4. CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FOUR
KATIE
Mom: What about sending Jared a quick text? Something casual like, “Hi, hope you’re doing well!”
Me: Mom, no.
Mom: Or, “Hey, saw this and it reminded me of you.” Maybe a pasta dish? Men love food.
Me: I’m not using pasta as an icebreaker.
Mom: Okay, just trying to help. Team Jared 4ever!
Me: Did you seriously write “4ever”?
Mom: The grandkids say it’s cool.
“SIX MINUTES LATE!” I squint against the harsh Italian sunlight, scanning the bustling street for a sign—any sign—of our tour bus. Seven minutes… Seven and a half… Ugh!
Yeah, they’re late, and yeah, I’m annoyed. But the real problem is last night’s bar encounter—living rent-free in my head all morning.
And by “problem,” I mean that walking snack of a man.
My body thrums like a low note struck on an unfamiliar instrument. Good Lord, that Matteo guy was unfairly gorgeous, lounging against that bar counter like he was doing everyone a favor by existing. His dark brown eyes were undressing me, taking in every inappropriate thought (I swore I wasn’t having) . And that mouth—full and sexy—curved into a smirk that hinted at all kinds of dirty promises.
His coffee-colored hair was a tousled masterpiece—total sexy bedhead—like he rolled around in some high-thread count sheets all night. And my God, that accent—a warm, gooey chocolate lava cake melting in your ears, turning whatever he said into pure panty-dropping poetry.
Not to mention his rugged, capable hands that look like they know their way around a lady’s body. Hands connected to powerful biceps and commanding shoulders. That man could easily hoist me up, wrap me around him, and send our hips crashing into each— Oh geez. STOP thinking about his hips.
The nerve of him. Is this how Italian men are? Charming their way into women’s panties between espressos.
I snap open my binder, fanning myself frantically. I’m here for Jared. Sweet, agreeable Jared who’d never compare my eyes to murky canal slime. I glance down at my outfit of the day—a pastel blue floral top that always made Jared smile, paired with my most flattering jeans and sensible ballet flats. The ensemble screams, “naturally beautiful without trying too hard.”
Focus, Katie. I’m here with a plan—a very specific plan to win back my fiancé. Not to daydream about some insufferably handsome Italian man who throws ridiculous pickup lines at every tourist he meets.
I scan our group of travel companions huddled outside the hotel entrance, and it’s like someone raided all the retirement communities in America—a literal sea of grandparents. The elderly couples are so adorable it makes my heart squeeze—weathered fingers clasped together and matching walking shoes. But the senior singles? Not so much! They’re living their best golden-years-gone-wild lives, flirting with a shameless enthusiasm that says, “Screw the 401(k), I’m gonna live it up!”
And then there’s Aunt Deb, a dazzling peacock amid the flock of pigeons, draping herself around some dapper man who could pass for George Clooney’s older brother. Her hands are wandering places I really, really don’t want to think about this early in the morning.
I refocus, finding myself suddenly giddy about the upcoming two weeks. A grand adventure across Italy, hopping from one city to the next—riding in the lap of luxury on a tour bus with windows so big they might as well be picture frames. This is why I’m here.
Like any respectable event planner, I’ve come fully prepared for the day ahead.
Laminated itinerary is tucked neatly into my binder. Check.
Phone at the ready to capture perfect photo ops. Check.
Trusty water bottle. Check.
Combine those with an oversized tote of essentials and a makeup bag, and I’m ready to battle any and all chaos the Italian sun decides to unleash.
Different country, same organized Katie!
Today I have a clear objective: Shadow Aunt Deb and study her every move. I’ll wait for those perfect, “spontaneous” moments that’ll make for killer pictures and pounce. After a quick snap, I’ll post them with adorably teasing captions, and watch as Jared takes the bait.
We’re visiting the Leaning Tower of Pisa before noon, so I’ve got my sexy pose already figured out. However, for the rest of the time, I’m counting on Aunt Deb to inspire whatever whimsical posts will keep my feed fresh.
Twelve minutes late. Where’s the stupid bus!
“Gather round, my lovelies!” Aunt Deb’s powerful voice rings out over the murmurs of the crowd. “While we’re here, let’s awaken our inner zen with a morning yoga flow!”
