Page 129 of Italy Can Bite Me

The screen rings once. Twice. “Pick up, Cam. Pick up,” I mutter under my breath, my heart doing nervous backflips.

Finally her face appears, sunshine bright as usual. “¡Hola, Katie! What’s up girlie?”

I want to blurt out how stunning she looks. My utility-belt-wearing, scrunchie-collecting friend has gone full island goddess. She’s rocking a strapless dress that definitely wasn’t bought with camera gear in mind. Her usual practical ponytail has been replaced with soft waves, complete with a flower tucked behind her ear.

Nope. Must turn on the professionalism. “Camila Morales, thank you for taking my call.”

Her eyes do this little dance of confusion, but she matches my tone. “Of course, Miss Crawford. How can I help you?”

I angle my phone so Antonio has a clear view. “I’m here with Antonio from Italy Express. Can you please confirm that Reece Dare and I are working together on an upcoming event?”

Cam’s expression doesn’t falter, but her eyes are screamingGirl, what mess are you dragging me into?“Absolutely. I’m with Mr. Dare right now. Let me grab him.”

She turns the phone, and there he is—Reece Dare himself, in all his sun-kissed, slightly sweaty splendor, radiating dark-haired surfer Ken Doll energy—sculpted six-pack abs on full display.

“Reece,” Cam says. “Can you confirm your upcoming meeting with Katie Crawford for the launch of your new energy drink?”

His confused puppy eyes would be adorable if my entire plan didn’t hinge on his acting skills. “Oh, uh… yeah. Yes. Miss Crawford! Good to talk to you… again?”

Crap. That totally came out as a question.Hopefully, Antonio doesn’t notice.

Instead, he practically levitates out of his leather chair. “Reece Dare! I love your videos. The one with the ostrich race? Genius!”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

“If you’re ever in Italy, we’d love to host you for a private, complimentary tour of the country.”

“You know what? I might take you up on that. This Hawaii trip has been… mind-blowing.”

Reece’s eyes rake over Cam with the kind of fire that could set off sprinklers. I can feel the heat radiating through the screen before he says, “Nice talking to you, Miss Crawford.”

Oh. My. God.That look. Coming from a man Cam refers to as Prickwad Douchewaffle. Why is he suddenly giving herruin-me-in-a-rainforestenergy?

Cam’s face pops back into view, a flush spreading across her cheeks.Is she getting lei’d in paradise?“Thank you for calling.”

“Yes, and I hope your trip is… satisfying.” I try to keep thespill the teaout of my voice.

“LOTS to catch you up on later,” she says with a smirk that promises scandalous details. “I suggest you watch tomorrow’s video.Hasta luego,“ she says before hanging up.

I study Antonio, who’s still basking in the afterglow of his brush with YouTube fame.

“All right,” he sighs, defeated but trying not to show it. “I’ll add you to Matteo’s tour. But promise me you’ll get Reece Dare to come to Italy. It would be a dream come true.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, tucking away both my phone and my guilt about lying.

Antonio hands me a clipboard full of forms, which I sign without reading. My mind is already racing ahead.

I’m coming for you, Matteo Monti.

***

TheColosseumteemswithenergy and excitement, but all I can focus on is my pounding heart and sweaty palms. Tour groups swarm every corner, snapping selfies, their voices blending into a chaotic hum of languages I don’t recognize. The air smells of sunscreen, sweat, and overpriced gelato. Next to me, a group of teens are losing it over the bad Wi-Fi situation. Tragic. I mean, how will they share their $10 coffees with the world?

But none of that matters.

Because there he is. Matteo Monti. Red flag in hand, looking like a grumpy Italian snack in his red polo shirt. His khakis are pressed within an inch of their life(who hurt you, khakis?), and his artfully messed-up hair has my fingers itching to mess it up more. That scowl on his face? It shouldn’t make my lady bits tingle,but here we are.

I weave through the crowd like I’m playing humanFrogger, dodging selfie sticks and overstuffed backpacks until I’m close enough to hear him. His voice carries over the headset receivers, low and gravelly, but there’s no passion. He’s listing off facts the same way he’d read the ingredients on the back of a cereal box.

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