Page 56 of Italy Can Bite Me

Lorenzo just grunts and takes his hands completely off the wheel in the most dramatic “not my problem” gesture I’ve ever witnessed.

“Porca miseria!” Matteo lunges for the emergency brake, his muscles straining against his shirt as he yanks it with all his strength. The metal screams in protest.

SCREECH!

The bus jerks to a stop so hard that my belongings—purse, water bottle, binder—each pick a different direction to launch in and I’m suddenly airborne. I catch a glimpse of Matteo’s panicked face before I tumble into the aisle, my sundress giving everyone a show.

When the dust settles, I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling as a sharp pain radiates through my chest, each heartbeat pounding like a sledgehammer. My whole body is trembling with leftover adrenaline.

HONK! HONK!

I hear the Ferrari zoom past without even slowing down. If I wasn’t currently sprawled on this sticky bus floor contemplating my mortality, I’d be more offended by the lack of human decency.

“Everyone okay?” Matteo calls out, doing a quick head count.

A chorus of groans answers him as my fellow passengers untangle themselves from various positions. Somehow, our geriatric crew seems completely unfazed by our near-death experience. They’re already cracking jokes like, “We’ve got more fun to have” and “Death will have to wait.”

“Everyone out!” Matteo orders as smoke starts billowing from under the hood. “Into the field, per favore.”

We step out onto a breathtaking Tuscan hillside, one that would make any Instagram influencer weep with jealousy. The grass tickles my legs as I pick my way through wildflowers, trying not to dwell on the fact that bugs are likely conspiring to nibble on my bare thighs.

“Emergency yoga time!” Aunt Deb announces, whipping off her designer sandals. “Nothing releases tension like stretching. Especially…” She waggles her eyebrows at Howie. “…the kind of stretching that requires a partner.”

“Deb darlin’, my new hip is ready whenever you are,” Howie drawls.

I gag a little in my mouth.

Meanwhile, Matteo and Lorenzo are having the world’s most fascinating nonverbal conversation by the smoking bus. Lorenzo responds entirely in facial expressions that range from “mildly constipated” to “deeply constipated.”

“How bad?” Matteo asks.

Lorenzo grunts. “L’autobus è…” Shoulder shrug.

Behind me, Aunt Deb’s voice carries across the field. “Now everyone, assume the position of the Lustful Leopard. Howie, demonstrate with me!”

Oh God.

Chester’s voice rises from somewhere in the grass. “Is this position supposed to make my artificial knee sound like a popcorn machine?”

“Actually, that was my back.” Stan adds with a chuckle.

I continue to try to focus on decoding the Matteo-Lorenzo show, but it’s like watching a foreign film without subtitles. From what I can gather from their cryptic exchange, we’re definitely stranded, and this bus is ready for its last rites.

Lorenzo makes a sound like a deflating tire and throws his hands up in what I’m learning is his signature move.

“Can I help?” I step forward. “I’m an event coordinator. Crisis management is literally what I do for a living.”

Matteo’s immediate “No” feels like a slap, but I press on, trying not to notice how his sweat-dampened shirt clings to his chest.

How big his hands are as they run through his hair.

How sexy he looks with that frustrated, furrowed brow.

Or how the sweat glistening down his neck makes my nipples stand at attention.

“Please?” I fidget with my phone. “I like feeling useful. And right now I’m just standing here watching Aunt Deb teach what she claims is yoga but looks suspiciously like moves from her exotic dancing days.”

Matteo studies me for a moment. “Event coordinator?” His lips quirk up. “Like retirement parties and baby showers?”