Page 22 of Italy Can Bite Me

His eyebrows shoot up. For one glorious moment, I think I’ve rendered Mr. Smooth speechless.

Then he laughs.

Not a chuckle. Not a giggle. A full-bodied, rich-as-tiramisu laugh that does things to my insides I refuse to acknowledge.

“There she is. The firecracker hiding behind all those proper buttons.”

The way he saysbuttonsshould not sound that suggestive. Should not make me hyperaware of exactly how many fastenings stand between his gaze and my skin. And his eyes—those stupid, gorgeous, bedroom eyes—rake over me like they’re undressing my cardigan one button at a time.

“Oh yes, this tour is going to bemolto interessante.”

I clutch my binder like it’s a shield against his Italian charm. No man should be allowed to make basic English words sound like audible foreplay.

“Wish Cards. Explain. Now,” I grit out.

Matteo holds up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. On my tours, everyone gets one special wish—something they dream of doing in Italy. And I?” He taps his chest. “I make those dreams come true.”

“Wait.Yourtours? As in, you own this company?”

“Sì, bella.” His smirk reaches dangerous levels. “I’mil capo. The boss.”

“But how do you grant wishes and stick to the scheduled itinerary?”

Matteo shrugs. “The schedule is merely a suggestion.”

No fixed itinerary?

No carefully planned timeline?

Just two weeks at the mercy of this man’s whimsical Wish Cards?

I’m going to pass out.

“Here.” He slides a blank card across the armrest, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. “Show me what desires are buried beneath that… cardigan.”

I snatch the card away, but I can still feel the ghost of his touch. “My only desire is for you to follow the schedule.”

“So you want things predictable… no surprises. Sorry, that wish is a no-can-do.” He leans in, his voice low and seductive. “But if you ever get in the mood for a little trouble, I’m totally game.”

With that painfully smug little mic-drop moment, Matteo stands up from his seat, casting one final scorching glance over his shoulder before casually strolling away.

I stuff the ridiculous Wish Card into my binder. I’ll be damned if I let this insufferable, chaos-loving man ruin the vacation I’ve spent hours perfecting.

***

CLUNK.SCREECH.WHEEZE.

My hands shoot out to grab the seat in front of me, narrowly avoiding face-planting into the decades-old upholstery. The ancient vehicle shudders to a stop, and I swear I just heard something important fall off. And bythingI mean the whole freaking transmission.

Through windows that appear to have been cleaned with a dirty sock soaked in olive oil, I stare at what has to be the most underwhelming building in all of Italy. The brown brick facade could be a prison. Or maybe a DMV?

It’s not the Leaning Tower of Pisa that’s for damn sure.

My event-planner senses are tingling, and not in a good way.

Ah. Now it all makes sense.

This isn’t a wish-granting detour. This is Tourist Trap 101. Any minute now, he’ll claim his “dear friend” owns this “authentic” establishment and offer us a “special private tour” for the low, low price of fifty euros each. I’ve seen more polished acts from magicians at kids’ birthday parties.

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