Page 19 of Italy Can Bite Me

Me:Mom, no.

Mom:Or, “Hey, saw this and it reminded me of you.” Maybe a pasta dish? Men love food.

Me:I’m not using pasta as an icebreaker.

Mom:Okay, just trying to help. Team Jared 4ever!

Me:Did you seriously write “4ever”?

Mom:The grandkids say it’s cool.

“SIX MINUTES LATE!”I squint against the harsh Italian sunlight, scanning the bustling street for a sign—any sign—of our tour bus. Seven minutes… Seven and a half…Ugh!

Yeah, they’re late, and yeah, I’m annoyed. But the real problem is last night’s bar encounter—living rent-free in my head all morning.

And by “problem,” I mean that walking snack of a man.

My body thrums like a low note struck on an unfamiliar instrument. Good Lord, that Matteo guy was unfairly gorgeous, lounging against that bar counter like he was doing everyone a favor by existing. His dark brown eyes were undressing me, taking in every inappropriate thought(I swore I wasn’t having). And that mouth—full and sexy—curved into a smirk that hinted at all kinds of dirty promises.

His coffee-colored hair was a tousled masterpiece—total sexy bedhead—like he rolled around in some high-thread count sheets all night. And my God, that accent—a warm, gooey chocolate lava cake melting in your ears, turning whatever he said into pure panty-dropping poetry.

Not to mention his rugged, capable hands that look like they know their way around a lady’s body. Hands connected to powerful biceps and commanding shoulders. That man could easily hoist me up, wrap me around him, and send our hips crashing into each— Oh geez.STOP thinking about his hips.

The nerve of him. Is this how Italian men are? Charming their way into women’s panties between espressos.

I snap open my binder, fanning myself frantically. I’m here for Jared. Sweet, agreeable Jared who’d never compare my eyes to murky canal slime. I glance down at my outfit of the day—a pastel blue floral top that always made Jared smile, paired with my most flattering jeans and sensible ballet flats. The ensemble screams, “naturally beautiful without trying too hard.”

Focus, Katie.I’m here with a plan—a very specific plan to win back my fiancé. Not to daydream about some insufferably handsome Italian man who throws ridiculous pickup lines at every tourist he meets.

I scan our group of travel companions huddled outside the hotel entrance, and it’s like someone raided all the retirement communities in America—a literal sea of grandparents. The elderly couples are so adorable it makes my heart squeeze—weathered fingers clasped together and matching walking shoes. But the senior singles?Not so much!They’re living their best golden-years-gone-wild lives, flirting with a shameless enthusiasm that says, “Screw the 401(k), I’m gonna live it up!”

And then there’s Aunt Deb, a dazzling peacock amid the flock of pigeons, draping herself around some dapper man who could pass for George Clooney’s older brother. Her hands are wandering places I really, really don’t want to think about this early in the morning.

I refocus, finding myself suddenly giddy about the upcoming two weeks. A grand adventure across Italy, hopping from one city to the next—riding in the lap of luxury on a tour bus with windows so big they might as well be picture frames. This is why I’m here.

Like any respectable event planner, I’ve come fully prepared for the day ahead.

Laminated itinerary is tucked neatly into my binder. Check.

Phone at the ready to capture perfect photo ops. Check.

Trusty water bottle. Check.

Combine those with an oversized tote of essentials and a makeup bag, and I’m ready to battle any and all chaos the Italian sun decides to unleash.

Different country, same organized Katie!

Today I have a clear objective: Shadow Aunt Deb and study her every move. I’ll wait for those perfect, “spontaneous” moments that’ll make for killer pictures and pounce. After a quick snap, I’ll post them with adorably teasing captions, and watch as Jared takes the bait.

We’re visiting the Leaning Tower of Pisa before noon, so I’ve got my sexy pose already figured out. However, for the rest of the time, I’m counting on Aunt Deb to inspire whatever whimsical posts will keep my feed fresh.

Twelve minutes late. Where’s the stupid bus!

“Gather round, my lovelies!” Aunt Deb’s powerful voice rings out over the murmurs of the crowd. “While we’re here, let’s awaken our inner zen with a morning yoga flow!”

She waves me over, undeterred. “C’mon, Katie-kins! Join your favorite auntie for some rejuvenating stretches.”

Aunt Deb leads her silver-haired disciples in a basic tree pose. Holy downward-facing disaster! The mortifying scene looks like a herd of overly enthusiastic, hopelessly uncoordinated flamingos playing Twister. It’s equal partshard to watchas it iscan’t look away.

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