Page 29 of Italy Can Bite Me

A voice smooth as aged bourbon cuts through my panic. Howie, our resident Texan, strides up to the kiosk like he owns it—hell like he owns the whole damn lake. Everything about him screams old money, from his pressed linen suit to his Rolex that’s worth more than my entire bus.

His sharp eyes survey the boats, then drift to where Aunt Deb is currently scandalizing a group of fishermen. She has one hand on the man’s chest and the other suspiciously low on his hip, grinding to the rhythm of a tango that she’s clearly improvising on the spot.

“I reckon”—Howie strokes his impressive mustache thoughtfully—“a fellow with enough grit and gumption might secure himself a private vessel… for two?”

I clear my throat. “The private boats are quite expensive.”

“How much we talking, son?”

“For everyone, including your extra boat, it’s seven thousand euros.”

Without missing a beat, Howie pulls out a black credit card and sets it on the counter like he’s playing a royal flush. “Sold. There’s one li’l detail we gotta work out.”

His gaze shifts to Katie in the background, who’s intently studying her binder. As the sun catches in her hair, illuminating those bouncy blonde waves, I imagine running my fingers through it.Fuck me sideways. I need to stop noticing these things.

“The lovely Miss Deborah’s niece,” he continues, mustache twitching with pure mischief. “I’m gonna need you to keep her… otherwise occupied. Can’t have her puttin’ a damper on our good time.”

“Done,” I say before he can change his mind.

Howie turns to Signora Ricci. “Now tell me what kinds of lovebird specials you got.”

The change in Signora Ricci is like observing a piranha spot a wounded fish. That black credit card disappears faster than wine at an Italian wedding. “For you, signore? We have manyspecialromantic options.”

Never pit charm against money… money always wins.

***

“Everyone,findyourassignedboats!” I shout, consulting my hastily scrawled passenger list.

Naturally, Katie ignores the command. Of course she does. She marches up, all sharp green eyes and clipped steps, like she’s demanding to speak to the manager—oh wait, that’s me.

“Why aren’t we renting a bigger boat like that Italy Express tour group?” she asks, pointing at the ferry in the distance crammed full of red-shirted tourists.

My patience snaps. “Because that’s not a tour. That’s a human filing cabinet. Intimate boats like ours give you the real Lake Como experience.”

“Or maybe you’re justifying your lack of planning.”

“You think I don’t plan?” I step closer, tilting my head to meet her challenging gaze. “I planmagic. I plan moments people remember their whole lives. You want a checklist? Fine. Here’s mine: laughter, bliss, unexpected beauty, and memories so good they make you cry in the airport on the way home.”

She blinks, momentarily caught off guard, before her defenses snap back into place. “Some people appreciate structure,” she fires back—daring me to argue. “Not everyone wants their vacation to feel like an episode ofSurvivor.”

“Your boat’s down that way, principessa,” I say, pointing toward the far dock. “Let’s not scare the captain with that death glare, okay?”

She huffs, brushing past me, but not before her shoulder bumps mine too hard to be accidental. As she and her attitude walk away, I catch the sway of her hips and my grin stretches wide.

If she thinks she’s getting the last word on this, she’s got another thing coming.

Rustic brown wooden boats gently bob in the crystal-clear water as the sun paints the lake’s surface with sparkles like scattered diamonds. Mountains in the background frame the postcard-worthy view, releasing my frustration.

“Mrs. Thomas, careful with those steps.” I steady the elderly woman as she boards.

“Lorenzo!” I bark at my driver, who’s excavating his nasal cavity again. “Get a damn Kleenex and help Mr. Jenkins.”

A burst of laughter draws my attention to where Deborah is dragging Howie toward their private boat. “Time to make some waves, my Southern stud!”

“Comin’, sugar!” Howie’s grin could light up Rome as he follows her.

I check my list again. One boat left—me, Katie, and the Dawson sisters who are currently…leaving?Why are they walking away from the dock?

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