3. CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER THREE
MATTEO
Cazzo. It’s almost noon.
My phone vibrates relentlessly from my nightstand. Blazing sunlight assaults my face like judgment from above, my head throbbing in rhythm with my racing pulse. The weight of a warm, feminine body shifts against my side, and memories from last night flood back with crystal clarity.
My phone vibrates again—probably the twentieth time—and I know without looking it’s Lorenzo ready to castrate me for being late to the repair shop. But Cristo, what man could resist yesterday’s midnight temptation? This American redhead at Bar Basso kept eye-fucking me across the room while talking about her Italian romance bucket list. Who was I to deny—Rose? Roxanne?—the full experience?
Rolling my head to the side, I drink in the view. Sunlight paints her bare shoulder in warm hues, glowing softly against the white sheets. The kind of shot that gets my photographer’s fingers itching. But cameras mean evidence, and evidence means memories.
I’m in the business of creating fantasies, not preserving them.
What was her name? Rebecca? Riley? My cock has developed a sixth sense for finding the perfect tourist—a woman looking for a story to tell back home, without a ring on her finger. A woman who understands that amore sounds better when it’s just pillow talk.
I slide from the mattress with the stealth of a man who’s mastered the morning-after retreat. Damn, our clothes look like we were ambushed by horny teenagers on spring break. One of my shoes is under the bed, the other—how the fuck did it get on top of the TV? My pants are tangled with her party dress by the minibar, evidence of how quickly things escalated after she purred “Come back to my room” in the worst Italian I’ve ever heard.
Stubbing my toe on her designer suitcase, I swallow a curse. Amateur move, Monti. Get your shit together.
This is exactly how I prefer it—quick, hot, uncomplicated. Let other guys chase the fantasy of forever. At a young age, I learned that love is like a grenade: the longer you hold on, the more damage it does when it detonates.
Her hotel room tells the same story I’ve seen a hundred times—Gucci shopping bags, an Italian traveler’s handbook that’s more Instagram prop than actual guide, and a cheesy souvenir statue of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Her phone lights up: “OMG did you really bang that sexy Italian tour guide??!”
My lips curl. Another satisfied customer for the Matteo Monti experience.
Where is my jacket?
“Mmm… Matteo?” Her sleep-rough voice hits me low in the gut, and my treacherous cock twitches with interest. For a split second, I consider crawling back into that bed, showing her exactly why Italian men have such a reputation. But no. Lorenzo will actually murder me if I don’t get to the garage soon.
“Last night was—” she starts.
“ Perfetto, ” I cut in smoothly, already backing toward the door. Ramona? Ruby? Better play it safe. “Like something from a movie, cara mia .”
Because that’s all this was—a flawless, fleeting moment, not a real connection. I never get too close.
I grab my jacket from the back of the chair and bolt before she can suggest a sequel. It’s a well-practiced exit, delivered with just enough warmth to prevent tears but not enough to encourage dreams. Tourists are perfect for my purposes—here today, gone tomorrow. No messy feelings, no complicated explanations, no awkward run-ins at my favorite café.
I have exactly one rule in this game: never sleep with women in my tour groups.
Milan slaps me awake as I step out into the bustling street, the sun annoyingly bright for my hungover eyes. My head is pounding like a techno beat, my mouth tastes like I’ve been French kissing an ashtray, and I’ve got… how many hours? I check my phone—shit, five hours until the welcome meeting.
Just another day in the life of Italy’s least responsible tour guide.
You’d think after twelve years of leading tours, I’d have my shit together. Hell, I’ve owned Monti Tours for five of them. But no. Here I am, thirty-two years old, doing my usual walk of shame, trying to remember where I can score some last-minute welcome gifts.
A cherry-red Vespa nearly clips me as I dash across Via Dante. “ Occhio!” she yells, her hand lifting to flip me off until… she gets a good look at me, and that hand morphs into a blown kiss. I wink back, the exchange leaving a spring in my step.
