Chapter Twenty
Matteo
I wait.
One… two… three…
I hear her footsteps begin to fade.
Four… five… six…
She’s fuming.
Seven… eight…
And I fucking love it.
Nine… ten.
Ready or not.
I push myself up from my seat and follow her out of the room, my strides long and measured.
The soft soles of my sneakers keep my footsteps light, allowing me to stay just out of sight.
Because I’m not done with her yet.
I have no real plan here - just an undeniable, insatiable need to push her. To press all her buttons until she snaps, until she gives me something .
Because Daphne Sinclair might act like she’s indifferent, like she barely tolerates me, but I see through every little crack in her facade.
The way her green eyes flash when I get under her skin. The way she bites the inside of her cheek when she’s fighting to keep her composure. The way her breath catches - just slightly, just for a second - whenever I get too close.
She wants to pretend she doesn’t feel this, but I know better.
And maybe it’s toxic - maybe it’s reckless - but I need to hear her say it. Need to make her react.
Because hate is a reaction.
And hate is closer to want than it is to indifference.
She turns the corner, muttering something under her breath - probably a detailed list of ways she’s going to kill me in my sleep.
I smirk to myself, quickening my pace as I follow.
Then, right as she slows - right as she hesitates for just a second, glancing over her shoulder - I grab her.
She gasps, and before she can make a sound, I press her into the wall, into the small alcove hidden away from the corridor. I bracket her in with my arms, and her own hands fly up, landing against my chest as she glares up at me.
Her green eyes wide and wild, her lips slightly parted.
And dio , she’s so fucking pretty.
Even like this - flushed, furious and practically vibrating with frustration - she’s fucking stunning .
"What is your problem?!" she hisses.
I blink at her, feigning offense.
"I’m wounded, Sinclair."
"You should be," she snaps. "You were unbearable in there."
"Unbearably charming?"
"Unbearably rude ," she corrects.
I let out a low whistle, smirking.
" Ouch ."
Her hands press harder against my chest like she’s debating pushing me away, but she doesn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, she tilts her chin up, her eyes burning into mine.
"You think this is funny, don’t you?"
"Depends," I muse. "Are you still thinking about me?"
Her lips press into a firm line.
"I hate you."
"Wow. So much passion," I grin.
Her fingers curl slightly against the fabric of my hoodie before she yanks them back, like she’s just realised she was touching me.
I tilt my head, considering her for a moment.
"You know, I was joking about the crush," I say slowly. "But now? Now I think I might be onto something."
"Oh, please . You’re so full of yourself,” she scoffs, crossing her arms.
"Sinclair," I murmur, lowering my voice just slightly, leaning in impossibly closer so that my lips almost, almost brush against her ear - like I’m about to tell her a secret.
"Remember, you get all pink when you’re mad."
She stiffens.
"It’s adorable," I continue. "Really."
"I -" she falters, shaking her head. "You - god , you’re insufferable ."
"Don’t act like you don’t love it."
She scowls, but as I move my head back slightly and fully drink her in, I note that her breathing has gone shallower, her pulse visibly fluttering against her throat.
I can’t help myself.
I lift a hand, brushing a knuckle along her jaw, watching her shiver at the contact.
"Say it," I murmur.
Her brows knit together.
"Say what?"
"Say you don’t feel this too."
She hesitates.
I see it - the second of doubt, the quick, subconscious dart of her tongue over her bottom lip, the way her shoulders tense like she’s gearing up for a fight.
"You’re ridiculous," she mutters.
I smirk, gently pushing her.
" Say. It ."
She glares at me.
"This is nothing ."
I lean in just a little more, until our noses are almost brushing, until I can feel the heat of breath against my face.
"Then why are you shaking, cara mia ?"
Her breath hitches, and I fucking feel it.
The way her chest rises against mine, the way her fingers twitch at her sides like she doesn’t know whether to push me away or pull me closer.
I shift slightly, pressing just a little closer, just enough to brush my thigh against hers.
She exhales sharply, her fingers clenching into fists.
She’s right there. Right on the edge.
One little push, and I know she’ll fall.
My gaze flickers to her lips.
I should kiss her.
Fuck , I want to kiss her.
I want to press her into this wall and drag my teeth over her bottom lip until she moans for me, until she forgets whatever weak excuse she’s been telling herself about why this shouldn’t happen.
Her lashes flutter, and for the briefest second, she leans in -
And then voices echo from the adjoining corridor, snapping us both back into reality.
Daphne’s eyes go wide, panic flickering across her face as the footsteps grow louder.
I take a quick step back, exhaling sharply as I shove my hands back into my pockets. She straightens, inhaling deeply and blinking a few times like she’s resetting her brain.
And then - once she seems to have remembered herself - she turns her glare back to me.
Her cheeks are still flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly, looking utterly flustered - and very fuckable.
"I hate you," she whispers furiously, and then she storms off, her head held high, her spine rigid.
I watch her go.
Watch the sway of her hips, the way they roll with every step, the smooth curve of her waist tapering into those high-waisted trousers that fit her like a damn dream.
Watch the way her breath stutters, her shoulders rising and falling just a little too quickly, like she’s still trying to shake off whatever just passed between us.
Her fingers twitch slightly at her sides, like she’s resisting the urge to touch her own skin - to chase the heat I left behind when I pressed her against the wall. She swallows hard, tilting her chin up as if sheer defiance alone will steady her.
But I see it.
The way her thighs squeeze together for half a second before she forces them apart.
The way her hands fist at her sides, tense, restless.
The way she walks a little too fast, like she’s trying to outrun whatever this is between us.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through my hair as I attempt - unsuccessfully - to steady my pulse.
Fuck . This woman is going to ruin me.
I glance down.
And - double fuck.
Of course .
Of course, I’m standing here, very visibly hard, in the worst possible choice of clothing.
Grey. Fucking. Sweatpants.
I close my eyes, gritting my teeth as frustration and something much darker coil tight in my gut.
This is bad. Really fucking bad.
Because no matter how many times I tell myself to let it go, to shake her off, to treat her like just another journalist with a microphone and an agenda…
She’s under my skin.
Again .
And I have a feeling she’s not going anywhere.