father.

“Okay…” I drag the word out. “But… football? What exactly am I covering?”

“The matches. The players. The stuff that matters.”

“Right. But… am I writing about their kick numbers or something?”

Richard chuckles a bit too loudly.

“You’ll learn," he says, tone patronising as ever. "It’s a great opportunity for you, Sinclair.”

I let out a long breath through my nose.

Rome.

Football.

Three months.

“Okay,” I say, a little too brightly. “And when do I leave?”

“Three days,” he grins, like he’s personally changed my life. “Plenty of time to get yourself sorted. But most importantly of all - I cannot emphasise this enough - don’t screw this up.”

And just like that, my life has changed.

The possibility of turning my entire career around is so close I can almost taste it.

I’m finally going to be working on something that could lead to real opportunities.

And who knows? Maybe being in Rome will spark some much-needed inspiration for my fantasy novel, too.

I’ve been stuck in a creative rut for so long - mostly fuelled by the fact I’ve been spending my days writing about cheating reality stars while my own dreams gather dust - and this could be the perfect chance to turn things around.

There’s only one small problem:

How exactly does one pretend to care about football?