Page 57 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Try celebrity product launches and multimillion-dollar weddings.” I lift my chin. “Last month I coordinated a Sweet Sixteen that had more security than the president.”

“That actually explains so much about you.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

He chuckles, and then it turns into a full-blown laugh—low and rich and wonderful—a tidal wave to my soul. “It’s a compliment for sure, principessa. You intrigue me. Your attention to detail is…” He trails off, his gaze dropping to my mouth before he looks away.

I’m processing the sudden shift in his expression, when the obnoxious roar of a massive red Italy Express bus barrels past, leaving a trail of exhaust and smugness in its wake. It makes its intentions clear of not helping by speeding up a little. Matteo’s jaw tightens. And then… he explodes.

“Cazzo! Che cavolo fanno, quei pezzi di merda arroganti!”The Italian flows like an angry symphony, and I pretty much knowwhathe’s saying byhowhe’s saying it. Especially that enraged middle finger.

If I thought he was stressed before, the tension radiating off him now could fuel a nuclear reactor.

A yelp from behind us is followed by “Don’t worry! My new knee pops right back into place.”

Matteo glances over my shoulder and winces. “Dio mio.”

“Let me help,” I say again.

“We’re headed to my friend Enrico’s winery, but after…” He glances at the smoking bus. “We won’t make it to tonight’s destination. I need to think about the Wish Cards, find a town with the right mechanic…”

I watch, fascinated, as he mentally sorts through options. His mind is racing, calculating, and something warm unfurls in my chest as I realize something. He’s got every single wish memorized. This isn’t just a job—he genuinely cares about making these seniors’ dreams come true.

“Lorenzo,” he says suddenly. “La Spezia?”

The old man performs what I’m starting to recognize as his yes shrug.

“La Spezia,” Matteo tells me. “Eighteen rooms. Double beds. I’ll handle the negotiating once you find somewhere.”

“I can negotiate.”

Matteo’s voice drops low. “But can you do it in Italian?”

“I’m full of surprises.” The words come out flirtier than intended.

“That I don’t doubt,” he says with a wink. “It doesn’t need to be perfect, principessa. Just functional.”

His casual dismissal of perfection hits differently than when others say it. There’s no judgment in his voice, no expectations of flawlessness. Just… space to be myself.

But I don’t have time to analyze why his acceptance makes my chest feel tight. We’ve got a crisis to handle.

After forty-five minutes of rapid-fire phone calls, my event-planner skills pay off. I find a hotel in La Spezia that not only has enough rooms for our entire crew but also working bathrooms(crucial), complimentary breakfast(score), and only two blocks away from the mechanic Matteo found(lifesaving). My fingers are still smoking from how fast I’ve been typing notes and room configurations into my phone.

The rush of solving an impossible problem? Better than sex.

Well, better than any sex I’ve ever had.

The clip-clop of hooves pulls me from my list-making trance. Two enormous horse-drawn carriages appear over the crest of the hill, their wooden wheels crunching a rhythm against the gravel road. They look like they’ve rolled straight out of a fairy tale, all gleaming cherrywood and polished brass. The back sections are fitted with curved benches upholstered in leather, arranged in tiers so everyone can see.

“Matteo, you stubborncretino!”

A man who could be a Roman statue come to life hops down from the lead carriage. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with sun-kissed olive skin. His simple black shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, overalls splattered with dirt, and hands calloused from hard work. And his smile? It could outshine the Tuscan sun.

“Enrico,mio fratello!”

They collide in one of those aggressively affectionate man-hugs that involves way too much back-slapping. Enrico says something in rapid-fire Italian that has Matteo laughing with his whole body. I’ve never seen him like this—guard completely down, no smooth tour guide persona in sight.

“Your luck, she finally run dry, eh?” Enrico says, gesturing at our smoking bus. “First transmission go boom, now this?”

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