“Ciao, Matteo, you charming scoundrel!”
Carlo’s voice crashes over me like a church bell. He’s standing in his bakery doorway, arms crossed, wearing that who’d-you-sleep-with-last-night grin.
“Don’t start.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Just tell me you’ve got those little lemon cookies left. The ones that make American women write five-star reviews.”
“Forgot the welcome bags again?”
“It’s called winging it.”
“It’s called being a fuckup. One day all this ‘playing it by ear’ is going to bite you in the culo .”
Carlo should know. Once upon a time, he was my wingman, until stunning Federica, with her sweet treats, stole his heart.
The smell of fresh cornetti hits me like foreplay. “That’s what makes life interesting.” I snag the paper bag he holds out, inhaling butter and sugar. “Those corporate tours? They’re all printed itineraries and plastic souvenirs. My people get the real Italy.”
“Is that what you’re calling it now?” He smirks.
My phone jolts me with a buzz. Lorenzo. Probably wondering why his boss isn’t at the garage yet, dealing with our dying bus. The AC’s been making sounds like a cat in heat, and the transmission… best not to think about it.
“Take these.” Carlo shoves another bag at me. “Extra cookies. For when that charm finally runs out.”
I flip him off but drop extra euros on the counter. “Not possible. Grazie, amico. ”
Next stop: Teresa’s flower stand. While the big tour companies hand out cheap, mass-produced junk, I offer my guests something special—real Italian magic. Fresh flowers, warm cookies, and personal attention. That’s how Monti Tours gets such killer reviews.
Well, except for that one woman from Ohio. But she was just pissed I wouldn’t fuck her.
“Late again, tesoro?” Teresa calls out, already shaking her head as I walk up.
“You know you love me.”
“I know one of these days your luck will run out.” But her hands are already gathering blooms like she’s conducting a flower symphony.
“Life’s too damn short to be tied down by schedules and what-ifs. My parents taught me that much…”
Fuck. Even after twenty years, that wound’s still raw.
Teresa’s face does that thing, that soft, maternal look that makes my chest tight. She adds extra flowers without a word.
My phone erupts in another buzz. Merda! I still need water bottles and probably an actual miracle from the Vatican to fix my bus.
Running my own tour company means my reputation is everything. This is why I don’t hook up with my own tourists. One pissed-off woman leaving reviews about the guide who screwed and screwed her over could tank my entire business. Plus three weeks is a long fucking time to avoid morning-after awkwardness when you’re trapped on the same bus.
Thank fuck this is one of my seniors-only tours. Two weeks of blue-haired ladies pinching my ass and asking if I’m single. I’ll take it. They’re usually tucked in bed by nine, which leaves plenty of time for Matteo’s After-Dark Tour—finding eager Americans who want their own Italian Stallion experience. And believe me, there’s never a shortage of those.
I dodge a pack of Segways only to slam straight into a wall of red shirts and sensible shoes. A tour group—at least forty deep—shuffles past like a herd being led to slaughter, each one sporting headphones that make them look more ready for takeoff than a casual Milan morning walking tour.
At the front, some stiff in pressed khakis and a red polo waves a flag bearing the Italy Express logo. His voice crackles through their headsets with all the warmth of a prerecorded message: “Ladies and gentlemen, you will have exactly fifteen minutes to view Leonardo Da Vinci’s masterpiece, The Last Supper . Following that, we proceed to the gift shop for a mandatory two-hour shopping experience.”
Cazzo. Two hours? That’s not a tour stop, it’s retail imprisonment. There’s literally nothing to do but shop: fridge magnets of Milan, Italian flag key chains, plastic gondolas, and other crap made in China.
Italy Express—the complete opposite of Monti Tours. They’re the Goliath to my David (minus the impressive package) , cranking out tours like factory-made pasta.
I should know. I used to work for them .
