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)
My stomach plummets.
He's dressed casually, wearing dark jeans and a plain white T-shirt that stretches distractingly across his broad chest. His dark hair is styled in effortless curls that are brushed back off his forehead, and he’s holding a large paper bag in one hand.
"What..." My voice cracks. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"You didn’t answer my texts," he says simply, as though that’s the answer for everything.
"I told you that something came up," I mumble, highly self-conscious about the fact that my hair looks like a bird’s nest and my face is still puffy from crying earlier. “And - wait, how do you know where I live?!”
His gaze flickers down before slowly dragging over my body, taking in my bare feet, my mismatched pajamas and the messy bun on top of my head.
His lips twitch like he’s fighting back a smile.
"Can I come in?" he asks, pointedly ignoring my question.
"No," I say automatically.
My eyes dart to the living room, where the evidence of my comfort binge sits in plain view.
"Daphne," he says, voice softer than usual. "Please."
I hesitate, but the gentle concern in his eyes makes my chest ache, and I instinctively know that I’m not going to get rid of him easily.
This man is nothing if not determined.
And so I step aside.
Matteo walks in, his eyes sweeping over the expanse of my apartment.
It’s nothing in comparison to his stunning mansion, though I try not to be too conscious about that.
After all, this is only a temporary rental.
His gaze catches on the coffee table, and I watch as his dark eyes flicker between the empty ice cream tub, the scrunched-up chocolate wrappers and and the opened (cheap) bottle of wine.
I groan and cover my face.
"Don’t say a word,” I say in warning.
"I wasn’t going to."
"You’re lying."
"Maybe a little."
He sets the bag on the kitchen counter, and I sigh.
"...But I promise I'm impressed by your dedication to the sugar food group."
I peek through my fingers to glare at him.
"I told you not to say anything,” I grumble before letting out a long, heavy sigh. “What do you want, Matteo?"
"I wanted to check on you."
"I'm fine."
"She says, while sitting in a nest of ice cream and chocolate wrappers."
"Comfort food. It's a perfectly valid coping mechanism."
His smirk softens.
"Rough day?"
"Something like that," I mutter, sinking onto the sofa. I gesture vaguely at the chair across from me. "Since you're here, you might as well sit down."
He takes the seat, elbows resting on his knees as he watches me.
"Want to talk about it?"
I shake my head. I don't trust myself not to blurt out the whole humiliating encounter with Mark.
"Okay," he says, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Then how about I distract you? I brought pizza."
He gestures to the bag on the counter.
Despite myself, I smile.
"Oh. I… You didn’t have to do that."
"I had a feeling you'd need carbs."
The tension eases just a little, but as I glance toward my laptop on the armrest, the memory of Mark's voice echoes in my head.
Footballer or editor?
The smile slips from my face.
Matteo notices.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "I’m just... tired."
He doesn't look convinced, and I watch his side-profile as his jaw tightens and his eyes darken with that intensity I’ve come to recognise.
"Something happened at work," he says. "I can tell."
"It's nothing," I insist, fiddling with the hem of my oversized shirt.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Daphne,” he says, waiting until I look him right in the eyes before he continues. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out."
I try to maintain my mask of indifference, but the weight of Mark’s words still presses down on me like a stone.
As though he can read my mind, Matteo’s gaze sharpens.
"It’s Chapman, isn’t it?" he asks, voice turning cold.
Caught off guard by how quickly he’s hit the nail on the head, I quickly drop my gaze to the floor before meeting his gaze once again.
Matteo sees it, and his body goes rigid, muscles coiled with barely contained fury.
"What did he do?"
His voice is deadly, and I swallow thickly.
"Matteo, it's fine -"
"It’s not fine. Not when it’s upset you like this," he says. "What. Did. He. Do?"
I close my eyes, willing the tears not to come.
But the dam breaks, and the words tumble out.
"He… called me into his office," I whisper, quickly wiping away the tears that have already fallen down my face.
Damn it - I do not cry.
Especially not in front of men.
"He grilled me about - about us. Accused me of being unprofessional, and basically said I was cosying up to you for attention, and to do better at work. And then -"
Matteo waits as I inhale a long, shaky breath.
He doesn't rush me. Doesn't interrupt.
I don’t miss the way that his large hands clench into tight fists, but he stays still, letting me find the words.