Page 21 of Italy Can Bite Me

What the hell are Wish Cards? Did I miss some kind of senior citizen memo?

“And for today’s wish…” Matteo waves a single card in the air. His biceps flex with the movement. “Should I tell you now or keep it a surprise?”

The seniors scream “Surprise!” so loud I think I lost hearing in my left ear. But I’m too busy watching Matteo lean over the bus driver, murmuring a phrase in Italian that has no business sounding that good.

It’s only words. Regular words. So why does my skin feel too tight?

“Everybody repeat after me—guida l’autobus, Lorenzo!”

I press my lips together, arms crossed, while our group massacres the Italian language. Matteo catches my eye, and the challenge in his gaze makes my pulse skip.

“Perfetto!” His praise rolls through the bus, and the seniors glow. “You’ve just learned to say ‘Drive the bus, Lorenzo!’ Your first step to becoming Italian!”

The seniors applaud like they’ve already mastered the language.

“Now, tour tradition time!” He pulls out a camera. “Day one photos! Show me those beautiful smiles. Even you, Miss Grumpy Face.”

He winks at me.

I glare.

He grins wider.

Once again, Matteo murmurs something to Lorenzo in Italian, and I’m about to protest when music blasts through the speakers. Not soft, cultural background music. Oh no. This is full-on Italian festival music, the kind that makes nonnas drop their knitting and start dancing in the piazza.

The seniors instantly come alive—clapping, swaying, stomping chaotically. Even Lorenzo bobs his head to the infectious beat.

I’ve boarded the party bus from hell.

I grab Matteo’s arm as he strolls by, then immediately let go like I’ve been zapped by static electricity. Odd. That zing was probably… bus friction.

“Hold on, hotshot.” I channel my best don’t-mess-with-me voice. “Where exactly are we going? And what’s with the Wish Cards?”

“Ah, bella. If you hadn’t been so busy insulting me last night, I could have explained everything.”

I hit him with my death glare. “I’m not finding any of this amusing. At all. Zero amusement happening here.”

But instead of cowering like any sensible person would, he sits next to me. “You made it very clear last night that fun isn’t part of your… vacation itinerary.”

I’m ready to deliver a scathing comeback, but he leans in and—my heart starts racing—suddenly I forget how to form words.

“And about that little hand slip?” He gestures toward my chest with zero shame. “Total accident. Though watching you get all fired up, breasts heaving like that… makes me wonder if you’re secretly wanting an encore.”

He’s dead. Right after I stop blushing like a tomato having a hot flash.

Looking extremely pleased with himself, Matteo leans back in his seat with maddeningly casual confidence.

“You did not just go there!” The shriek escapes before I can subdue it.

“Relax, I’m having a little fun. No need to get those sensible cotton panties in a twist.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m wearing any.”

Wait.

What?

Did I actually just—

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