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)
"Devastating?" she deadpans.
"Soul-crushing," I correct. "Borderline traumatic. Truly, I don’t know how I managed to play football tonight. It’s a miracle, really. I was seconds away from collapsing on the pitch, clutching my heart, whispering your name like some tragic hero."
She lets out a reluctant laugh.
"You are such a drama queen."
"Am I?" I tilt my head, stepping closer, my voice dropping to a low murmur. "Or am I just a man trying to understand why a beautiful, intelligent, irresistible woman is denying herself the opportunity to talk to me?"
"Maybe because I don’t want to feed your ego?"
I press a hand to my chest.
"Ah, bella, you wound me." Then, I lean in, lowering my voice as if I’m about to tell her a great secret. "You say that, but we both know you love my ego."
"You’re delusional."
"And you," I grin, "are breathtaking. A vision. A true gift to mankind. And yet you continue to deprive me of your presence. It’s honestly very rude."
She huffs, but the smile is there, lurking at the corners of her mouth.
"Fine," she mutters. "One text."
I slap a hand over my heart, gasping.
"Finally! My suffering is over."
She rolls her eyes, but I see the smile she’s trying to fight back.
God, I love this game.
"But if it gets lost in the cloud again, I am showing up at your door."
"I mean it. You’re impossible."
"And you," I murmur, leaning in just enough for my breath to brush against her cheek, "are worth the trouble."
Before she can respond, I dip my head and press a quick, soft kiss to her lips.
It’s over too fast, but I want to leave her wanting more.
I pull back, meet her gaze, and give her one last lingering smile before I turn and walk away.
I don’t have to look back to know she’s still standing there, watching me.
And this time?
She doesn’t run.
Chapter Forty-Five
Daphne
The 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?!"