Page 80 of Italy Can Bite Me

I get it now—why Aunt Deb lives how she does. When you can’t have forever, all you have are moments of pleasure. That’s why she chases climaxes across continents and collects memories instead of promises. Now is all we have, and maybe that’s enough.

But am I built for that? Could I be satisfied with incredible sex and stolen moments in hotel rooms? Or will I always wish for more?

I wanted to be the woman who takes what she wants. Mission accomplished. But now what? The problem with deciding to be spontaneous is that there’s no instruction manual.

Stan kisses Rose’s hand, and instead of that old yearning for a perfect life plan, I catch myself wondering how Matteo’s hand would feel in mine. Not during sex. Just… holding hands. Strolling through Venice. Making stupid jokes about pigeons.

The kind of thing he’d probably run screaming from.

And then Rose gently cradles Stan’s cheek in her palm, kissing his lips with such tenderness. My heart cracks. The gesture holds sixty years of love, of choosing each other every day, of building a life wrapped in certainty and trust.

And fuck, I want that. I want the sparkandthe stability. The fireworks and the forever. The earth-shattering orgasms and the gentle forehead kisses.

I want it all.

But Matteo Monti doesn’t do relationships. That’s not a theory; it’s a fact. Like gravity or the way my thighs instantly turn to jelly when he speaks Italian.

He’s basically a tourist attraction himself—the hot tour guide who leaves a trail of satisfied women and steamy memories across Italy. The guy who’s elevated the morning-after escape into an art form. His longest relationship is probably with his bus.

It’s totally fine. Nothing but a vacation fling. This thing between us—it’s hot and intense, and it’ll burn out as fast as it started.

We both signed on for temporary.

***

Afewhourslater,our tour group is huddled together, gazing up at the iconic Rialto Bridge.

“Welcome to Venice’s most famous shopping center,” Matteo announces to our group, gesturing at the massive stone structure arching over the Grand Canal. “Where Venetians have been separating visitors from their money since the 1500s.”

He’s not kidding. The ancient arches are crammed with enough souvenir shops to make you wonder if the Romans had a thing for key chains and fridge magnets. The covered walkway is a maze of boutiques selling everything from “authentic” Murano glass(probably from China)to white carnival masks(you know, the ones with serial-killer vibes)to gondolier hats(you too can be a Mario Brother).

The smell of leather and coffee mingles in the air, along with that distinctive scent of tourist excitement and impending credit card debt.

“You have one hour for shopping and exploring.” Matteo shouts over the buzz of tourists and vendors. “We’ll return here for lunch. One hour till go time!”

I hang back, half-browsing a rack of postcards as he deftly manages the chaos. The man handles crowd control like he handles… other things. With skill, patience, and goddamn finesse.

“Bathroom?” Mrs. Thomas does her signature pee-dance shuffle.

“Which stores won’t scam us?” the Dawson sisters demand in stereo.

“Yo, fam!” Chester adjusts his hearing aid. “Where do I get some sick drip? My grandson says I need more swag.”

“Sugarplum, let’s get you out of those clothes…” Howie drawls, “and into some new ones.”

“Why, Mr. Dixon”—Aunt Deb bats her eyelashes—“if you want to get your hands on my unmentionables, all you have to do is ask.”

“Quite the contrary, my dear sweet tea. I say we find a lingerie store and dress up those unmentionables. Maybe find more of that warming massage oil.”

“Ooh, yes! I do need new crotchless underwear… and maybe some handcuffs.”

I spot a postcard with a grumpy cat in a gondolier’s hat—absolutely made for Mom. I’m so buying it and sending a note: “Wish you were here. Not texting me every five minutes about Jared.”

Seriously, does she have some sort ofMeddle in Your Daughter’s Love Lifeapp? Her constant stream of friendly reminders to reach out to my ex is hitting Guinness World Record levels. If I get one more “Just thinking… Jared always liked lasagna!”text, I will ghost my own mother.

Newsflash, Mom: Jared hasn’t called. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t evenlikedthe red dress thirst trap I posted at the Duomo. He’s not interested. And honestly? Neither am I. For the first time, I don’t care about someone else’s expectations. I’m living in the moment, having fun, figuring things out as I go.Imagine that.

The real question is… should I write this snarky note in calligraphy?

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