Page 86 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Watching reruns ofFriends.”

“Really?”

“School taught me the basics, but Jennifer Aniston’s nipples were motivation for the rest. I wanted to hear her actual voice, not the Italian dubbing.”

Her eyes widen. “Her nipples?”

“I’m a nipples guy.”

Her cheeks flush pink. “Noted.”

“What about you?” I ask, trying to find something—anything—to dislike. “Always wanted to be an event planner?”

“Yes!” Her whole face lights up. “I love it! Taking chaos and turning it into a perfect moment. I’m going to start my own company before I’m thirty.”

“Maybe if I had you, I wouldn’t have so many troubles with my—” I catch myself.

“Oh look, olive trees, bella!”

That was too close.The last thing I need is for Katie to find out what a shitshow my life is. Her effortless competence makes me feel like a damn amateur. A woman that sharp doesn’t want to spend her time with a guy who can’t run his own business. No, it’s better if she keeps seeing me the way she does now—assuming I have my act together.

“Bella,cara…?” she asks. “Explain all your nicknames.”

“Ah, bella means beautiful. Cara is dear. Principessa is princess.”

“And what’s an expression you never say?” Her voice carries a challenge. “A phrase you don’t use on all your female flavors of the week?”

My mouth opens, then closes. This feels like a trap. But there’s no point in lying. “Mi amore,” I admit quietly.

“What does that mean?”

“My love. I’ve never said that to anyone.”

The air between us crackles with tension. Katie’s lips part slightly—

“Prossima Fermata, Verona!” The train speaker blares.

“We’re here.”

Thank fuck. Because one more second andNo Sex Daywould’ve ended right here.

***

“Isthisyoursecretto seduction? Dragging women to hole-in-the-wall pizza joints that haven’t had a makeover since the eighties?” Katie says, leaning back in her chair and scanning the room with a skeptical but amused expression. “I don’t know what is sexier, the mismatched chairs or the peeling paint?”

“This isn’t about seduction,” I say, grabbing a napkin to wipe down the table. “This is about educating that American palate of yours. You’re about to have the best pizza of your life.”

“Let me set the record straight. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a BBQ chicken pizza from CPK.”

“BBQ… chicken? On pizza?” I say, horrified. “Mi dispiace, Katie. That’s not pizza. That’s a cry for help. And what’s this CPK?”

Her jaw drops. “California Pizza Kitchen! You’ve never heard of it?”

I freeze, mid-clean, like she’s insulted my entire existence. “California… pizza? You’re joking, right? You’re comparing California to Italian pizza? In Italy?”

“Well,” she says, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward, “I’ll have to see if this pizza of yours lives up to the hype. But I’ll warn you—I’m a loyal woman. CPK’s been there for me through thick and thin.”

“You talk about pizza like it’s an old lover.”

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