Chapter Forty-Five
Daphne
T he apartment is quiet when I get home, but the silence does nothing to calm the noise in my head.
I drop my bag by the door, kick off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa.
I press my fingers to my lips where his kiss still lingers like a phantom sensation.
It was quick. Soft. Barely even there.
And yet it’s all I can think about.
After a few minutes of torturing myself with memories of the last few weeks, I reach for my phone from the coffee table and pull up Priya’s contact. She’s probably sipping rosé on some picturesque beach in the south of France right now, enjoying her holiday, but I need someone to talk to.
Someone who knows me.
Someone who isn’t just another journalist who might report straight back to Mark.
I hit the video call button. It rings... and rings... and rings. No answer.
"Figures," I mutter, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside me.
A few minutes later, the phone vibrates with an incoming video call. Priya's tanned face appears on the screen, hair swept up beneath oversized sunglasses.
"Sorry!" she shouts over the sound of distant music and chatter. "I had to sneak out of the beach club. I was halfway through a cocktail the size of my head, so this better be juicy."
I let out a breathless laugh.
"Oh, it’s juicy."
"God, you look stressed. Is it Mark?" she asks, her smile faltering.
"Partly. He was awful at the match tonight. Did his usual ringleader routine with the other idiots. They were making gross jokes the entire time, and I swear he was looking at me like..." I trail off, shivering slightly. "Like he hates me ."
Priya’s expression darkens.
"He’s a prick, Daph. But you knew that already."
"Yeah, but tonight it felt different. Worse ."
"And no one said anything?"
"A couple of other reporters looked uncomfortable, but… no. No one said a word."
I pick at a loose thread on one of my cushions.
"Honestly, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. I can’t exactly talk to anyone at the office about it. He's the top dog there - it’ll just get back to him."
"He’s an absolute dick ," Priya mutters. "You know this isn't on you, right? He's just threatened by how good you are."
"Yeah, well, tell Richard that. He basically implied Mark's been doing all my work. "
Priya's eyes widen behind her sunglasses.
" What ?!"
"Yep. Apparently Mark's been telling everyone he's been guiding me through everything. Meanwhile, all he’s really done is undermine me while taking credit for my work."
"Okay, so we hate Mark more than usual," Priya says, her voice sharp with protective indignation. "What else? I know that look. There’s something you’re not telling me."
I bite my lip.
"Matteo kissed me tonight."
Priya's jaw drops.
"Matteo?! As in, the Matteo Rossi? The arrogant, pretentious but drop-dead-fucking- gorgeous footballer you’ve been pretending not to obsess over?"
"I've not been obsessing."
"Daphne, you described his abs in unnecessary detail three weeks ago."
I groan and press a hand to my face.
"That was for research."
"Uh-huh. So he - what, he kissed you? And you're here telling me about it, rather than jumping his effing bones? Why ?!"
"Because..." I trail off, struggling to articulate the mess in my head.
It’s difficult: I feel terrible about the fact that I’m not being fully honest with her. It seems ridiculous to only be telling her now that we’ve kissed given how many times I’ve had sex with him - but it’s taken me some time to process everything.
It’s taken me some time to accept it, too .
"I just - it’s not that simple.”
“And you can’t just - I don’t know, message him? Speak to him, like a normal person?”
“No. Because I leave in a month. And he’s... him. And I’m me."
Priya sighs dramatically.
"God, you're exhausting sometimes,” she says. “It’s a text , not a proposal."
"He did tell me to message him," I admit.
"Then do it . And stop overthinking this."
We chat for a few more minutes, but my mind is already half on Matteo. By the time we hang up, I’m chewing my thumbnail and staring at his name in my phone:
Matteo Rossi / wink emoji .
The audacity .
I should leave it. I should let it go. I’m leaving in a month, and I have bigger things to deal with - like my boss taking credit for my work and making my life a living hell.
But then I remember Matteo's words.
Chi si ferma è perduto. He who hesitates is lost.
"Screw it," I whisper to myself, and I open the chat.
So, it turns out the cloud ate my text. Who knew?
The message sends, and I immediately regret it.
What if he doesn't reply?
What if he does ?
What if I’ve just made a complete fool of myself?
Finally .
I was starting to think I'd imagined you.
I let out a disbelieving laugh and shake my head.
He’s good.
Too good.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard as my brain cycles through about twenty different responses. I settle on the most sarcastic one.
You? Imagining me? I thought you'd need more brain cells for that.
I hit send and immediately cringe.
Too much? Too defensive?
The dots reappear almost immediately.
Ouch. You wound me, Sinclair. I'm not sure how I’ll recover.
A snort escapes me, and I lean back into the sofa, tapping the edge of my phone against my chin as I imagine him fake-pouting like the cocky idiot he is.
Probably with a hot bath and a lot of ego-soothing.
The response comes fast.
What can I say? You left an impression.
The innuendo is so thick I practically choke on it.
My skin heats as my mind flashes back to his hands gripping my hips, and my breath catches slightly as my fingers hover over the screen.
My palm on your cheek, maybe.
As soon as the message sends, I clap my hand over my mouth.
Jesus Christ - what am I doing ? !
I wouldn't mind as long as you're the one delivering it.
My stomach flips, and heat pools low in my belly.
I should shut this down. Right now.
But my fingers seem to have a mind of their own.
Careful, Rossi.
I might have to take you up on that.
I set the phone down and cover my face with both hands.
My heart races as the seconds tick by. I swear I can feel the tension through the screen.
I'd like to see you try. Though I doubt you could focus long enough. You tend to get distracted around me.
A shaky laugh escapes me, equal parts irritation and thrill. Distracted? He has to be joking, surely.
I seem to remember you being the one unable to stop talking during our last encounter.
The dots appear, pause, then continue.
I was motivating you.
Clearly, it worked.
My cheeks burn.
I can still hear his voice in my ear, the low growl of his encouragement as he pounded into me from behind.
So is this your game plan? Flirt shamelessly until I cave?
His response comes through thick and fast.
I don’t need a game plan. You're already thinking about me.
I let out a groan, toss my phone onto the cushion beside me and stare at it like it might spontaneously combust.
And then I give in and reach for it again.
I should block you .
I bite down on my lip to try and physically fight my smile as those three dots appear again.
But you won’t.
Smug bastard. Always so overconfident.
How are you so sure?
My heart races with the thrill of the game, but the longer this goes on, the more I realise he’s playing me like a violin.
Because we both know you want me.
Again.
Oh, the nerve of this man.
I grip the phone tightly and stare at the message for what feels like an eternity before I type out a quick response.
You're awfully confident.
There’s no hesitation as he quickly replies.
I am.
And I'm right.
So - dinner, tomorrow night?
I groan and flop back against the cushions.
Matteo Rossi, as infuriating as he is charming.
I should say no. I need to say no.
Not a chance.
You’ve already had one date out of me, and I don’t deal well with athletes. Too much ego .
As expected, he fights me on it.
It’s just dinner, Daphne.
Come on. Live in the moment, remember?
I chew my bottom lip, his words from earlier echoing in my head:
He who hesitates is lost.
Fine. One dinner.
But if you talk about your goal-scoring stats even once, then I’m leaving.
I hate the fact that I’m smiling as I press send, almost as much as I hate the fact that my stomach clenches tightly as I await his response.
Thankfully - as with all of his messages - I do not have to wait long.
Deal. I’ll pick you up at seven.
I finally set my phone down, my heart thudding uncomfortably in my chest.
"What the hell am I doing?" I whisper to the empty room.
There’s no answer, of course.
Only the faint buzz of anticipation lingers in the air, like static electricity before a storm.