Page 24 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Oh, Katie-darling, that heartwarming moment was poetry in motion! We are living out the grandest of bucket list fantasies on this trip. Let the magic wash over you, my dear!”

This has to be an act.Has to be.

Even if Otto’s tears are real enough to drown in.

Even if Matteo’s joy seems to light him up from within.

We trail through the museum like ducklings following their mother. The air hangs heavy with history and wood polish. Our footsteps echo off marble floors as we trail between glass cases that stretch into forever, each one housing another priceless instrument bathed in amber lighting.

But this boring museum has me thinking about Jared and his fossil lectures—not that he’s boring of course, just, like, the fact that it’s a museum.

“And here we have a masterpiece by Giuseppe Guarneri,” drones our ancient museum guide. “Notice the revolutionary varnishing technique—”

The seniors predictably “ooh” and “aah” on cue while I stifle a yawn.Violins, check. Now let’s go.

“The way your eyes glaze over really adds to the museum ambiance,” Matteo murmurs, suddenly right beside me. His presence startles me, an unexpected pull I can’t ignore. “I didn’t know anyone could look so desperately unimpressed.”

“Oh yes, riveting.” I gesture at the display. “I particularly enjoyed the part about”—I squint at the plaque—“spruce versus maple. Life—changing.”

“Most engaged women find this romantic.” His voice drops lower. “They see the beauty in tradition, the passion in—”

“The brown?”

His laugh rumbles through the space between us, too intimate for strangers. “You work so hard at being cynical.”

“Not as hard as you work at being charming.”

“Who says I’m working at it?”

“Your whole”—I wave my hand vaguely at his everything—“performance is an act.”

He shifts closer. “I find your skepticism oddly attractive.”

My mouth goes dry. “Your flirting needs work.”

His grin turns wicked, predatory. “Oh,piccola tigre, when I’m flirting with you,” he says, his low voice setting my ear on fire, “you’ll know it.”

He walks away before I can respond, leaving me burning and breathless between the displays.

Damn him.

We finally reach the Stradivarius display after what feels like seventeen years of varnish appreciation. Otto snaps pictures next to the display cases. I’m mentally calculating how far behind schedule we are when Matteo steps forward, grinning with seasoned showmanship.

“I could not convince them to let you play a Stradivarius,” Matteo says, presenting Otto with a polished violin. “But this beauty is one hundred and fifty years old. Would you honor us with a song?”

I settle in for what is sure to be a creaky, off-key squeaking session. Otto closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and draws the bow across the strings. My jaded expectations… are shattered.

The first note hits me like a physical blow. Rich and deep and devastating. He plays a dramatic concerto, and the rich, resonant notes echo off the walls, saturated with longing and passion. Otto sways, fully consumed in the rhythm, and the music swells. Tears shine on his cheeks. Each note carries weight, carries memories, carries… so much more than just the notes.

Against my will, the power of Otto’s performance triggers a wave of emotion. Jared’s face flashes through my mind.

Jared. The man who was supposed to be my future, my everything.

I dig my nails into my palms, fighting back the lump forming in my throat.

No.It’s going to work out. This is not our farewell tune. Rather, the melody of our bright new future.

I have a plan. I have a schedule. I have a fiancé to win back.

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