‘Oh. Well, that’s okay, then.’ Disappointment rattled through her. She had an insane desire to spend just a few more minutes with him. ‘I feel as if the last two days have been all about me. You’ve sacrificed your days off to be here, I just thought it would be a way of saying thank you. It’s not … I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s just a pub, maybe some food. The game. I’m not offering any more than that.’
Was it her imagination, or did he look just a little relieved? ‘Well, I would prefer to watch it than listen to it. But what about your work? I thought you had too much to do already?’
She shrugged. ‘So maybe I can take a little time off? Just a couple of hours.’
His eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Whoa. Watch out, Ivy Leigh, you might get into the habit of relaxing. Then what would happen?’
Staring into his eyes, his heated gaze focused on her, she felt relaxed and excited and scared and comfortable all at the same time. This man was too easy to fall for and she was tumbling deeper and deeper. But she could handle it. She’d laid out the parameters. ‘I can’t imagine, Matteo. I just can’t imagine.’
‘COME ON, ENGLAND! Yes! Yes! Yes! Go!’
So this was the unleashed version of Ivy Leigh? Matteo laughed as she stood, eyes glued to the huge wall-hung TV in the sports pub, body tensed and fists punching the air. ‘God,’ he groaned into his pint. ‘This is terrible. Less than an hour ago you did not know a thing about rugby. Now look at you—England’s most fervent fan.’
High-fiving the two open-mouthed English supporters at the next table, she beamed. ‘This is fun. We’re beating you, Matteo, that’s all that matters.’
‘There’s time yet.’ He shrugged, far more entertained by her reactions than the game.
‘You think? In the history of the Six Nations championship there have been over twenty games between England and Italy, and England have won them all. Your chances are zero, Mr Hero.’
‘Twenty games—how the hell …? Since when did you know that?’
‘The wonders of the internet. You just have to know where to look.’ She winked at him. ‘I did my research. You didn’t think I’d invite you to watch a game we had the remotest chance of losing, did you?’ On-field action caught her attention again, she paused, breathing heavily as her eyes glued themselves to the game. ‘Come on, mate. Pass it. Yes. Yes!’
Thank God for half-time. She sat down, all flushed and hot-cheeked, her chest heaving with excitement. ‘This is brilliant. Why did no one ever tell me that watching sport was such fun?’
He drained his glass and put it back on the table. The fun was in watching her watching the game. ‘It is when you’re winning. And I have to say you are very entertaining.’
She patted his arm condescendingly. ‘Poor pet, you’re a very sore loser. But still glad you came?’
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