Page 134 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Well, it was either sit at home watching soap operas or come hang out with you crazy people!” she shouts, her fingers intertwined with Chester’s.

Their first trip brought them together, and now? They’re inseparable.

I’m holding back the most exciting part of Chester’s wish. Despite his jokester reputation, he’s unironically planned a heartfelt, over-the-top proposal. I proofread his speech and it brought me to tears, especially the ending: “Forever starts here, with you and me.” Mrs. Thomas has no clue how romantic this man is under all that silliness.

Seeing them reminds me of the first time I held Katie’s hand in Verona—on our firstrealdate, when my fingers linked with hers and the whole world shifted into place. And now having her hand in mine feels like coming home.

Truth is, I wanted to call her mine after the experience on Lake Como. No, notthatexperience, not when my balls turned into frosticles. The turning point for me was when I snapped that first picture of her, and she embraced it. I felt like I earned a piece of Katie’s trust, and I had to protect it. That day, something changed in me—a fierce desire to keep her heart safe.

And Katie stuck to her guns about taking things slow—which nearly killed me, by the way. But when she finally called me her boyfriend? Cristo, I almost combusted from pure fucking joy.

Turns out commitment is not an issue for me—I’d marry her tomorrow. But Katie is in no hurry for rings and white dresses. I get it. She’s too busy living in our perfectly imperfect bubble of happiness.

Though sometimes my caveman brain needs just a bit of reassurance. Which is why, one day, my girlfriend did the most spontaneous thing ever—walked into a tattoo parlor and had my name inked inside a heart on her hip. Only I’m allowed to see it. Well, and occasionally half of Italy when she’s rocking that dental floss bikini or we’re running naked on the beach(which happens way more often than my Catholic guilt is comfortable with).

My girl was adamant I ink her name on me too. I suggested my forehead (go big or go home, right?)She countered with my dick. “That’ll ensure,” she purred, “everyone will know exactly who owns the real you.”

We agreed to put her name over my heart where it belongs.

“And I spot some more troublemakers,” Katie announces into the PA system. “Please welcome back our favorite fashion duo, the Dawson sisters!”

Margaret preens, silver curls bouncing with every gleeful tilt of her head. “We are here toraid Italy’s hidden fashion treasures for our growing empire. Or as the kids call it, our ‘online store.’”

“Turns out the internet shares the same impeccable taste as two stylish old broads,” Agnes says. “Isn’t that right, sister dear?”

“Where budget meets boujee!”Agnes says, whipping outPennies For Pradabusiness cards like confetti. “Italy’s closet rejects are Gen Z’s next obsession.”

These women inspire the hell out of me. Their first tour lit a fire under them to start a whole new career. Their Wish Cards are no longer to find trinkets; now they’re all about unearthing secret fashion shops tourists never see. And watching them dive headfirst into their dream, proving it’s never too late to be bold and badass. It’s a front-row seat to the best kind of magic.

KATHUNK!

Our vehicle hits a pothole that could swallow the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

“Mama mia! Hold on!” Lorenzo barks.An actual full sentence?The apocalypse must be near.

Suddenly everyone’s bouncing and jerking like we’re riding a mechanical bull through an earthquake. I grab Katie, yanking her against my chest as purses and water bottles go flying. Her soft curves mold against me, and even potential death by potholes can’t stop my body from soaking her in.

I assume we’ve driven through the worst of it because our driver gives us a thumbs up.

“These ancient Roman roads could use some modern love,” I say to our travelers.

Katie starts collecting scattered belongings, bending over to show me a playful peak of her cotton panties, and my mouth goes dry.

“Shit!” Katie shouts. She jerks up as if stung by something. “Really, Aunt Deb?”

Bzzzzzzzzzz!

Katie hands the vibrating lipstick-shaped device to her aunt.

“Darling, it’s like American Express—never leave home without it,” Deb says proudly. “And Katie-kins, you should include those in your welcome bags! What do you think, my Southern stud? Should we fund that particular business expansion?”

“Of course, sweet tea. Who doesn’t enjoy a little pickle tickle between excursions?” Howie drawls.

These two haven’t slowed down since their wedding. Their yearlong honeymoon makesFifty Shadeslook like a Nicholas Sparks novel.

“Everyone,” Katie says boastfully, “please meet Deborah and Howie Dixon. They’re not just valued guests; they’re also the primary investors in Monti Tours.”

“Without whom none of this would be possible,” I add. “Let’s give them a round of applause!”

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