Same stops, same scripts, same soulless “fun facts” delivered with the passion of a dead fish. Their idea of experiencing Italy is checking boxes between bathroom breaks.
I watch the group shuffle past, bobbing along like pigeons chasing breadcrumbs. Not one of them even looks up at the actual city around them—they’re too busy adjusting their headphones and checking their watches.
These corporate tours? They’re Italy through a window—sanitized, scheduled, safe. My tours? We’re Italy face-first in the pasta sauce. Every day is different. Every group brings new stories, new adventures.
I catch Corporate Ken’s eye as I pass, flashing him my best I-actually-enjoy-my-job smile. He doesn’t react—he can’t. Not enough time in the schedule. He can keep his shiny red flag and predictable destinations. Because my people leave Italy with more than souvenirs. They’ll bring home memories worth savoring.
I finally arrive at the garage. Lorenzo’s hunched over the engine, newsboy cap askew, wispy white comb-over fighting a losing battle. His shirt’s a canvas of coffee, crumbs, and oil stains, with his finger shoved up his nose like a five-year-old on a playground, and yep—plumber’s crack on full display.
He hikes up his pants, turns, and gives me a stern look, his weathered face spelling out just how fucked the air-conditioning situation is.
In five years, I’ve seen the man smile exactly twice. He prefers communicating in grunts and shrugs. But he’s the best driver in the business, and his ability to go entire days saying nothing but sì and no is worth more than any other chatty driver I’ve worked with.
I set my collection of supplies on a greasy workbench. “Give it to me straight.”
Lorenzo holds up three fingers.
“Hundred?” I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head no.
“Thousand?”
A single nod yes.
My stomach drops faster than the time I tried to make my own limoncello.
“To fix the AC?”
Another nod.
“Can we—”
He gives a noncommittal shrug.
I’ve learned to fill in Lorenzo’s verbal blanks. It’s like playing the world’s most expensive game of charades. “Okay, so a temporary fix?”
Nod.
“How long will it—”
He shrugs one shoulder. In Lorenzo-speak, that means “don’t push your luck.”
I peer into the bus’s guts, as if I’ll suddenly develop mechanical expertise and spot a miracle solution. Instead, I’m hit with a cacophony of metallic clanging and desperate sputters, as if a junkyard orchestra is warming up. “She’s getting worse, huh?”
“Sì.”
“What about the inside of the bus? Does it still smell?”
“Sì.”
“So did something really die in there?”
He holds up three fingers again.
“Three… possibilities of what died?”
He rolls his head in frustration. “ Pulizie .”
“Three professional cleanings and the interior still smells?”
A single, solemn nod.
I climb aboard, flowers and cookies in hand, doing my best to breathe through my mouth. The interior of my beloved bus tells the tales of a thousand adventures—the floor scuffed by hundreds of shoes, the worn seats a result of countless dreamers rushing to see the next marvel of Italy. Sure, she’s not the sleek, air-conditioned luxury liner the major players use, but she’s got character.
And maybe mold… probably.
I make my way to the back, to my secret compartment where I keep the only things that really matter. My fingers find my mother’s old Nikon digital camera, reliable as ever and effortlessly elegant—the last thing she ever gave me, before… well, before.
I flip through the photos from my previous tour group. There’s that happy family at my best friend Enrico’s vineyard, the kids purple-mouthed from stealing grapes when they thought no one was looking. Then there were the Sullivan teens, learning bocce from locals in that hidden piazza—they’d even kicked their ass by the end of the afternoon. That sweet couple from Maine sharing their porchetta with the fishermen in Puglia, not a word of Italian between them but somehow speaking the same language of food and laughter.
This. This right fucking here. This is what it’s all about.
Too bad the bank doesn’t accept “magical moments” as currency.
