Page 50 of Italy Can Bite Me

“I was trying to strangle you,” she hisses, glancing around nervously. “And you kissed me back!”

“Self-defense. My lips were fighting off a very aggressive tourist.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you have a rule about tourists in your groups?”

“Ah, yes.” My phone nearly slips from my suddenly clumsy fingers. “Which is why I made plans. To prevent any more of your sneak attacks on my face. I, uh, mapped out some photo locations in Florence. For the fake-boyfriend thing.”

I pull up screenshots of some incredible backdrops, then switch to my Notes app where I have the whole plan laid out. The schedule is über-organized(especially for me), with detailed directions and the best times for natural light.Yeah, I should have been sleeping instead of obsessing over how to get her to smile again, but here we are.

She takes in the detailed planning. Her playful defensiveness melts away. “You made this? For me?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie. “I know you like things organized, and after yesterday…”

“Matteo.” The way she says my name makes my heart squeeze and my cock twitch all at once. She reaches for my phone, her fingers brushing mine as she studies the screen.

“No one has ever made a schedule for me before.”

The vulnerability in her voice… I’m floored. For a moment, we’re not the uptight American and the playboy tour guide.

Her finger traces delicately over my knuckles as she scrolls through the plans, and my entire body hums. The casual touch feels more intimate than any full-body contact I’ve ever had. My heart pounds against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape.

This is dangerous. This is exactly what I can’t let happen.

WHAM!

I shoot up from my chair so fast it crashes backward, making several seniors clutch their hearts.

“Right! So that’s the schedule. Very scheduled. Much planning. I should—bathroom! Because you really don’t want to use the one on the bus. Lorenzo’s driving makes aiming impossible. Not that you need to aim, obviously, because you’re a woman and you sit and—Madre di Dio, why am I still talking about pissing?”

My brain is screamingshutupshutupshutup, but my mouth keeps moving. “It’s physics really. Motion and trajectory and—and I should… go… now.”

Katie’s lip is caught between her teeth like she’s fighting hard not to laugh, but there’s something else in her eyes. Something that makes me want to sit back down and see what other sounds I can draw from that smart mouth of hers.

Instead, I back away so fast I nearly take out Mrs. Thomas and her questionable cheese.

What is wrong with me?

I’m the guy who once convinced an entire bachelorette party I was a long-lost Italian prince. Why am I babbling about bathroom logistics because Miss Organized grazed my knuckles?

Dio mio. Is this a panic attack?Am I finally cracking under the pressure of managing my travel business? There can be no other explanation. This woman’s not even my type.

I think I’m having a medical emergency.

***

Afteragruelingthree-hourbus ride from Genoa to Florence, I’ve come to three conclusions: (1) Lorenzo needs to invest in better deodorant; (2) stealing glances at Katie Crawford nine rows back feels as tragic as a middle school crush; and (3) my brain’s officially on vacation and it’s my dick that’s running the show.

But I am determined to regain that control… starting now at the museum.

“And here we have one of the Galleria dell’Accademia di Firenze’s finest examples of Renaissance artistry.” I point to the massive painting before us.

The seniors crane their necks, eyes wide, taking in the oil canvas depicting saints draped in rich, jewel-toned robes—their faces serene in martyrdom. Our footsteps echo sharply off the polished marble floor. We pass rows of sculptures, each carved muscle frozen in time, alongside paintings so detailed they seem to breathe.

From every direction, saints stare down at us in judgment as if to say “You’re headed straight for hell, sinner.” Of course, it could just be my imagination—or guilt—since I’m struggling to keep my eyes(and hands)off another man’s woman for more than thirty seconds.

Katie stretches up on her tiptoes to read the artwork description, that sundress doing unholy things to my concentration. The woman is taking notes with surgical precision in not one, not two, but six different museum guides.

The way she dives into each page with such laser focus, as if the little details are the most important things in the world and she wants to capture them all.

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