Page 46 of Italy Can Bite Me

Matteo scoops up my binder one-handed, the other arm still keeping me firmly pressed against him. The seniors burst into applause as if he just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.

“That’s three times I’ve saved your binder. You owe me.” His breath fans against my ear, sending lightning down my spine.

“Not like how you’re thinking, I don’t.” But my body betrays me, pulsing everywhere we touch. Or that could be the caffeine.Everything is very warm and very fast and does anyone else hear colors?

I reluctantly peel myself off his broad frame, and the moment his touch is gone, I feel… empty. I’m beginning to worry this fake relationship will be my undoing. Death by sexual frustration and too many espressos.

Here lies Katie Crawford, taken too soon by an Italian tour guide’s ripped forearms and filthy mouth. May she rest in organized peace.

I should probably make a tab for that.

Right after I figure out why my tongue tastes like a sparkler exploded in my mouth.

***

TWENTYMINUTESAGO,MYcaffeine crash knocked me flat, leaving me with a heap of regret and a skull-splitting headache. On the bright side, I can finally form sentences and I stopped trying to translate every street sound out loud.

I hang back at the rear of our group, plotting out today’s photo ops, while up ahead, our lively crew of seniors huddles around a fleet of rickshaws.

Matteo announces, “Today we will travel on three wheels and experience endless adventure as we see all the highlights of Genoa.”

“Take my queen to her palace!” Howie says.

Howie helps my aunt into a rickshaw, and she’s milking every second. She never misses a chance to be overdramatic, working those rickshaw steps like they’re the Met Gala stairs.Damn, Aunt Deb! You’re wearing enough jewelry to sink a cruise ship.

Hold up. Is thatanothernew diamond necklace?

I’m totally scrutinizing these death traps on wheels. The bikes can’t be more than one pothole away from falling apart, and they each have a rustic cagelike canopy with a seat attached to the back.Cute, maybe. Safe, not a chance.

Then Matteo helps Rose into her rickshaw. There’s a tenderness in the way he gently holds her arm, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. It feels unhurried and genuine, as if she was his own grandmother.

Next thing I know, he’s cleared the crowd, and it’s just the two of us.

“Cara mia, mettiamoci comodi.”His voice slides over me like warm mozzarella.

“What’s that mean?”

“My dear, let’s get cozy.”

“Oh no,” I say, ignoring his sinfully dark eyes. “That’s not how this fake relationship is going to go. Photos only. That’s the deal.”

He doesn’t reply, just hits me with that lethal half smile before effortlessly hopping into the rickshaw. I’m left to awkwardly climb in after him. I’m halfway inside when I feel my sundress riding up my thighs and then—

BAM!Gravity lurches the rickshaw, and I’m suddenly pressed up against his body, my face buried in his chest. I rocket upright so fast my spine cracks in three places.

These ancient cobblestone streets are determined to torture me. Every bounce sets my breasts jiggling. At this rate, a wardrobe malfunction is not a matter of if, but when. I cross my arms over my chest, praying he can’t see how my nipples have hardened beneath the thin fabric.

Palazzo after palazzo blur past like a candy-colored fantasy, with mint-green shutters and sunflower-yellow walls. Unfortunately, I can’t appreciate any of it because I am too focused on avoiding becoming a human pancake on the pavement from this seat belt-less rickshaw.

WHAM!Another bump. My binder flips open on my lap to reveal—please God no—my comprehensive guide to fake boyfriend touching zones, complete with anatomical diagrams.

“Approved physical contact zones, eh?” Matteo peers at the image, his breath tickling my ear. “Is this a chart of where I’m supposed to put my hands?”

I snap it shut. “It’s a systematic approach to fake-relationship photography.”

His arm drapes behind me. “What does your diagram say about this?”

SLAM!The rickshaw hits the Grand Canyon of potholes, and suddenly I’m sprawled halfway into his lap. Lord, even through his pants I can feel how hard he is.His muscles, I mean. His muscles.

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