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)
I’d been a little worried about leaving my bags at the bottom of the stairs given all the advice I’ve received about pick-pockets and opportunistic thieves watching and waiting, but they’re still here - waiting for me like two smug little reminders that I am, in fact, not built for manual labour.
I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and grab them both. I sling one over my arm and grab the handle of the other with my free hand.
The second trek up the stairs is marginally easier, but partly because I pause halfway to dramatically sigh and lean against the railing like some tragic heroine in a period drama.
When I finally reach my apartment again, I drop the bags just inside the door and shut it behind me with a soft click.
That’s it. I’ve officially, temporarily, moved in.
I take a moment to catch my breath and survey the new space properly.
It’s small but cozy, with high ceilings and rustic wooden beams that make it feel like I’ve stepped into someone’s charming Italian grandmother’s home. The walls are painted a warm, buttery yellow, and the terracotta floor tiles are cool beneath my feet when I kick off my sandals.
There’s a tiny bookshelf in the corner, already stocked with a handful of books left behind by previous tenants. I scan the spines, noting that they’re mostly Italian paperbacks, although there are a couple of well-worn travel guides and, inexplicably, a copy of Bridget Jones’s Diary in English.
I make a mental note to check if there’s anything else worth flipping through later.
A gentle breeze drifts in through the slightly open balcony doors, and that’s when it really hits me again.
I’m here. In Rome.
For three whole months.
I wander over to the balcony, pushing the doors open fully. The view isn’t exactly postcard-worthy, per se: just a narrow, winding street lined with old stone buildings and bustling cafes.
Still, it feels homely in a way that London never quite has.
It’s chaotic. It’s loud.
And, for now, it’s home.
A knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts, and I blink, turning towards the sound.
I don’t know anyone here yet, which can only mean one thing.
Work has officially found me.
Chapter Four
Daphne
I hesitate for a second, staring at the door like it might suddenly vanish if I ignore it hard enough.
Maybe if I stay perfectly still, whoever it is will assume I’m out gallivanting through Rome like a glamorous, well-adjusted journalist who wants to be here for reasons other than pizza, pasta and sunshine.
Another knock, louder this time.
No such luck.
With a sigh, I force myself away from the balcony and swing open the front door, coming face-to-face with a man who is exactly what I imagined a seasoned sports journalist living in Italy would look like:
Tanned, slightly wrinkled and exuding the kind of self-assurance that suggests he’s never second-guessed a decision in his life.
Mark Chapman.
I recognise him instantly - not just because Richard told me I’d be working with him, but because his face has been plastered across sports news segments for as long as I can remember.
He’s a big deal in this industry. The kind of journalist who gets exclusive interviews, breaks major stories for The Tribune, and - if the smug look on his face is anything to go by - he knows it.
Mark is, objectively speaking, a good-looking man in that rugged, middle-aged way. His hair - once probably a deep brown - has started to turn silver at the temples, and the lines on his face suggest a lifetime of either intense thinking or intense scowling. His build is solid and broad-shouldered, and I can immediately tell that he’s got that easy, old-school charisma that probably works wonders on rookie journalists desperate to impress him or PR reps who want to stay on his good side.
Me, though?
Yeah, no.
Not my type.
Maybe it’s the slight air of I’ve seen it all, and I know better than you radiating off him, or the way his smirk suggests he’s already decided exactly how competent (or incompetent) I am before I’ve even said a word.
Either way, this is not the kind of dynamic where I’ll be left swooning.
“Sinclair,” he says, giving me a once-over like he’s assessing a new recruit in some kind of war zone.
I try to straighten up, subtly wiping my slightly sweaty palms against my sides.
After all, whether I like it or not, he is a pretty important man, and I know many of my colleagues working at a junior level would snap up the opportunity to work alongside someone as experienced and knowledgeable as he is.
“Mark. Hi.”
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.
“Settling in?”
I glance back at the chaos that is my half-unpacked suitcase and cringe internally at the realisation that I haven’t even bothered to set up my laptop yet.
“Sort of.”
“Good,” he says, nodding like he was actually interested in the answer. “Figured I’d swing by and give you the lay of the land. You’ve got about a day to get your bearings before we start.”