Page 97 of Italy Can Bite Me

Am I falling for him or just the idea of him?How can I know for sure?

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I’mhangingattherear of our group like a coward, pretending to study San Marino’s fairy-tale skyline while actually watching Matteo through my phone’s camera. Not taking pictures—just using it as cover so I can sneakily stare. Because apparently that’s who I am now.

“Stay together, everyone!” Matteo calls out from the front of the group. “The tram will arrive soon, and we’ll all board at once. No wandering off!”

I used to pride myself on my well-constructed life plans and my ability to anticipate every possible outcome. But here I am, melting into a puddle because Matteo just helped Rose adjust her sun hat and that sweet gesture makes me want to cry.

My fingers twitch, seeking comfort in what I do best—making lists. I open my notes app.

Reasons Why I AmNotIn Love with Matteo Monti:

1. His smile. It’s too perfect and ridiculously comforting(Highly suspicious).

2. His endless patience with our group of chaotic seniors(No one should be this calm around Aunt Deb).

3. The stupidly adorable way he mutters in Italian when he’s frustrated.

4. How many orgasms he produces—no way that’s sustainable.

5. My name on his lips—not just the accent but how he makes “Katie” sound precious.

6. How he actually listens when I ramble about spreadsheets, like my organizational fetish is endearing instead of weird.

7. The stories he tells about his mom and dad—not just the happy ones but the hard ones too—he trusts me with his pain.

8. The fact that he values my need for control, like it’s not a defect, but an important part of me.

9. How he’s my safety net and a trampoline all in one—making me feel protected even as he launches me into chaos(and yes, I see the irony).

“Attenzione! The tram approaches!” Matteo calls out, and his eyes find mine across the crowd.

And there it is, reason number ten:

When I’m with him I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

My heart hammers as I look at the list. It’s not denial; it’s undeniable.

This is a confession.

A declaration.

A love letter. I’ve completely, utterly fallen for him.

The tram creaks up the mountain track, and my stomach drops—partly from altitude, mostly from facts. I have three short days to figure out if he feels the same way or if I’m another tourist passing through his life.

Is there a WikiHow for “Figuring Out If Your Hot Tour Guide Loves You Back without Dying of Embarrassment?”

San Marino steals my breath the second we arrive. Not just because we’re literally in the clouds on top of a mountain, but because this place looks like someone took every Disney castle I watched as a kid and made them real. The cobblestone streets are so narrow they seem designed for goats. The air smells of wildflowers, roasted chestnuts, and the faint tang of sunscreen from all the tourists. Everywhere I turn, people are dressed like extras from a Medieval Times dinner theater.

Jared once took me to Medieval Times in Orange County, and I thoughtthatwas immersive with their plastic swords and bored horses.This is a gazillion times better.

My fingers trace the rough stone of a thousand-year-old wall as I try not to stare at Matteo. He’s in his element, navigating our group through streets barely wide enough for crowds of humans, much less the parade of vendors hawking their wares. Every time he speaks—whether it’s explaining a historical detail or giving directions—my body reacts as if he’s whispering something scandalous for later, not just telling Mrs. Thomas to watch her step.

Because I’m so busy having an emotional crisis about my rapidly dwindling time with Matteo, I almost miss Aunt Deb’s grand entrance.

She and Howie step out of a vendor’s stall, looking like the medieval prom king and queen. Most of the group wears small souvenirs—a cone hat here, a knight vest there—but they’ve gone all in. Aunt Deb twirls in her velvet gown with gold embroidery and a tiara while Howie strikes a pose in a lord’s cape and tunic. It’s like they did Disney World’s Princess Makeover but with a medieval twist—and zero restraint.

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