Page 37 of Italy Can Bite Me

“They match everything!” I defend, though even I have to admit the color could best be described as sad oatmeal.

“Darling, those cotton panties are forcing your vagina into early retirement.” She circles me like a stylish shark. “A stud like Matteo wants to unwrap you like a saucy Christmas gift, not tear open a boring Amazon Prime box.”

The thought of Matteo unwrapping anything of mine sends heat surging through my body.

“It’s not your fault. Your fashion faux pas come from your mother. She struggled with perms, puffy sleeves, and pantyhose. I couldn’t save her, but you, you still have a chance. Here.” She tosses something silky at my head. “Try this.”

I hold up the dress.Not sure if this flimsy bit of material qualifies as a dress.The neckline plummets to my belly button, and are you kidding me… “It’s see-through!”

“That’s the point!”

“There should be some imagination left for an outfit.”

“This is going to be more work than I thought,” Aunt Deb says, studying me like a particularly challenging puzzle. “First clothes, then lingerie. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was sexual confidence.”

Ten minutes and several minor wardrobe malfunctions later, we’re doing our best runway walks for an audience of two. Howie’s drooling as Aunt Deb twirls and shimmers under the boutique’s strategic lighting.

“Sweet tea, you are stunning! You could make a paper bag look like haute couture,” Howie drawls.

I would sell my soul for a paper bag right now. It would provide more coverage than this so-called dress. Note to designer: Less isn’t more and fabric isnota suggestion. My hands are playing a game of tug-of-war, trying to keep everything from popping out.

And then there’s Matteo—leaning against the wall like an Italian dessert menu.

“Matteo, darling! We need your masculine perspective.”

His lips curve into that stupid, cocky smirk. “It’s… fine.” He shrugs with indifference. “But not quite sexy enough to catch a real man’s attention.”

Oh, you arrogant Italian ass.I see right through him—five minutes ago, he was Mr. “Beauty is on the Inside,” and now he’s purposely provoking me.

“No trouser tingles? Challenge accepted! Katie-kins, back in the changing area. We’re going to turn you into a model or die trying!”

“I. Hate. You,” I mouth at Matteo, narrowing my eyes.

“More skin!” Aunt Deb demands, tossing dress number two at me. “A little cleavage never hurt anyone, baby girl. Now put on this push-up bra, and try a size smaller.”

Each dress Aunt Deb chooses is progressively more scandalous. And Matteo keeps playing his part to a tee—the bored, unimpressed critic whose disinterest only fuels my auntie’s determination to reveal more Katie lady parts.

Dress number six welcomes everyone into my VIP section.

“Boring,” he drawls.

Dress eight exposes my entire left butt cheek.

“Perhaps something tighter?” he says.

Dress nine could double as dental floss. I refuse to leave the room.

And then.

Oh.

Then.

The red dress happens.

Not just red—this is make-the-devil-blush red. The sort of red that could trigger an international scandal.

The fabric doesn’t just hug my curves—it’s serenading them with love songs. The neckline is downright illegal, the back is nowhere to be found, and the slit? Well, my mom took baby pictures of me in the tub that were less revealing.

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