Page 93 of Italy Can Bite Me

“Need help?” I ask Lorenzo.

He grunts, then shoots me a look that says,No.

“Got it,” I say, nodding way too agreeably to get on his good side. “I wouldn’t want anyone messing with my organizational system either.”

The morning sun warms the cobblestones outside our Venice hotel, making them glisten like tiny mirrors that reflect the endless blue sky. Our faithful rust-bucket-of-a-bus has returned, and I hate how happy it makes me. Seeing it parked there feels strangely reassuring, as if the bus carries a piece of Matteo with it.

I lean against the motorcoach, scrolling through the same three apps on my phone without taking anything in. The truth is, I couldn’t sleep last night. I tossed and turned like an overstuffed burrito being rolled by an aggressive Chipotle employee, replaying every second of our date.

And Matteo—true to his word—stuck to the wholeNo Sex Daything.

Every time I close my eyes, the moments from our date come alive: our fingers laced together—wandering through hidden Verona alleys—how his eyes crinkled when he laughed at my terrible attempts at Italian. I especially loved the warm press of his shoulder against mine as I fell asleep on him on the train ride back to Venice.

My heart seriously needed the breathing room last night. These feelings inside me are growing faster than Aunt Deb’s stash of pricey Italian jewelry.

WHOOSH. THUD.

A red hard-sided case pulls off an impressive triple axel before crash-landing upside down.

“I really need someone to talk to. My friends are drowning in work drama, my mom still signs all her texts Team Jared, and my auntie’s relationship advice is always ‘Don’t buy the gelato shop… sampleallthe flavors!’”

SLAM.A designer duffel becomes one with the pavement.

“And, I mean, I trust you,” I add. “You didn’t rat me out to Matteo about my little beachside meltdown. So… you’re my guy.”

Another grunt. This one sounds like reluctant acceptance.

“I’m just gonna say it: I really like Matteo.”

“Sì,” Lorenzo says flatly.

“I’m not imagining it, right?” I press. “Matteo likes me too. The way he talks to me, the stuff he’s shared… He told me about his parents.”

This earns me a faint flicker of acknowledgment—a raised eyebrow maybe? Or it could’ve been sweat dripping into his eye… Hard to tell.

“Have you ever been in love?”

He pauses, a designer suitcase in hand. “Sì.”

“What happened? Marriage? Little Lorenzos running around Italy?”

“No.” He wipes his face again. “I was… foolish. She want marriage. I want… life to live. Young, idiota.”

“Did she wait?”

His weathered face softens. “No. She marry. Have bambini. Very happy.”

“And you never fell in love again?”

“With life and love, piccola, we not know what we have until…” He gestures vaguely. “Gone.”

I’m about to ask if this sage wisdom applies to Matteo or Jared when—

“Lorenzo!”

The man himself appears. He’s even more gorgeous today, wearing a fitted olive-green button-down shirt and tan pants that make his butt look extra yummy.

“How’d she drive yesterday?” Matteo asks.

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