Page 45 of Italy Can Bite Me

Is it me or is Matteo moving in slow motion while the rest of us are in fast-forward?

Note to self: Maybe twelve espressos before eight a.m. was overkill. But I needed to stay alert after my all-night binder-making session.Operation Make Jared Regret Everythingrequired fresh tabs, color-coding, and at least fourteen contingency plans for every possible fake-boyfriend scenario. Including, but not limited to, what to do if Matteo gets abducted by pirates. Hey, we’re at a port. Itcouldhappen.

My leg won’t stop bouncing.Should I be concerned?

We hit the road from Milan early this morning, and after a two-hour bus ride, we arrived at the harbor. It’s a painting come to life(minus the god-awful fish stench)with its pastel buildings and vibrant-colored fishing boats bobbing up and down. The sound of distant ship horns fills the air while seagulls circle overhead, eyeing their next gelato target.

“Today I will show you my favorite places in Genoa.” His accent wraps around each word, and my ears soak in every syllable. “Starting with this port, which was once the maritime capital of the world for over seven hundred years until 1797. Take in the salty sea air.”

The stinky sea air can kindly go screw itself. I didn’t squeeze into my most photographable sundress to smell like the dumpster behind Red Lobster.

“Genoa was once the richest city on earth,” he continues, as I count seagulls at hyperspeed. Seventeen. No, eighteen. That one just split into two.Wait.“And a little locals trivia… Genoa is also referred to as Genova.”

“You mean Genovia, like fromThe Princess Diaries?“ I snort-laugh, amused at myself.

Crickets. Dead silence. Even the seagulls stop mid-swoop to judge me.

Clearly these people do not know the rom-com genius of Garry Marshall. I guess they don’t share my dream of being transformed from an awkward teenager into a princess overnight.

I clutch my binder, taking comfort in my brilliant, laminated plan for success. It’s the product of last night’s caffeine-fueled mania—a step-by-step guide to making my ex jealous. Inside? Over nineteen pages of inspirational couple poses, complete with notes that definitelydon’tfeature Matteo’s perfect jawline.

My eyes dart to Matteo as if they have a mind of their own. My heart races even faster, which should not be possible given the pure caffeine coursing through my veins. Sweet espresso beans. He’s pretty. Like, illegally pretty. I should add a tab about that.

WHERE'S MY BINDER?Oh right, I’m holding it. Ha!

“Today we will visit palazzi, which you would call palaces,” he says, and my mutinous mind replays our photoshoot last night. Backlit by cathedral lights, Matteo’s dark eyes burned into me as he commanded my body and thoughts. And then the velvet in his voice when he described how he’d worship every inch of me.Yes, more please.

As if he can hear me thinking, Matteo catches my eye and winks. Good Lord, his chest in that fitted navy T-shirt could make the devil himself jealous. My entire body flames up like a furnace. I’ve apparently developed a serious weakness for Italian-accented dirty talk.

I think I might spontaneously combust.

Or maybe that’s the caffeine.

EVERYTHING IS REALLY INTENSE RIGHT NOW.

“We will end the day with Barb’s Wish Card—taking an authentic Italian cooking class and making delicious pesto. And guess where that was invented? Here, in beautiful Genoa!”

Barb reminisces about the Italian restaurant she owned in the Bronx while I flip through my agenda at warp speed. I’m no longer paying attention because I’m now pondering how to casually measure Matteo’s biceps with my hands in the photos without looking like it.

“Speaking of Italian cuisine,” Aunt Deb purrs, “we should practice the other exciting ways you can use olive oil. I did a retreat with Hercules, this massage instructor in Greece…”

Oh God, no.My last functioning brain cell begins playing Aunt Deb’s Greatest Hits of TMI, featuring her Greek trainer’s equipment(which apparently required its own zip code)and creative applications of extra virgin olive oil to places that ensured nothing remained virgin.

Nope. Abort that thought.

“How long will the class take?” My words tumble out fast and jittery. A muscle under my left eye keeps jumping like it’s trying to escape my face.

“Relax and enjoy the adventure, principessa.”

I’m about to tell him where he can shove his “relax and enjoy” when—

WHOOSH!

A kamikaze seagull dive-bombs out of the sky, its beady eyes locked on target—my face.

I shriek and leap straight into Matteo’s arms; my binder turns into a rectangular frisbee and flies through the air. He catches me with ease, and now all I’m focusing on is how his muscles bunch beneath my fingers.Why do our bodies fit together so perfectly?

The seagull circles back, eyeing my precious binder where it landed. Without setting me down—his fingers tightening possessively on my hips—Matteo strides toward it like some kind of avenging knight in fitted trousers. The fact that he’s rescuing organizational supplies instead of slaying dragons is the hottest thing ever.

---