Page 20 of Italy Can Bite Me

But then— Oh.Oh!This is exactly the kind of “candid” shot my Instagram feed needs.

I whip out my phone faster than you can say “namaste,” searching for the perfect angle that screams “unplanned tranquility.” I push my inflexible self to bend and arch, lifting my leg in some mystical blend of sexy and spiritual. The cobblestones dig into my sensible shoes as I hold the pose, my breath catching, my heart hoping…

Three…two…one…

CLICK!

Yikes.The photo makes me want to die a thousand tiny deaths.Is that a triple chin?Plus I look like I’m doing the potty dance in the middle of Milan. It’s lessEat Pray Loveand more Eat Pray, Oh-God-I-Need-to-Pee.

“Katherine Blair Crawford, put that contraption away!”

My spine stiffens at the use of my full name.

“Is your entire generation incapable of experiencing life without filming it?” She untangles herself with the grace of someone who definitely wasn’t doing tequila shots at breakfast.(Shewas. I saw her).“Life’s not about snapping photos, darling. You gotta dive headfirst and live in the moment.”

The seniors’ enthusiastic cheers save me from her next round of wildly inappropriate advice. Our “bus” has arrived, and it’s pretty underwhelming. Calling it a bus is a bit of a stretch. I’d say morewheezing relicwith its duct-taped mirrors, a muffler that coughs like a chain-smoker, and tires so bald they’re shiny.

The ancient driver opens the door and nods to our group. I contemplate whether walking across Italy might be the better alternative. Because this isnotthe luxury coach I saw online. This thing is old, dingy, and the windows are so smudged I can barely see into the bus. The elderly passengers slowly board, and I join them, accepting my fate. One step inside and— Dear God, what is that smell? It’s like something crawled in here to die but instead decided to throw a fart party with its dumpster-diving pals.

I snag a seat near the front, praying that the source of the stench is somewhere in the back. No such luck.Is it worse up here?

“Buongiorno, my lovely tourists!”

No. Sweet baby caprese salad,NO!

My body recognizes that voice before my brain does, and every inch of my skin tingles with awareness.

“For you,signora.”He presents a flower to Mrs. Thomas. The seniors swoon like he’s just invented sliced bread and social security on the same day.

I’m about to make a beeline for the back of the bus when Aunt Deb shouts, “Oh, Matteo! I must introduce you to my delightful niece, Katie. She may not be a senior in age, but trust me, she’s a senior in spirit.”

Matteo’s eyes meet mine, and a smirk crosses his lips. “We actually met last night. And you’re right. She has all the charm of an irritable, crotchety schoolmarm.”

My jaw drops as Aunt Deb cackles uncontrollably. “Oh, you’ve got her pegged! Our Katie does take herself rather seriously.”

I stand there, fists clenched, as they bond over their shared amusement at my expense.

“Don’t you worry, dear Deborah,” Matteo coos into a microphone. “I’ll make sure your delightfully uptight niece doesn’t put a damper on our fun. Now, who’s ready to kick things off?”

The seniors cheer like they’ve just been offered an early-bird special at half price.

“Katie?” He holds the mic up to my face, eyes dancing with challenge. “I can’t hear you.”

“Woo,” I deadpan.

“We’ll work on your enthusiasm,principessa.”

I hate him so much.

His overconfident swagger, those cheesy flirtations, and that cocky attitude—it’s like nails on a chalkboard to my organized soul. Worst of all, I hate how my body remembers exactly how close he stood last night and how his cologne, warm with hints of leather and vanilla, lingered in the air.

Two weeks. I’m stuck with this jackass for two goddamn weeks?

“Your Wish Cards, per favore!”

Matteo makes his way down the aisle, gathering the papers with a theatrical flair. He puts on a big show of reading them. “Oh, this one is absolutely brilliant—and—we’re gonna have a blast making this happen.” When he gets to Aunt Deb’s card, he gives her a wink. “You sneaky vixen. I’m not sure the Vatican would approve.”

My aunt purrs. “That’s what makes it fun, darling.”

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