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)
(We’ve already established that’s a lie.)
“You looked very focused,” he muses, nodding toward my laptop screen. “Writing about my goal?”
I level him with a look.
“You mean the tap-in after a real striker did all the work?”
His brows shoot up.
“Ouch.”
“Oh, please. You’ll survive.”
Matteo leans in slightly, voice dropping low.
“So, about that date…”
I freeze for half a second before schooling my expression into one of practiced indifference.
“What date?” I ask, keeping my tone flat.
“The one we’re going on.”
I scoff.
“We’ve never talked about going on a date.”
“We’re talking about it now.”
I open my mouth, then close it again, unwilling to let him see even a flicker of surprise - or worse, excitement.
“You’re awfully confident for someone who hasn’t even asked properly,” I point out.
Matteo chuckles, tilting his head.
“Do I need to? You’ll say yes anyway.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You don’t know that.”
He leans in just a fraction more, his breath warm against my ear.
“I do, bella.”
I straighten, brushing him off.
“Shh.”
His grin widens.
“Shh?”
“Yes, shh.” I dart my eyes around the room, paranoid. “I’m working.”
“So am I,” he counters, completely unbothered. “Just finished, actually. Which means now is the perfect time to discuss our plans.”
I exhale sharply.
“We are not discussing this here.”
He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in further, his scent invading my senses.
“A date,” he repeats, as though it’s the simplest thing in the world.
“You know what - no. That’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t date, Matteo,” I tell him. “That’s not what this is.”
His smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens.
“Then what is it?”
I open my mouth. Close it again.
Because damn him, I don’t have a good answer for that.
“It’s…” I fumble, crossing my arms. “Casual.”
His eyes gleam with something unreadable.
“So let’s casually go on a date.”
“Ugh. That’s not how this works, Rossi.”
“Sure it is,” he counters. “We spend time together, we eat good food, we talk. That’s a date. A casual one.”
I hate how logical he’s making this sound.
“Come on, cara.” He says, his voice dipping even lower. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Plenty. So much, actually.
But something about the way he looks at me, with that infuriating blend of confidence and something softer - something just for me - makes me exhale in defeat.
I shake my head, already hating myself for the answer that begrudgingly falls from my lips.
“Fine.”
His grin is instant, cocky and victorious.
“But this doesn’t mean anything,” I warn.
Matteo hums, tilting his head.
“Whatever you say.”
I don’t like the way he says it - like he knows something I don’t.
Like maybe, just maybe… this does mean something.
*
Friday evening comes around before I know it.
I smooth my hands over my dress - a soft pastel yellow sundress that falls just above my knees - the light fabric perfect for the lingering May heat.
Paired with flat brown sandals, it’s a simple choice: effortless, but still pretty.
My auburn hair is half-up, half-down, secured with a matching yellow bow to finish off the look. Not knowing what to prepare for, I’ve kept my makeup natural - just a hint of mascara, a sweep of blush, and a soft pink tint on my lips.
I expect Matteo to take me somewhere predictable.
A restaurant, maybe, or a bar. Somewhere loud and flashy, somewhere he can be seen and I can cringe and hide.
Instead, we’re driving up winding roads, away from the city center, the sun setting in the distance.
The city sprawls beneath us as we climb higher and higher, golden light spilling over rooftops, domes and ruins. When we finally stop, I step out and inhale sharply.
The view is… breathtaking.
From up here, Rome stretches endlessly in front of me, the ancient and the modern woven together under the last streaks of daylight. The Colosseum stands proudly in the distance, the river snaking lazily through the city.
I turn to him, surprised.
“I thought you were taking me to dinner.”
He leans against his car, watching me instead of the view.
“I am.”
At my confused look, he smirks and lifts a paper bag.
“Picnic.”
I blink.
“You?”
“Si, me,” he says, mock-offended. “I’m capable of romance, darling.”
He rolls his r and I roll my eyes, but I take a seat on the stone ledge all the same.
He swiftly joins me, pulling out a selection of food - bread, cheese, olives and prosciutto - things he must have grabbed from some small alimentari on the way.
For a while, we just eat, watching the city settle into twilight.
It’s easy. Almost… normal.
Somewhere between bites, the conversation turns.
“My dad brought me here when I was eighteen years old,” Matteo says, staring out at the skyline. “The day I got called up for my first match with the team.”
I glance at him, surprised at the statement.
“He stood right there,” he continues, gesturing to a nearby spot. “Told me to take a good look. He said that this is my city now. That I had to make them love me - that I had to prove myself, too. Show them I was worth it.” A small chuckle. “No pressure, right?”