Page 131 of Italy Can Bite Me

I drop to the ground—yes, the ground—and do what can only be described as the world’s most uncoordinated body roll. I’m like a fish flopping on the deck of a boat. The boa gets caught in my hair, but I push through because Aunt Deb taught me: never break character, darling.

“Sweet baby Jesus, what am I looking at?” someone mutters in the crowd.It’s a valid question.

I spring back to my feet—or try to. It takes two attempts and I flash everyone my cotton panties in the process. The boa, now more of a sad feather duster, gets tangled in my hair as I attempt to twirl it over my head like a lasso. It whips back and smacks me in the face, leaving me spitting out feathers.

Then I spot him.

Matteo.

He’s standing a few feet away with the most bewildered expression I’ve ever seen.

I throw my arms wide, channeling all the false confidence I have, and shout over the music, “Are you not entertained?!”

“Katie,” he snaps. “What. The. Hell.”

“Just living my best life!” I attempt a high kick that barely clears my knee. “But I’ll stop if you talk to me.”

“No.”

“Then buckle up, Monti. This routine’s on repeat until my phone battery runs out. Which means every three minutes you’ll see my finale which involves”—I pause for dramatic effect—“jazz hands.”

His face twitches. “Jazz hands?”

“Never underestimate the power of jazz hands, Matteo.” I fling the boa over my shoulder and attempt another high kick. “Did you know I can do the worm? I mean, I can’t, but I’m willing to try. Right here. On this sacred, once-respected ground. In front of all these nice people with cameras.”

The crowd’s totally on board now. A group of college guys begins chanting “K-Tease! K-Tease!”

Matteo steps closer—he’s either going to strangle or kiss me. “I’m at work. Besides, you’re going to get us both arrested.”

“Fine by me. You’ll be forced to talk in jail.” I twirl again, my movements so stiff and jerky I look like a malfunctioning robot. “Your choice, Italian Stallion. I can do this all day.”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re insane.”

“Says the man who won’t stop me,” I say, attempting a seductive shimmy; but I’m guessing it looks more like I’m being electrocuted in slow motion.

Matteo steps into my personal space, his eyes burning into mine. “Fine. You win. I’ll talk to you. But for the love of God, turn off that music before the Colosseum bans Italy Express forever.”

I snatch up my phone, killing the music mid-guitar solo, panting and sweaty but triumphant. “Thank God. Without a microphone stand, I was going to have to do my big ending by grinding on you.”

That does it. Matteo laughs—a deep, sexy, throat-shaking laugh that makes my knees wobble. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.

“Ridiculously determined,” I say, grinning up at him.

He crosses his unfairly muscled arms across his chest, and I have to suck back my drool. Post-dance cardio plus bicep exposure is a dangerous combination.

“All right, principessa, what can you say that hasn’t already been said?”

I ignore his tone—because Matteo loves to pretend he’s unbothered while secretly having all the feelings—and whip out my binder. His eyes drop to it, and that mouth I want to kiss curls up. “Of course you brought that.”

“What can I say? A girl likes to be prepared.” I flip it open with a flourish, pulling out the Wish Card with nervous fingers. “I finally decided what I want for my wish.”

“That tour ended, Katie.”

“Just take it,” I insist, shoving it at his chest.

His jaw tightens as he reads, then softens as he speaks the words aloud: “I wish for Matteo Monti to love me.”

His gaze lifts to mine. A storm is brewing. “Katie, I already love you. You know that. That’s not the problem.”

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