Page 49 of Italy Can Bite Me

The Hotel Miracolo isn’t exactly the Four Seasons. Hell, it’s not even a Travelodge. The floors creak, the wallpaper’s seen better decades, and the elevator makes sounds that suggest it remembers World War II personally. But the place is clean, family run, and most importantly—cheap. This is how you operate a travel company when you’re one transmission repair away from bankruptcy: hook them with the fancy Milan resort, then slowly transition them to places where rustic charm means the hot water’s more of a suggestion.

By week two, my guests are too in love with Italy to notice where they sleep. They’re living on pasta highs, chasing sunsets, and drowning in wine-soaked memories. After a decade at this job, I’ve learned no dodgy mattress can dampen the spirits of someone in a constant carb-induced coma. Plus, I get to support small business owners like myself.

Stepping into the breakfast lounge is a total time capsule—like traveling back to the sixties. Yellow walls faded with age, plastic flowers with decades-old dust, and hospital-worthy landscape photos. No one cares because everyone’s attention is on the Italian comfort food—baskets of pastries, local cheeses, sliced meats, and some American cereals that look suspiciously expired. But the coffee? Perfetto! By day seven, that’s all anyone needs.

Cazzo.I’m thinking about coffee again. And of course, that makes me think ofher.

My mind basks in yesterday’s rickshaw kiss. When Katie’s lips met mine—with an intensity that matched my own—I couldn’t control myself. She tasted like a blend of espresso and mints that left me dizzy and wanting more. Her mouth was hungry for me. Desire coursed through me like a shock wave; the sensation was fucking electric! When my fingers felt the warmth of her breast, it was all I could do not to—

“MATTEO! The toaster is on fire.”

Merda! I sprint to where Agnes Dawson is performing an interpretive dance of panic around what is definitely not a fire, just charred toast with enough smoke to signal the Vatican.

I grab the blackened bread and, with a swift motion, toss it out the window. “And that, my friends, is how you send our little burnt friend off to toast heaven.” I say, making the sign of the cross with a grin. “Might I suggest cereal? It’s simple, tasty, and won’t burn the place down.”

Agnes nudges me with a playful elbow and pours herself a bowl of rainbow ring-shaped circles, basically giving her diabetes medication the middle finger.

My eyes dart around the room—no hint of Katie. She hasn’t said a word since bolting from that rickshaw. She even skipped the pesto cooking class and dinner last night. Used jet lag as an excuse despite us being six days into the trip.

Some fake boyfriend I turned out to be—I couldn’t make it one day without screwing everything up. Not a single photo was taken. One kiss and the whole charade imploded. Probably for the best. I’m simply no good at relationships, real or otherwise.

I shouldn’t have lost control, but Cristo, I wasn’t prepared for her heart-pounding, reality-bending lips! I’ve never experienced such sweet surrender. That kiss was like skydiving, realizing midair you forgot your parachute, then getting struck by lightning on the way down.

Exhilarating. Intense. Absolutely fucking unforgettable.

Must be because I was sober. Usually when I pick up tourists at bars, there’s enough alcohol involved to make even Lorenzo’s driving seem smooth. That’s gotta be why it seemed so intense. Has to be.

But the sensation of her melting against me, that little moan she made when my tongue—

“Matteo! Is this cheese supposed to be this color?”

Right. Focus.One more week. I can’t have Katie hiding in her hotel suite or flinching every time I speak. I’ve got to find her… Clear the air.

My no-tourist rule exists for a reason. One mind-blowing kiss won’t change that.

“Sì, Mrs. Thomas, that’s the normal color for aged pecorino. Think of those spots as cheese freckles.”

I’m doing my morning head count when Katie walks in. A spark of excitement ripples through me, uninvited. I swear—it’s getting out of hand.

She spots me and tries to escape.Not today, principessa.

“Running away so soon?” I call out. “I thought you would play nice after our little rickshaw… bonding.”

She freezes mid-step, turning back with an authoritative scowl that dares me to argue. “I wasn’t running. I was… strategically relocating.”

“Attenzione!”I address the group before she can ‘strategically relocate’ herself out of the building. “Once everyone’s finished with breakfast and bathroom breaks, Lorenzo’s waiting with the bus. We’re heading to Florence for Chester’s wish to see Michelangelo’s masterpiece—the original statue of David.”

I keep Chester’s second part of his wish to myself. That surprise is going to be either brilliant or a disaster. Knowing Chester, probably both.

“Join me?” I gesture to an empty table. “I promise to keep my hands where you can see them. Unless you prefer otherwise…”

She sits anyway, pointedly ignoring my smirk. “What I want is a time machine… to erase that mistake.”

“Do you mean when you accidentally attacked my mouth? Very traumatic. My lips are still feeling vulnerable and afraid.”

“I didn’t—” Her cheeks flush that dangerous shade of pink. “Will you keep it down! We both know that rickshaw was bumpy and that gravity—”

“Gravity made you grab my hair and moan into my mouth?” I lean closer.

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