Page 88 of Italy Can Bite Me

“With me or the pizza?” I ask, grinning.

“Let me finish the slice and I’ll get back to you,” she says, already reaching for another piece.

We fall into an easy conversation—about her family, her childhood with an overachieving brother, and her dreams of starting her own company.

Find her flaws, my brain screams.

She has none, my heart whispers back.

***

IntheheartofVerona, the hotspot for romance is Juliet’s Courtyard, and love is in the air. So is lust, which has made its way into my pants. Because I cannot stop obsessing about Katie in that dress. The fabric hugs her curves—my sanity is slipping—and every time she tugs at the hem, my zipper grows a little tighter. Each innocent adjustment hikes that skirt higher, flashing those thighs that were wrapped around me hours ago.

Focus on the statue, not on how Katie’s skin feels under your fingertips.

Juliet stands tall and proud, her bronze figure shimmering under the Italian sun, one hand resting gently on her chest. Tourists swarm about, eager to cop a feel of her breast, hoping the legend of true love will “rub off”(pun intended).The courtyard is a romance novel come to life, with ivy snaking up brick walls and that famous balcony where Romeo professed his love.

Love notes and padlocks adorn the walls, each a testament to the promises of visitors from across the world. Yet amid all this romantic chaos, it’s Katie who commands my attention, and I’m wondering if she senses the same electric pull.

“You want me to just… grab it?” Katie hesitates, her gaze darting between me and Juliet’s bronze breast. “This feels illegal. Is this illegal? It feels illegal.”

“It’s tradition, principessa. See how the right one shines?” I adjust Mamma’s Nikon, looking through the lens. “Centuries of people seeking luck in love.”

“From Romeo and Juliet? The teenagers who had the world’s worst communication skills? Are you sure this isn’t some pervy plot to watch women grope statues?”

“If I wanted to watch groping, bellissima, I’ll continue replaying last night in my head.”

She reaches out tentatively, then pulls back. “What if it’s cursed? What if I touch it and suddenly start writing sonnets about your abs?”

“You don’t write sonnets when you explore my body. You compose symphonies with moans of pleasure.”

“God, your ego is bigger than Italy.”

She makes contact, giving the statue’s breast the world’s most apologetic pat.

CLICK.

The shutter captures her adorably scrunched nose.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Says you. At least let me pretend to buy her a drink first.”

“You need me to demonstrate proper technique.” I reach out deliberately, but instead of touching the statue, I cup Katie’s breast.

“Matteo!” she squeals, smacking my fingers away playfully. “Wrong breast!”

“Honest mistake. Yet strangely I’m already feeling luckier.”

A nearby group of teenage girls erupts in giggles. Katie’s face flames red, but then she surprises me by asking them. “Could you take our photo?”

One of the girls takes my camera with surprising care and lines up the shot.

“All right lovebirds!” she calls out. “Hands on boobies! Three… two… one!”

We slap our fingers on Juliet’s breasts—me grinning like an idiot—but at the last second Katie pulls her hand away.

CLICK.

---