The repair costs are piling up faster than a Roman traffic jam, but looking at these shots—the pure joy on their faces, the way Italy transforms them—I can’t give this up. The big-name operators might have their fancy buses and laminated itineraries, but they don’t capture moments like these. They don’t take tourists to the real Italy, the places off the beaten path. They don’t make magic.
“Lorenzo?” I call, arranging the flowers in a vase I may or may not have stolen from a café in Turin. “Scale of one to ten. How fucked are we?”
“Otto.”
“Eight? Come on, she’s not that—” The motion sensor air freshener puffs out a cloud of Ocean Mist but smells more like Public Restroom Surprise. I choke back a gag. “Okay, maybe eight.”
I hear a grunt from below that sounds suspiciously like “told you” in Italian.
“But she’ll run?” I ask, straightening seats with practiced efficiency.
“Sì.”
“Safely?”
A longer pause than I’d like. Then: “Sì.”
“You’re not making me feel better.”
He peers up through the doorway, holds up five fingers, then points to the engine.
“We have five?” I wave my hand, encouraging more words. “Days?”
He makes a so-so gesture.
“Five days until what? Total breakdown? Explosion? The smell becomes sentient and takes over Italy?”
He almost smiles. “Sì.”
“To which part?”
He shrugs and disappears back under the hood.
The thing is, I can handle a bus held together by dreams and duct tape. I can deal with mysterious smells and temperamental air fresheners. But what I can’t handle? What keeps me up at night?
The thought of letting these people down. Of not giving them the Italy they’ve dreamed about.
Because that’s the real magic of this job—not just showing them Italy but helping them fall in love with her. The way I do, every single day.
Even if she sometimes smells like feet.
I pull out my phone to check the time. Shit. I still need to shower, change, and become the charming tour guide version of myself that doesn’t smell like bus mysteries and last night’s bad decisions.
“Just… do what you can?” I pat the bus’s side like an old horse. “She needs to hold together for two more weeks. Then I’ll have the money to get her fixed up.”
“Preghiamo.” Lorenzo mutters it under his breath, but I catch it. We pray.
Coming from him, that’s practically a speech. And not exactly reassuring.
“Any other problems I should know about?”
He raises a single finger.
“Just one? That’s not so—”
Then another. And another. He keeps going until both hands are up, all ten fingers spread wide.
“You know,” I sigh, gathering the rest of my supplies, “sometimes your silence is more comforting than your honesty.”
That earns me an actual snort—the Lorenzo equivalent of belly laughter.
“Ciao, Lorenzo.” I head for the door, already planning how many cookies each tourist should get to make up for the inevitable AC complaints. Maybe if I get them drunk enough on cheap wine—
“Matteo.”
I turn back, surprised by the rare use of my name.
He points to my back pocket where a piece of lace is peeking out (R-something’s insurance policy for a second night). It’s a move I’ve seen so many times it should be featured in tourist guidebooks. They can list “Leave underwear in hot Italian’s pocket” right after “Visit Juliet’s Balcony in Verona.”
I pull out the black lace and toss it to Lorenzo. “Souvenir?”
Without missing a beat, he wipes his greasy hands on the delicate fabric, probably ruining what was at least a hundred euros worth of La Perla. Then he tosses it aside like yesterday’s trash and gets back to work, though I catch a flash of a grin.
Next up: meeting my new group. It’s time to show them my Italy in all its imperfect glory.
***
The Welcome Night crowd starts filtering in—my new batch of senior tourists ready for their Italian adventure. The hotel bar fills with excited chatter as they find their name tags and cluster in groups, dressed like they’re having dinner with the Pope himself.
Usually I’m excited about introducing myself to everyone. But tonight? Tonight I’m sitting at the bar, brooding into my third grappa and doing the math on a repair bill that’s making my balls shrivel.
Three thousand euros. Might as well be everything I own.
“Would you look at this smorgasbord of man meat?”
Mother of God. That lady’s voice has a spotlight and a mic. I follow the boisterous voice and see what appears to be a walking rainbow on two legs. But it’s the woman trailing behind her that makes me forget all about my financial crisis.
