Page 106 of Italy Can Bite Me

Me:Jared falling back in love with me would require an actual miracle. Like, Vatican-level.

Mom:Good idea. If the Pope has an email, I’ll find it.

TODAY HAS BEEN A BLUR.

I barely remember breakfast or the bus ride to the vineyard. Time seems to have folded in on itself, moving both too fast and not quick enough. Caterina and I spent the day turning the terrace into a scene straight out of an Italian rom-com. Between the arrangements for the party, the chatter about Italy, and the sheer magic of the enchanting Tuscan sun, I’ve hardly had time to breathe—let alone think about what comes next.

And I kind of don’t want to.

And then there’s Caterina, the most badass pregnant woman I’ve ever met. She’s been hustling in her tiny kitchen, producing enough authentic cuisine to feed a small army. At the same time, she’s somehow orchestrating the arrival of decorations, a portable dance floor, and flowers—we’re talking gorgeous custom floral arrangements. Apparently her friend in the village grows them specifically for events like this.

The woman has connections that would make a Mafia boss jealous.

She even tried to move one of the massive wooden tables herself. While. Seven. Months. Pregnant.

I swear Enrico materialized out of thin air, his tall frame blocking her path like a protective wall of Italian masculinity. He planted his feet and his casual smiling eyes went serious. “No, no, no. You sit, mi amore. Or lie down. Or eat something.” His tone left no room for argument. “No lifting,capisce?”

Caterina’s response was pure fire, phrases delivered in Italian so vulgar his eyes went wide. I couldn’t understand the words, but the tone? Universal. It was the sound of a woman who’s heard “you can’t” one too many times. I thought she was going to prove him wrong, but instead, she rolled her eyes and relented, muttering something about how pregnancy isn’t an illness.

I couldn’t help but laugh. It’s easy to see why Enrico is such a guardian of her—she’s incredible. The kind of person who makes you pledge your loyalty to her after one conversation.

She’s also the reason my brain has been spinning elaborate fantasies all day. It started this morning when she casually dropped the atomic bomb of “I can’t wait for you to stay here” while arranging salami.Hello? Did you just read my soul out loud?

I nearly inhaled a piece of cheese. “I… I never said—”

“Pfft.” She dismissed my protest with a wave of provolone. “Your heart speaks louder than your words. And I see you kiss Matteo before he leave.”

From that moment on, she became a one-woman tourism board, painting pictures of my potential future. The seasons in Tuscany. The festivals. The wine harvest. The late-night dinners with food for days and endless laughter. Every dreamy, romantic detail rolled off her tongue like a sultry travel ad, and each one ticked off another box in my fantasy life with Matteo.

I’ve been secretly rehearsing how to tell everyone about my plans to stay.

My mom will need medical attention.

My friends will stage an intervention.

And Aunt Deb? Well, she probably won’t even notice.

My current strategy? Ghost my return flight and deal with the fallout from a safe distance.

Nothing says “mature adult decision” like avoiding confrontation from another continent, right?

The seniors arrived an hour ago, bubbling with excitement and decked out in their finest clothes. Caterina and I worked together to get Rose ready, and I have to admit, the whole thing has been ridiculously sweet. Caterina borrowed a dress from a neighbor—a stunning ivory lace gown—and somehow found a local professional to do Rose’s hair and makeup.

Rose stands in front of a mirror, and the room only gets brighter with her smile.

“Oh my,” she whispers, running her fingers over the delicate fabric. “I haven’t felt this beautiful since my wedding day.”

“You lookstunning,” I agree.

Caterina sniffs beside me, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “Enrico always say a woman grows more beautiful with every year she is loved.”

“I was such a nervous wreck at my wedding,” Rose confesses, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the dress. “Poor Stan had to practically carry me down the aisle. My hands were shaking so badly he grabbed both of them to calm me down.”

“You? Nervous?” I ask.

“Oh, Katie.” Her smile is soft, knowing. “Love makes fools of us all. But here’s the secret—the nerves don’t matter. The dress doesn’t matter. Even the wedding doesn’t matter. What matters is what comes after. That is everything.”

My heart squeezes as Rose turns to face me, wisdom etched in the deep lines on her face. “The real love story isn’t in the grand gestures or perfect moments,” she says. “It’s showing up. Every single day. It’s the coffee they bring you when you’re exhausted. The way they hold your hand in the doctor’s waiting room without being asked. The quiet assurance of ‘I’m here and I’m not going anywhere’ when life feels like it’s falling apart.”

---