Page 112 of Italy Can Bite Me

2. He’s actually a spy, and my presence has compromised his latest mission(Code name: Italian Stallion).

3. He won the Italian lottery and thinks I’m after his newfound millions.

4. He has a secret third nipple(No. Scratch that. I’d definitely have noticed).

5. He’s allergic to Americans, and the symptoms have just started kicking in.

6. He knows I overthink everything, so he fled before I could pitch turning Monti Tours into an international franchise.

7. Deep down, he’s just an asshole.

8. My mother’s “Team Jared” energy has cursed my love life.

9. He’s secretly married to Lorenzo.

My normally pristine handwriting has devolved into aggressive scrawls. I’m a woman who’s mainlined enough espresso to give a rhino heart palpitations.

I slam the binder shut, but the restlessness coursing through my veins demands action. The hotel room has become a cage.

From her bed near the window, Aunt Deb snores obnoxiously. She rolls over, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “Howie” before burrowing deeper into her silk sleep mask.

Great. We’re both disasters in the romance department. At least she got a marriage proposal. All I got was an “I have nothing else to say” after the most intense declaration of my life.

The hotel’s ancient radiator clanks on, startling me so bad my pen goes flying. It skitters across the floor as if it’s trying to escape my descent into madness. I should probably follow its example, but instead, I’m hate-staring at my phone while mentally composing texts I’ll never send.

Finally it’s breakfast time, and I’ve been up since dawn, running on exactly three and a half hours of sleep and an unhealthy mix of caffeine and rage. I’m seated at a table with Aunt Deb, who’s weirdly quiet this morning—probably still processing the whole Howie and the Boulder That Could Sink the Titanic proposal fiasco—but I can’t focus on her.

My eyes are locked on the doorway with the intensity of a sniper, willing that infuriating man to appear and give mesomething. A smile. A wink. Ahey, sorry for being a feelings-phobic jackass.Anything.

Spoiler alert: He doesn’t walk in.

I need intel. Information. Data points I can organize into some semblance of sense.

Instead, I get Lorenzo, putting professional competitive eaters to shame at the breakfast buffet. His plate looks like he’s preparing for hibernation, if bears hibernated on prosciutto and pastries.

I corner him between the bread basket and fruit display, planting myself in his path like a particularly determined traffic cone. “Lorenzo.”

He acknowledges me with a grunt that somehow manages to convey both “good morning” and “please go away” in a single sound.

“Have you seen Matteo?”

“No,” he grumbles, shoveling bacon onto his plate fast and furious.

I cross my arms. “Tell me, are all Italian men stupid assholes?”

“Sì,” he replies without hesitation, his voice devoid of irony.

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Sì.”

“Okay, well, do you know what’s bothering him?”

“Sì.”

My heart skips a beat. Finally some progress! “Will you tell me?”

He stops mid-bite. “No, piccola.”

---