Page 12 of Italy Can Bite Me

Screw the jet lag advice. This bed’s beckoning me like a lover’s whisper. I don’t care how I look for the stupid welcome mixer. To hell with everything except these heavenly sheets and—

“Don’t you dare fall asleep!” Aunt Deb calls from the bathroom. “We haven’t even started your underwear intervention!”

I faceplant into the pillow with a groan. Maybe if I play dead, she’ll leave me alone.

A thong hits the back of my head.

Maybe not.

CHAPTER THREE

MATTEO

Cazzo.It’salmostnoon.

My phone vibrates relentlessly from my nightstand. Blazing sunlight assaults my face like judgment from above, my head throbbing in rhythm with my racing pulse. The weight of a warm, feminine body shifts against my side, and memories from last night flood back with crystal clarity.

My phone vibrates again—probably the twentieth time—and I know without looking it’s Lorenzo ready to castrate me for being late to the repair shop. ButCristo, what man could resist yesterday’s midnight temptation?This American redhead at Bar Basso kept eye-fucking me across the room while talking about her Italian romance bucket list. Who was I to deny—Rose? Roxanne?—the full experience?

Rolling my head to the side, I drink in the view. Sunlight paints her bare shoulder in warm hues, glowing softly against the white sheets. The kind of shot that gets my photographer’s fingers itching. But cameras mean evidence, and evidence means memories.

I’m in the business of creating fantasies, not preserving them.

What was her name? Rebecca? Riley? My cock has developed a sixth sense for finding the perfect tourist—a woman looking for a story to tell back home, without a ring on her finger. A woman who understands thatamoresounds better when it’s just pillow talk.

I slide from the mattress with the stealth of a man who’s mastered the morning-after retreat. Damn, our clothes look like we were ambushed by horny teenagers on spring break. One of my shoes is under the bed, the other—how the fuck did it get on top of the TV? My pants are tangled with her party dress by the minibar, evidence of how quickly things escalated after she purred “Come back to my room” in the worst Italian I’ve ever heard.

Stubbing my toe on her designer suitcase, I swallow a curse.Amateur move, Monti. Get your shit together.

This is exactly how I prefer it—quick, hot, uncomplicated. Let other guys chase the fantasy of forever. At a young age, I learned that love is like a grenade: the longer you hold on, the more damage it does when it detonates.

Her hotel room tells the same story I’ve seen a hundred times—Gucci shopping bags, an Italian traveler’s handbook that’s more Instagram prop than actual guide, and a cheesy souvenir statue of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Her phone lights up: “OMG did you really bang that sexy Italian tour guide??!”

My lips curl. Another satisfied customer for the Matteo Monti experience.

Where is my jacket?

“Mmm… Matteo?” Her sleep-rough voice hits me low in the gut, and my treacherous cock twitches with interest. For a split second, I consider crawling back into that bed, showing her exactly why Italian men have such a reputation. But no. Lorenzo will actually murder me if I don’t get to the garage soon.

“Last night was—” she starts.

“Perfetto,” I cut in smoothly, already backing toward the door.Ramona? Ruby?Better play it safe. “Like something from a movie,cara mia.”

Because that’s all this was—a flawless, fleeting moment, not a real connection. I never get too close.

I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and bolt before she can suggest a sequel. It’s a well-practiced exit, delivered with just enough warmth to prevent tears but not enough to encourage dreams. Tourists are perfect for my purposes—here today, gone tomorrow. No messy feelings, no complicated explanations, no awkward run-ins at my favorite café.

I have exactly one rule in this game: never sleep with women in my tour groups.

Milan slaps me awake as I step out into the bustling street, the sun annoyingly bright for my hungover eyes. My head is pounding like a techno beat, my mouth tastes like I’ve been French kissing an ashtray, and I’ve got…how many hours?I check my phone—shit, five hours until the welcome meeting.

Just another day in the life of Italy’s least responsible tour guide.

You’d think after twelve years of leading tours, I’d have my shit together. Hell, I’ve owned Monti Tours for five of them. But no. Here I am, thirty-two years old, doing my usual walk of shame, trying to remember where I can score some last-minute welcome gifts.

A cherry-red Vespa nearly clips me as I dash across Via Dante. “Occhio!”she yells, her hand lifting to flip me off until… she gets a good look at me, and that hand morphs into a blown kiss. I wink back, the exchange leaving a spring in my step.

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