Page 17 of Italy Can Bite Me

The bartender is too busy watching the game on his phone to notice her increasingly aggressive attempts to grab his attention.

“Ciao, bella. Can I buy you a drink?”

She doesn’t even glance at me. “I’m fine, thank you,” she says with a voice so sharp it could slice prosciutto.

“Ah, American!” My smile deepens. “Welcome to my beautiful country. Perhaps I could give you a… private tour?”

She turns those green eyes on me full force and—fuck me—I wasn’t prepared. That glare—it’s like being stabbed by two smoldering emeralds.

“Let me stop you right there.” Her voice could frost champagne. “Whatever line you’re about to use? Save it for someone dumb enough to fall for the whole ‘charming Italian’ routine.”

“But I had such a good one about my rock-solid Tower of Pisa.”

“Gross.” But her lips twitch. “Does that actually work? Do women just drop their panties because you have an accent and zero shame?”

“Usually, yeah. They do.”

Which is exactly why this resistance is so fucking intriguing.

“Well, it’s not going to work on me. I’m engaged,” she snaps, shoving a very naked ring finger in my face.

“Looks like your fiancé really broke the bank on that invisible ring.”

For a moment, real pain flickers in her emerald eyes. Then… gone, replaced by steel.

“I left my ring at home. Wouldn’t want it stolen by some smooth-talking Italian con artist.”

“The only thing I’m interested in stealing,” I purr, sliding so close I feel the heat radiating off her body, “is a kiss from those beautiful lips.”

Her laugh hits me like a kick to the balls. “Oh wow. That’s… that’s really bad. Like, monumentally cheesy. Do you practice these lines in the mirror? Or maybe you only recently learned English?”

Merda. My game is seriously off.

“Usually I save my best material for the second drink.” I lean against the bar, trying to regain control. “But your eyes—they remind me of the mysterious depths of Venice’s canals.”

She presses a hand to her chest, mock swooning. “Did you just compare my eyes to water where tourists pee? That’s so romantic. I’m dying. Really. Quick, call an ambulance.”

“No, I meant they’re green, like the algae—”Cristo, what the fuck am I saying?

“So now I’m canal scum?” Her eyes spark with amusement. “What’s next? Going to say my hair looks like overcooked pasta? My skin reminds you of day-old mozzarella?”

My cock has no business getting this hard watching her demolish every move in my playbook. Women usually melt by this point, and God help me, I’ve never seen a tourist look so happy while gutting me with her words.

Enough of this amateur hour.

“Actually, bella…” I let my gaze drift down her body like a physical caress, lingering on the way her cardigan strains against her curves. A flush crawls up her neck like a sunburn.Not so immune after all, are we?

Her breath hitches when I step closer. All those cardigan buttons suddenly have my fingers itching to discover what’s underneath. Is she wearing something practical? Or is there lace hiding beneath all that propriety?

Our eyes lock and the air between us thickens like honey. Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second.

I lean in close, voice dropping low. “I was thinking more about how that dress makes me want to—”

“I dare you to finish that sentence.”

She spins back to the bar, but a blush is spreading like wildfire across her cheeks. Her hands shake as she waves that credit card once again.

“Try your routine on someone else, Romeo. I’ve seen this Netflix movie. Hot Italian guy, American girl who lets her guard down… it ends with awkward texts that never get answered.”

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