Page 36 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Excuse me? Are you, like, a local?”

Before I can respond, a blonde American bombshell, who surely owns stock in push-up bras, stands there eye-fucking Matteo so hard that her stare is rounding third base.

“Born and raised, bella.” And there it is—the panty-melting smile I was stupid enough to think was mine alone.

“We’re staying at Hotel Milano.” Her equally stunning friend appears like they’re tag-teaming their prey, all perfect hair and practiced pout. “Maybe you could show us the kind of intimate spots we want to see?” She glances between Matteo and her friend. “We’re very… open-minded about sharing authentic Italian experiences.”

Wow. About as subtle as a neon sign advertisingDown For A Threesome.

Matteo soaks up their attention like it’s his life force. Reality check delivered: I’m not special. I’m just another tourist getting the standard Matteo Monti experience, complete with smoldering looks, casual touches, and flirty nicknames.

“Ah,bellissime. You’re painting a very… enticing picture. Under different circumstances, I’d give you both a thorough Italian education.“ He winks. “But sadly, ladies, I’m working. Enjoy your trip.”

They slink away like pampered princesses denied their prize, and I’m trying hard not to think about what kind of “lessons” Matteo offers in his spare time.

“What happened to your no-tourists rule?” I arch an eyebrow.

“I said no tourists frommytours.” His mouth curves into an infuriating smirk. “Other tourists? Much simpler. Here today, gone tomorrow. No complications.”

Right. Matteo treats relationships like Airbnbs. Meanwhile I’m over here planning joint cemetery plots. Add that to the list of Reasons Why the Hot Tour Guide Is Eye Candy Only.

“That’s kind of sad. And lonely.” I gesture toward Stan and Rose, who are sharing a gelato as if they’re starring in a romance movie. “I want that. Sixty years with someone who still looks at me like I’m their whole world.”

Something dark flashes across his face. “Sure. Until the day it’s all taken away.”

The raw pain in his voice surprises me. Before I can ask what he means—

“Darlings!” Aunt Deb’s voice cuts through the air. “I simply must have your opinions on some scandalous purchases.”

She hooks her arms through ours with surprising strength and drags us toward a high-end boutique that screams “Your entire paycheck won’t cover the tax.”

“The vintage can wait,” Aunt Deb declares.

Howie trails behind us. “Lead the way, sugar.”

The moment we step inside, I know I’m in trouble. This isn’t Target. It’s not even Nordstrom. This is what you get when money and fashion have a passionate affair and send their love child to the most prestigious school in Paris. The lighting is designed to make you forget about trivial things like rent and food. The air smells like a bouquet of fresh flowers, but also the sweet scent of financial recklessness. The clothes hang on minimal racks like precious artwork, each piece spaced far enough apart to suggest they’re too elite to mingle with the others.

A price tag peeks out from a “simple” black dress. “Holy shit. Maybe I could start an OnlyFans for my binder collection.”

Matteo’s laugh rumbles beside me, but it’s drowned out by the sound of Aunt Deb’s full-on chaos. Three saleswomen flutter around her, their arms straining under the weight I swear is half the store’s inventory. She selects pieces rapid-fire, like a fashion-obsessed orchestra conductor.

“Katie-kins. Dressing room. Now!”

My stomach drops. I know that tone. It’s the same one she used when I was eleven and refused to participate in her “junior burlesque” dance recital. OMG, the feather boa incident…

I still have nightmares.

“Strip!” Aunt Deb announces as she corrals me into the dressing room. It’s less of a room and more of a small palazzo, where the mood lighting could rival aVoguephotoshoot.

“I can’t—” My protest dies in my throat as my aunt’s outfit drops to the floor. Underneath, she’s wearing a crotchless lace bodysuit in sapphire blue to match her eyes.

“Darling, how do you expect to seduce anyone if you can’t undress in front of the woman who pulled a highlighter cap out of your left nostril when you were five?”

Fair point.

Faced with the unstoppable force that is my aunt, I slowly start peeling off layers.

She gasps. “Oh, honey. Are those… are those beige?”

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