Page 47 of Italy Can Bite Me

“This is not in the chart,” I manage to squeak out.

He firmly places his hand on my hip, his thumb tracing small circles, and my skin ignites beneath my sundress. “But what if I need to keep you steady?”

“I keep myself satisfied… Steady! Gah, you know what I’m saying!”

My voice reveals how flustered I am, which is embarrassing since I’m the queen of keeping things under control. Everything except my heart rate thanks to this infuriating Italian.

“Of course you do.” His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Romance doesn’t come with a planner, even if it’s a fake one.”

“Hate to break it to you, but I will not take organizational tips from someone who blows up his schedule every day.”

I slide off his lap, reclaiming my side of the seat, but my skin still tingles. His scent—smooth vanilla and smoky leather—clings to me, rich and intoxicating. I frantically pull up Instagram on my phone.

Snap out of it, Katie.You are supposed to be using him to mess with Jared’s head, not to start swooning over his… everything.

“I’ve strategically planned our photo opportunities for maximum impact. We have three important posts today. First, a casual shot at a fountain—it has to look spontaneous to introduce us as a couple. Then, during the cooking class, I’m thinking flour on the nose, maybe a playful food-fight moment? And finally, at sunset, you’ll gaze at me and pretend I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. I’ve analyzed the optimal angles—”

“Put the phone down.” Matteo’s warm hand covers my screen, his fingers dwarfing mine. “Katie, enjoy the beauty around you. I promise we’ll get your photos later. I know the perfect spot.”

“But my timeline—”

“Trust me.” His voice softens with genuine enthusiasm. “Genoa isn’t like Rome with its tourist traps and endless lines. Here you canfeelthe real Italy. You must not miss it. See this building in front of us? That is the Palazzo San Giorgio. Observe the beautiful Renaissance painting of Saint George slaying a dragon.”

The fresco stretches across the palazzo’s facade, colors impossibly vivid against the weathered stone. A dragon writhes beneath Saint George’s spear, scales glinting like emeralds in the afternoon sun. It’s breathtaking—captivating—in a way my phone camera could never capture. Still…

“A dragon?” I arch an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Legend says the dragon terrorized the city,” Matteo explains with gusto. “Saint George slayed it on this very ground. Some say the dragon’s bones were found in a cave not far from here.”

“Let me guess—the bones mysteriously disappeared?”

“Mock all you want, but the legend lives on.” His eyes dance with amusement. “Oh, and Marco Polo was imprisoned there.”

“The explorer or the pool game?”

“Both. Tragic water sports accident. Very sad.”

I snicker, then something flutters deep in my chest, like a trapped bird frantically beating its wings against my ribs. I watch Matteo’s face come alive. The smooth-talking tour guide act disappears when he speaks about the city’s treasures. His brown eyes spark with passion, which is doing dangerous things to my insides.

The realization slams into me like a cold shower: my body has never reacted to Jared this way. Six years of diligently nurturing our romance, not once did I experience this kind of electric spark.

How can Matteo light me up with only a look or accidental touch?

The rickshaw bounces again, and I grip the seat tighter. I try to admire the buildings around us, but I’m fixated on him—how his accent gets thicker when he’s excited—how obscenely attractive he looks in that navy fitted shirt—how his hands would feel on my—

No. Control yourself. Focus on the mission!

Get photos. Make Jared jealous. Win him back.

Don’t get sucked into Matteo’s infectious joy. Ignore how his whole face transforms when he shares stories of his beloved Italy. Do not, I repeat do not, let it stir something inside you.

Matteo’s voice trails off mid-sentence about some medieval scandal.Oh shit.He’s caught me staring. His eyes become darkened storm clouds, but he clears his throat quickly. “The Palazzo Lomellino. Most tours skip it, but inside…” My view is blocked, but I see him shift and point to a building on his side. “There are secret gardens that feel frozen in time. Like stepping into another century.”

Before I can veto this monumentally bad idea, I lean across him to get a glimpse of the palazzo—my hand pressing on his thigh. The building stands tall and proud like a wedding cake—all pastel blue and cream with carvings so intricate they must have been crafted by Renaissance angels. Cherubs and flowers dance across the facade, their delicate designs weaving a love letter to a bygone era.

I tilt my head back, following the ornate stonework up to where it meets the sky, marveling at how the palazzo’s blue perfectly matches the heavens. The rickshaw keeps moving forward, and I’m not ready to lose sight of this architectural marvel. I turn my head to keep watching. I turn even farther, and—

Oh.

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