Page 35 of Italy Can Bite Me

I snap my mouth shut so fast my teeth click.Damn him for anticipating my question.

“Well, mostly,” he adds with a grin. “We have a special shopping detour planned, because today’s Wish Card comes from our fashionable Dawson sisters.”

Agnes and Margaret saunter forward like seasoned socialites. Their matching paisley-print scarves should be a crime against fashion, but somehow they’re working it.

“You see, sweeties,” Agnes announces, adjusting her oversized Gucci sunglasses, “Margaret and I have dreamed of thrift shopping in Milan since we first sawRoman Holiday.”

“Wrong city, sister dear,” Margaret cuts in.

“Details, details. The bottom line is, we’re here to hunt vintage treasures! Because just like us, vintage never goes out of style!”

“And a designer purse,” Margaret adds, “always fits, no matter how many cannoli you eat.”

A savory smell wafts over from a café‘s dessert display where chocolate biscotti and sugar-dusted pastries sit behind the glass, begging to be devoured. Several faces in the group light up, stealing glances at the tempting treats.

Matteo beams as he lays out the plan, his excitement pulling us in. “We’ll blend classic Milan landmarks with shopping at my favorite hidden gems—the ones tourists never find. And if you need a break, Lorenzo will have the bus waiting nearby!”

As we cross the street, Matteo’s voice carries like music, painting Milan as a living, breathing entity. He doesn’t just describe the city—he conjures it, turning stone facades into whispers of history and hidden courtyards into secret gardens waiting to be discovered. The city feels less like a tourist trap and more like an old friend eager to meet us.

The group pauses for photos at the base of an ornate building, its carvings glowing in the sunlight. Suddenly Matteo is beside me.

“No binder today?” His voice teases.

“Still recovering from its brush with death in my suite,” I say, keeping my tone cool. “Thanks to my forethought to have the pages laminated, and your little lake rescue, it will survive.”

“Heroic deeds are my specialty. Besides, we can’t have your fiancé missing out on the fantastico adventures of Binder Girl, now can we?”

Something about his easy tone makes me brave… or possibly insane. “How’s your, um, love wand? Still suffering from frostbite?”

Oh my God. Did I actually say that out loud?

Matteo throws his head back and laughs. “Fully recovered, principessa. Care to verify?”

“In your dreams, Romeo.” But I’m grinning, and it feels… natural. Like maybe his no-tourist boundary is exactly what we needed. We can simply be fun and flirty with zero chance of those abs convincing me to do something stupid.

We follow him through streets that wind like spaghetti noodles until we arrive in Navigli. The district hits all your senses at once—the soft splash of canal waters, the sweet scent from a gelato shop, and the rainbow of vintage clothes spilling from doorways. Beautiful old buildings slant over the canals, their faded paint and crooked shutters only adding to the charm.

“Welcome,” Matteo announces with a theatrical sweep of his arm, “to where fashion goes to be reborn.”

The Dawson sisters are already speed-walking toward the nearest shop, and what’s left of our group disperses like confetti, drawn to different window displays and outdoor racks.

I clearly missed the dress code memo because Milan’s sidewalks are a never-ending runway show. The parade of women that strut by seem genetically engineered by some top-secret Italian lab. A girl eating pizza looks like a Gucci ad. Another casually applies lipstick while strutting in weapons-grade heels, and a brunette, weighed down by shopping bags, moves like she’s floating on a cloud.

Even the tourists have mastered that casually glamorous I-woke-up-in-Prada vibe. A group ahead of us is taking selfies, and they’ve got that head-tilt-hair-flip-laugh combo down to a science.

Meanwhile, I’m over here in my clearance-rack blouse and practical flats, feeling about as runway-ready as a Pizza Hut breadstick.

“They’re all so… intimidating,” I mutter to Matteo, watching another goddess float past. “How do they make it seem so effortless?”

“Ha! It’s more of an illusion,” Matteo says, a faint smirk on his lips. “You’d be surprised how much effort goes into looking effortless.”

“Well, whatever they’re doing, it’s working.”

“Depends on what you think ‘working’ means.” Matteo tilts his head, assessing me on a level that makes me feel vulnerable. “Some people like to be seen. Others… don’t feel the need to try so hard.”

“Are you saying I don’t try?” I shoot back, defensive now.

His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. “I’m saying, true beauty comes from the soul and you… look beautiful with or without clothes.”

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