Page 96 of Italy Can Bite Me

Present in a way that makes my binders feel like security blankets I need to set on fire.

This isn’t the smooth-talking player I first pegged him for—this is a man who gets genuine joy from making other people’s dreams come true, even if those dreams need some creative reinterpretation and possibly liability waivers.

But does he care about me?Or am I just another notch in his tour guide belt? One more story he’ll tell the next group while sipping wine and laughing aboutthat American girl who fell for the tour guide?

It’s only a fling. There’s no logical explanation for this. We live on different continents, speak different languages—we want completely different things.

So why does my heart keep betraying me, whispering that I want him anyway?

“San Marino,” his voice cuts through my spiral, “is the world’s oldest continuous republic. Founded in 301 AD, never conquered, never ruled by a monarch. It’s technically not even part of Italy—it’s its own country with only thirty thousand residents. Like Vatican City but with better parties and fewer guilt trips.”

Matteo finishes his big medieval-themed announcement with the kind of grin that makes everyone swoon—myself included—and hands the microphone back to its holder. The seniors burst into chatter as Matteo slides into the seat beside me, his hand finding mine with practiced ease.

“Sounds like a fun day ahead,” I say.

“Sì, principessa.” But Matteo’s smile falters, just for a second. It’s subtle, but I notice.

“What’s wrong?”

He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Tell me? Maybe I can help.”

I bite my lip.Have I crossed a line?Just because he opened up yesterday about his parents doesn’t mean he’s ready to make vulnerability a habit. Some walls take more than a day—even a perfect one.

But then his shoulders drop slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh. “It’s Stan’s Wish Card. He wants to throw Rose a surprise party for their sixtieth anniversary. But there’s no time. The tour… the tour ends in three days.”

Three days?The words hit me and my stomach drops, but I push the panic aside.

“What about Enrico’s winery?” The idea bursts out of me. “That terrace where we had dinner? With the views and the string lights? Add some food, decorations, music—it would be perfect!”

“There’s no time, no money. The only opening in the schedule would be tomorrow evening, and—”

“I’ll do it.” The words come out firm, certain. “I can skip tomorrow’s activities and set everything up. I want to do this for them. For you.”

His eyes search mine. “Katie, you’re on vacation. You shouldn’t have to—”

“Have you met me?” I wave our joined hands between us. “Planning is literally my love language. My idea of foreplay is creating a detailed timeline with a dozen backup plans.”

The minute the words leave my mouth, his eyes darken dangerously. Right. Maybe bringing up foreplay wasn’t the smartest move when we’re surrounded by seniors with questionable hearing aids.

“Just ask Enrico,” I push on, trying to ignore the heat in his gaze. “Let me help. Consider it my gift to Stan and Rose. And to you.”

“Sei incredibile. Thank you.”

But then reality bitch-slaps me.

Three. Days.

Thanks to Matteo, I’m finally the main character in my own life. But… I’ve been so lost in this Italian fling—in wine cellar revelations and nude-beach shenanigans—that I completely lost track of time. How didn’t I notice? I literally have seven different time-tracking apps!

Three days—that’s all I have.

Not enough to figure out if this thing in my chest is love or carb-induced euphoria.

Not enough to know if I’m falling for Matteo or if Italy has pickpocketed my common sense.

Not enough to decide if I can go back… to my old structured ways… to before I felt so alive.

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