Cristo, who ordered the angel?
Her golden hair catches the light like a halo, eyes green as emeralds and sharp enough to cut through bullshit at fifty paces, and a body that makes my mouth go dry. Her floral dress and prim cardigan scream, “I’ve never been late to anything,” but there’s something about the way she holds herself—back straight, chin lifted, and captivating curves barely restrained. It compels me to take a closer look at whatever she’s hiding beneath that polished facade.
Everything about her is a contradiction—delicate features with a don’t-fuck-with-me expression, sensible shoes on legs that are pure temptation, and minimal makeup with piercing eyes sharp enough to freeze hell over. I sense she’s the kind of girl who could destroy a man—and who probably carries a playbook on how to do it.
“Aunt Deb!” Cardigan girl hisses at Rainbow Woman. “Could you be any louder?”
“Darling, inside voices are for people who haven’t lived through disco.” The aunt’s attention locks onto me like a cat hearing a can opener. “Bingo! Three o’clock, by the bar. Tall, brooding, and yours-for-the-screwing.”
I look around just to make sure she’s talking about me. She is.
“Now that’s an Italian Stallion.” The older woman lets out a hungry sigh. “He’s packing a zucchini that’ll have you seeing stars and teach you things about your body you haven’t discovered yet. You can thank me later.”
I hide my smirk in my drink. Can’t fault the lady’s good taste.
The niece’s cheeks flame red as her aunt slaps a name tag on her chest and pushes her toward the bar. “Fetch me a martini, sweetie. Extra dirty.” A theatrical wink. “Like my intentions.”
I turn back to my grappa, watching the blonde beauty approach in the mirror behind the bottles. Each step is precise, measured, like she’s got a ruler hidden somewhere in that outfit. When she gets closer, her scent hits me and—merda. Sweet strawberries. My cock twitches—I’ve got a thing for strawberries.
The bartender is too busy watching the game on his phone to notice her increasingly aggressive attempts to grab his attention.
“Ciao, bella. Can I buy you a drink?”
She doesn’t even glance at me. “I’m fine, thank you,” she says with a voice so sharp it could slice prosciutto.
“Ah, American!” My smile deepens. “Welcome to my beautiful country. Perhaps I could give you a… private tour?”
She turns those green eyes on me full force and—fuck me—I wasn’t prepared. That glare—it’s like being stabbed by two smoldering emeralds.
“Let me stop you right there.” Her voice could frost champagne. “Whatever line you’re about to use? Save it for someone dumb enough to fall for the whole ‘charming Italian’ routine.”
“But I had such a good one about my rock-solid Tower of Pisa.”
“Gross.” But her lips twitch. “Does that actually work? Do women just drop their panties because you have an accent and zero shame?”
“Usually, yeah. They do.”
Which is exactly why this resistance is so fucking intriguing.
“Well, it’s not going to work on me. I’m engaged,” she snaps, shoving a very naked ring finger in my face.
“Looks like your fiancé really broke the bank on that invisible ring.”
For a moment, real pain flickers in her emerald eyes. Then… gone, replaced by steel.
“I left my ring at home. Wouldn’t want it stolen by some smooth-talking Italian con artist.”
“The only thing I’m interested in stealing,” I purr, sliding so close I feel the heat radiating off her body, “is a kiss from those beautiful lips.”
Her laugh hits me like a kick to the balls. “Oh wow. That’s… that’s really bad. Like, monumentally cheesy. Do you practice these lines in the mirror? Or maybe you only recently learned English?”
Merda. My game is seriously off.
“Usually I save my best material for the second drink.” I lean against the bar, trying to regain control. “But your eyes—they remind me of the mysterious depths of Venice’s canals.”
She presses a hand to her chest, mock swooning. “Did you just compare my eyes to water where tourists pee? That’s so romantic. I’m dying. Really. Quick, call an ambulance.”
