Page 130 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Built in 70 AD. Originally named the Flavian Amphitheater. Could seat up to fifty thousand spectators…”

Oh hell no.This is not my Matteo.

“Excuse me,” I shout loudly. “But I didn’t get my headphones.”

Matteo’s head snaps up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. His face flickers, for just a split second(is that surprise? A hint of relief?), but then his scowl returns with a vengeance.

“Katie. What are you doing here?”

“I’m here for the tour. Obviously.”

“You’re not part of this tour.”

“Oh, but I am.” I grin, pulling my secret weapon out of my bag: the red shirt. “Ta-da! Official member of the Italy Express Red Shirt Brigade. Or should I saybrigata? That’s Italian for brigade, right? No? Still Spanish?”

“Bella. I don’t have time for this.”

“Oh, you’ve got time.” I step closer, making sure his group is watching—because what’s a public rejection without an audience? “I have no headphones. How can I possibly hear all the riveting information about gladiators and lions? I have questions. About their dietary habits. Their workout schedules. Their skincare routines.”

He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t the time or place.”

“Then when, Matteo?” I challenge. “Because I’ve been texting you, calling you, trying to do this the easy way, but all I’ve gotten is silence. You’ve left me no choice but to join your lovely tour. I even brought snacks for everyone. But if you choose the hard way…”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s fighting a smirk. “Why can’t you just take no for an answer?”

“Not my style,” I shoot back, tilting my head. “You know that.”

He looks at me sternly and exhales, as if to sayI’m not playing your game, and sharply turns back to his group. “We have five more minutes for pictures,” he announces, “and then we’ll visit the gift shop, where they’re offering a discount on ‘I Survived the Colosseum’ mugs.”

“So you’re choosing the hard way. Fine, but remember, you asked for this. I just wanted to talk.”

A flicker of concern crosses his stupidly handsome face. Good. He should be worried. Because the hard way? It’s a public spectacle that’ll probably get me banned from Italy forever and earn me my own special exhibit in the Embarrassing American Tourist Hall of Fame.

I step into the middle of the Colosseum’s dusty floor and the crowd takes notice. I pull my portable speaker out of my purse and set it down, ready to drop the beat like it’s the party of the century. My fingers fumble with my phone as I scroll through playlists.

“All right, Katie,” I mutter to myself as I pull on the red shirt and adjust the feather boa I definitely didn’t steal from Aunt Deb’s luggage. “Time to channel your inner exotic dancer.”

I hitPlay.

The opening drumbeat of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard ricochets off the large stone walls like a call to arms. Every confused tourist within earshot freezes mid-selfie and swivels in my direction.

No turning back now.

This is it.

Showtime.

On the front of my shirt, in hastily scribbled Sharpie letters, is the wordK-Tease.

I strike my first pose, legs wide, boa trailing behind me like a sequined comet, and start gyrating my hips as if I’m spinning an imaginary hula hoop. The amphitheater echoes with the unmistakable sound of ’80s glam metal—and suddenly, I’m eleven years old again in Mrs. Garrett’s fifth-grade talent show, mortifying myself in front of my classmates.

Except this time there’s no Mrs. Garrett to hold me back. And no talent show trophy to win. Just Matteo Monti, standing somewhere behind me, ready to either murder me or finally,finallytalk to me.

My hips jerk left, then right, then freeze somewhere in between. It’s not so much grapevine as a full-blown “get this spider off me” dance. Phones are popping up, recording my chaos, so I throw in a symbolic shoulder shimmy that says, “You’re welcome, world.”

Despite the music blaring, the Colosseum fills with the sound of people choking on their laughter.

But Spontaneous Katie doesn’t care about dignity anymore. She bends her knees, throws her arms up, and attempts a spin that nearly takes out a family of four standing too close.

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