Page 16 of Italy Can Bite Me

Coming from him, that’s practically a speech. And not exactly reassuring.

“Any other problems I should know about?”

He raises a single finger.

“Just one? That’s not so—”

Then another. And another. He keeps going until both hands are up, all ten fingers spread wide.

“You know,” I sigh, gathering the rest of my supplies, “sometimes your silence is more comforting than your honesty.”

That earns me an actual snort—the Lorenzo equivalent of belly laughter.

“Ciao, Lorenzo.” I head for the door, already planning how many cookies each tourist should get to make up for the inevitable AC complaints. Maybe if I get them drunk enough on cheap wine—

“Matteo.”

I turn back, surprised by the rare use of my name.

He points to my back pocket where a piece of lace is peeking out(R-something’s insurance policy for a second night).It’s a move I’ve seen so many times it should be featured in tourist guidebooks. They can list “Leave underwear in hot Italian’s pocket” right after “Visit Juliet’s Balcony in Verona.”

I pull out the black lace and toss it to Lorenzo. “Souvenir?”

Without missing a beat, he wipes his greasy hands on the delicate fabric, probably ruining what was at least a hundred euros worth of La Perla. Then he tosses it aside like yesterday’s trash and gets back to work, though I catch a flash of a grin.

Next up: meeting my new group. It’s time to show them my Italy in all its imperfect glory.

***

TheWelcomeNightcrowdstarts filtering in—my new batch of senior tourists ready for their Italian adventure. The hotel bar fills with excited chatter as they find their name tags and cluster in groups, dressed like they’re having dinner with the Pope himself.

Usually I’m excited about introducing myself to everyone. But tonight? Tonight I’m sitting at the bar, brooding into my third grappa and doing the math on a repair bill that’s making my balls shrivel.

Three thousand euros. Might as well be everything I own.

“Would you look at this smorgasbord of man meat?”

Mother of God.That lady’s voice has a spotlight and a mic. I follow the boisterous voice and see what appears to be a walking rainbow on two legs. But it’s the woman trailing behind her that makes me forget all about my financial crisis.

Cristo, who ordered the angel?

Her golden hair catches the light like a halo, eyes green as emeralds and sharp enough to cut through bullshit at fifty paces, and a body that makes my mouth go dry. Her floral dress and prim cardigan scream, “I’ve never been late to anything,” but there’s something about the way she holds herself—back straight, chin lifted, and captivating curves barely restrained. It compels me to take a closer look at whatever she’s hiding beneath that polished facade.

Everything about her is a contradiction—delicate features with a don’t-fuck-with-me expression, sensible shoes on legs that are pure temptation, and minimal makeup with piercing eyes sharp enough to freeze hell over. I sense she’s the kind of girl who could destroy a man—and who probably carries a playbook on how to do it.

“Aunt Deb!” Cardigan girl hisses at Rainbow Woman. “Could you be any louder?”

“Darling, inside voices are for people who haven’t lived through disco.” The aunt’s attention locks onto me like a cat hearing a can opener. “Bingo! Three o’clock, by the bar. Tall, brooding, and yours-for-the-screwing.”

I look around just to make sure she’s talking about me. She is.

“Now that’s an Italian Stallion.” The older woman lets out a hungry sigh. “He’s packing a zucchini that’ll have you seeing stars and teach you things about your body you haven’t discovered yet. You can thank me later.”

I hide my smirk in my drink. Can’t fault the lady’s good taste.

The niece’s cheeks flame red as her aunt slaps a name tag on her chest and pushes her toward the bar. “Fetch me a martini, sweetie. Extra dirty.” A theatrical wink. “Like my intentions.”

I turn back to my grappa, watching the blonde beauty approach in the mirror behind the bottles. Each step is precise, measured, like she’s got a ruler hidden somewhere in that outfit. When she gets closer, her scent hits me and—merda. Sweet strawberries. My cock twitches—I’ve got a thing for strawberries.

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