Page 98 of Italy Can Bite Me

“I’m Lady Deborah of Pasadena!” Aunt Deb declares, her arms spread wide. “And this is my Lord Howie of the Butter Bliss Bars Kingdom!”

The group bursts into applause as Howie sweeps into an exaggerated bow, nearly losing his balance. It’s so fabulously over the top that I whip out my phone and snap a picture to send to my mom.

The day is jam-packed, leaving no room to breathe, let alone have a serious conversation. We do everything: practicing archery, basket weaving, touring a castle with actors playing knights and ladies-in-waiting, plus watching a parade complete with dancers, drummers, and those extra-long trumpet players. It’s glorious and overwhelming, but it’s also leaving my heart unable to ask its tour guide for directions.

Through it all, Matteo moves like water—fluid, constant, everywhere at once. His hand finds mine in stolen moments, fingers tangling briefly before duty calls him away. Each touch whispers a promise, but of what?

There’s been no time. No quiet breaks. No opportunity to pull him aside and talk. And as the day wears on, a sinking thought edges its way into my mind: Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Matteo’s keeping us all so busy so wedon’thave time to talk.

I offered to help earlier with tour guide triage—I mean, I wanted to—but Matteo just smiled and told me to enjoy the festivities. Which, fine, I have been. But I’ve also found myself wishing I could be useful. There’s something oddly satisfying about helping these people, making sure everyone’s okay, and solving the little problems before they spiral into bigger ones.

A realization creeps up slowly, then hits all at once. Like dominoes hitting one another with slow momentum before leading up to the big crash.

Matteo and I—we’re two sides of the same coin. Both of us chasing that high of creating the best moments, of turning chaos into magic. Him with his natural charm and endless stories, me with my need to organize and produce results.

And suddenly I can’t stop imagining what we could be together.

What if I didn’t go back?

The very thought should terrify me. Should send me running for my comfort zone of corporate events and predictable outcomes. Instead, it feels as if I’ve been holding my breath for years and now I’m finally exhaling.

We could work… together. I could handle the business side—the stuff that makes Matteo break out in hives—the schedules, the bookings, the spreadsheets. And he could keep being this force of nature that makes everyone fall in love with Italy. With him.

We’d make a hell of a team.

Mornings spent wrapped in his arms, trading kisses and itinerary changes. Late nights planning routes over wine and laughter, arguing about the best stops while his hands draw patterns on my skin. Working in harmony, knowing what the other needs without asking. Creating something bigger than ourselves.

Each tour would be unique. Each group would become family.

And the people we’d meet—the travelers from around the world, each with their own stories, their own dreams. We’d love watching faces light up as our guests experienced the unforgettable, knowing we made that happen. It’s honestly what I love about my job now, except here? It feels… different, better, life-changing.

I can picture us both packing up the bus at the end of a long day, Lorenzo grumbling in the background. Matteo slipping his arm around my waist, pulling me close, and telling me I’m working too hard… again. I’ll roll my eyes and respond, telling him he talks too much… again. Then he’ll kiss me with a soft, lingering kiss that says everything words can’t.

It’s ridiculous, right? Totally, completely ridiculous.

I’m having an out-of-body experience while planning my own intervention. But for the first time, my life back home is not the only option. I can actually see myself here—with him.

“Everything okay, principessa?” Matteo says, breaking my fantasy. His eyes are soft, curious.

“Just thinking about party logistics,” I lie.

“My beautiful planner,” he murmurs, his fingers finding mine. “Always trying to organize the world.”

That’s when it hits me—the wake-up call I’ve been avoiding harder than my mother’s constant texts about Jared.

Matteo doesn’t do relationships.

There it is. The voice of Old Katie—perpetual planner, professional overthinker, and captain of the SSAnxiety—chiming in right on schedule. She’s already reaching for her phone, ready to create a bulleted list titled Ways This Could Go Horrifically Wrong.

And honestly? She’s got a point.

But then.

Something shifts inside me. This new version of myself—the one who’s learned that sometimes the best memories come from unplanned moments and questionable decisions—just stands up and says:Hold my wine.

Am I terrified? Ab-so-freaking-lutely. But you know what?Fuck that.

Fuck the lists and the plans and the careful calculations. Fuck playing it safe and always knowing the outcome before you start. And especially fuck this idea that Matteo “doesn’t do relationships.” He’s never tried one withme.

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