“No, I meant they’re green, like the algae—” Cristo, what the fuck am I saying?
“So now I’m canal scum?” Her eyes spark with amusement. “What’s next? Going to say my hair looks like overcooked pasta? My skin reminds you of day-old mozzarella?”
My cock has no business getting this hard watching her demolish every move in my playbook. Women usually melt by this point, and God help me, I’ve never seen a tourist look so happy while gutting me with her words.
Enough of this amateur hour.
“Actually, bella…” I let my gaze drift down her body like a physical caress, lingering on the way her cardigan strains against her curves. A flush crawls up her neck like a sunburn. Not so immune after all, are we?
Her breath hitches when I step closer. All those cardigan buttons suddenly have my fingers itching to discover what’s underneath. Is she wearing something practical? Or is there lace hiding beneath all that propriety?
Our eyes lock and the air between us thickens like honey. Her gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second.
I lean in close, voice dropping low. “I was thinking more about how that dress makes me want to—”
“I dare you to finish that sentence.”
She spins back to the bar, but a blush is spreading like wildfire across her cheeks. Her hands shake as she waves that credit card once again.
“Try your routine on someone else, Romeo. I’ve seen this Netflix movie. Hot Italian guy, American girl who lets her guard down… it ends with awkward texts that never get answered.”
“You think I’m hot?”
“I think you’re trouble.”
“The hot kind of trouble?”
“The kind that should come with a warning label.”
“Yet you’re still standing here, tempting fate.”
She’s fighting a grin now, and I’m not even trying to hide mine. Cristo. I haven’t had this much fun verbally sparring with a woman since… maybe ever.
And, damn. She’s even more gorgeous when she smiles.
Then my eyes catch her name tag and… checkmate. Fuck . She’s with my tour group. The one where I have a strict no-sleeping-with-tourists policy because the worst possible thing for my struggling company is that kind of complication.
Although why someone who barely looks old enough to rent a car is on a senior citizens’ tour is a mystery that I’m suddenly desperate to solve.
“I’ll get his attention. Scusi!” I reach past her to flag down the bartender just as she turns, and—shit—my open palm brushes across her breasts, sending her name tag fluttering to the bar top.
“What the hell!” She recoils, arms crossing over her chest as if it’s armor. “Did you seriously try to cop a feel?”
“No! I was just—the barman—didn’t mean to—”
Shit . I’m stammering like a virgin in a strip club.
“Use my boobs as target practice?”
“I would never—” I rake a hand through my hair, desperately trying to recover some dignity. “Katie, you’re going to laugh when I explain this.”
Her eyes narrow to dangerous slits. “How do you know my name?”
“It’s on the name tag.” I hold up the sticky label—my peace offering.
She keeps those arms locked across her chest, glaring at me like I might make another attempt. Which, fair enough. But also? I’m not usually this fucking clumsy. Something about this woman has my game completely sideways.
“Let me make it up to you with dinner?” The words come out smoother than I feel, which is a fucking miracle considering my brain’s still short-circuiting from that accidental handful.
“If you’re that desperate to get laid, the gorgeous strawberry blonde over there currently holding court with half the men in Milan is single and very ready to mingle.” She jerks her chin toward the crowd. “Fair warning though—she’s got some wild theories about cosmic orgasms and sacred body exploration.”
My smirk slides back into place. “Maybe I prefer my women with a little more… challenge.”
“Goodbye… whatever your name is.”
“Matteo,” I supply, thoroughly amused by her righteous indignation.
“Goodbye, Matteo. It was not nice meeting you. Don’t worry, I’ll forget you existed by breakfast tomorrow.”
She spins away, all offended dignity and swaying hips that are doing absolutely nothing to help the situation in my pants.
I signal the bartender for another drink. Miss Uptight doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to be seeing a lot more of me over the next two weeks. Should I warn her?
Nah. Where’s the fun in that?