Page 95 of Italy Can Bite Me

“It’s only money.” Howie waves his hand dismissively. “I spent my whole life making it, never had anyone worth spending it on. Besides”—he takes Deb’s bejeweled hand—“no gem could outshine my sweet tea’s natural beauty.”

“Oh you!” Aunt Deb playfully swats his chest. “You know what that nickname does to me!” She grabs his face and plants a kiss that makes several seniors wolf whistle.

“We painted the town red!” she announces, lipstick slightly smeared. “Dancing in the streets until three a.m.! Singing ‘That’s Amore’ to confused street cats! I haven’t felt this young since that weekend with Mick Jagger in Belgium—but that’s a story for another time.”

Howie chuckles. “Deborah, you make me feel twenty-five again.”

Deb giggles, batting her eyelashes at him. “And you got me feeling… like a teenager but with fancier accessories.”

My heart does this weird squeeze-flutter thing watching them. Italy has scrambled their brains like the world’s most romantic omelet. Of course, who am I to judge?

But maybe that’s all this is—the “Italy Effect.” It’s beer goggles with better carbs. Take away the gondolas, the sweeping vistas, and the sunset-stained canals—what’s left? Credit card debt and buffet bellies.

“Speaking of romance.” Aunt Deb’s smile turns wicked. “How didyouspend your day, Katie darling?”

“Oh, you know,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “I went on the train to Verona.”

“Alone?”

“Well… Matteo offered me a hands-on sightseeing experience… showing me tour guide stuff.”

“Mm-hmm. Tour guide stuff. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Attenzione!” Matteo’s voice rings through the bus interior. “Time to tell Lorenzo to drive!Uno… due… tre!”

“Lorenzo, guida l’autobus!” we all shout in varying levels of competence. Aunt Deb’s version comes out as “Lor-enzo goo-da le bust!” while Howie sounds like he’s chanting “Lord Zen, guide us.”

I give it my best shot, but Matteo’s eyes meet mine with a wink, and I know I’ve butchered it as badly as everyone else.

Lorenzo grunts in acknowledgment from the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. The bus lurches forward, groaning like an arthritic elephant, and we’re off.

Matteo pulls out a Wish Card with his signature flourish. “Today’s wish comes from Mrs. Thomas!”

“Let me guess,” Chester calls out. “Wishing for husband number three?”

“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me!” Mrs. Thomas shoots back. “There won’t be a third sequel to those disaster movies.”

The passengers erupt in laughter, and Matteo grins. “Actually, Mrs. Thomas wished to visit the Fountain of Youth. Now as much as I would love to promise eternal youth,” Matteo says, his voice still tinged with laughter, “I must inform you that particular tourist attraction is in Florida. Perhaps that will be your next trip.”

“Only if you’re the guide!” someone shouts from the back.

“We better book it soon,” someone adds, and the riders explode into another round of morbid jokes about burial plots, two-for-one cremations, and retirement communities.

“So instead of Florida, we are going to the Medieval Days Festival in San Marino!” Matteo announces with dramatic flair. “Where you’ll all step back in time and become Lords and Ladies for a day.”

“Do we get swords?” Chester yells.

“We already saw yours on the nude beach!” Howie drawls. “Not exactly Excalibur!”

The group erupts again. Wowza, these seniors are wild today. Maybe they were all out partying with Aunt Deb and Howie until three a.m.

“We’ll feast! We’ll dance! And guess what?” he pauses dramatically. “We’ll even try our hands at archery.”

As Matteo launches into his tour guide spiel about San Marino, I’m mesmerized by him—how his hands paint pictures in the air, his eyes sparkle with excitement, and yes, fine, the way his forearms flex when he gestures is giving my hormones a lap dance.

He’s magnetic.

Alive.

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