She waves me over, undeterred. “C’mon, Katie-kins! Join your favorite auntie for some rejuvenating stretches.”
Aunt Deb leads her silver-haired disciples in a basic tree pose. Holy downward-facing disaster! The mortifying scene looks like a herd of overly enthusiastic, hopelessly uncoordinated flamingos playing Twister. It’s equal parts hard to watch as it is can’t look away .
But then— Oh. Oh! This is exactly the kind of “candid” shot my Instagram feed needs.
I whip out my phone faster than you can say “namaste,” searching for the perfect angle that screams “unplanned tranquility.” I push my inflexible self to bend and arch, lifting my leg in some mystical blend of sexy and spiritual. The cobblestones dig into my sensible shoes as I hold the pose, my breath catching, my heart hoping…
Three…two…one…
CLICK!
Yikes. The photo makes me want to die a thousand tiny deaths. Is that a triple chin? Plus I look like I’m doing the potty dance in the middle of Milan. It’s less Eat Pray Love and more Eat Pray, Oh-God-I-Need-to-Pee.
“Katherine Blair Crawford, put that contraption away!”
My spine stiffens at the use of my full name.
“Is your entire generation incapable of experiencing life without filming it?” She untangles herself with the grace of someone who definitely wasn’t doing tequila shots at breakfast. (She was. I saw her). “Life’s not about snapping photos, darling. You gotta dive headfirst and live in the moment.”
The seniors’ enthusiastic cheers save me from her next round of wildly inappropriate advice. Our “bus” has arrived, and it’s pretty underwhelming. Calling it a bus is a bit of a stretch. I’d say more wheezing relic with its duct-taped mirrors, a muffler that coughs like a chain-smoker, and tires so bald they’re shiny.
The ancient driver opens the door and nods to our group. I contemplate whether walking across Italy might be the better alternative. Because this is not the luxury coach I saw online. This thing is old, dingy, and the windows are so smudged I can barely see into the bus. The elderly passengers slowly board, and I join them, accepting my fate. One step inside and— Dear God, what is that smell? It’s like something crawled in here to die but instead decided to throw a fart party with its dumpster-diving pals.
I snag a seat near the front, praying that the source of the stench is somewhere in the back. No such luck. Is it worse up here?
“ Buongiorno , my lovely tourists!”
No. Sweet baby caprese salad, NO!
My body recognizes that voice before my brain does, and every inch of my skin tingles with awareness.
“For you, signora.” He presents a flower to Mrs. Thomas. The seniors swoon like he’s just invented sliced bread and social security on the same day.
I’m about to make a beeline for the back of the bus when Aunt Deb shouts, “Oh, Matteo! I must introduce you to my delightful niece, Katie. She may not be a senior in age, but trust me, she’s a senior in spirit.”
Matteo’s eyes meet mine, and a smirk crosses his lips. “We actually met last night. And you’re right. She has all the charm of an irritable, crotchety schoolmarm.”
My jaw drops as Aunt Deb cackles uncontrollably. “Oh, you’ve got her pegged! Our Katie does take herself rather seriously.”
I stand there, fists clenched, as they bond over their shared amusement at my expense.
“Don’t you worry, dear Deborah,” Matteo coos into a microphone. “I’ll make sure your delightfully uptight niece doesn’t put a damper on our fun. Now, who’s ready to kick things off?”
The seniors cheer like they’ve just been offered an early-bird special at half price.
“Katie?” He holds the mic up to my face, eyes dancing with challenge. “I can’t hear you.”
“Woo,” I deadpan.
“We’ll work on your enthusiasm, principessa.”
I hate him so much.
His overconfident swagger, those cheesy flirtations, and that cocky attitude—it’s like nails on a chalkboard to my organized soul. Worst of all, I hate how my body remembers exactly how close he stood last night and how his cologne, warm with hints of leather and vanilla, lingered in the air.
Two weeks. I’m stuck with this jackass for two goddamn weeks?
“Your Wish Cards, per favore!”
Matteo makes his way down the aisle, gathering the papers with a theatrical flair. He puts on a big show of reading them. “Oh, this one is absolutely brilliant—and—we’re gonna have a blast making this happen.” When he gets to Aunt Deb’s card, he gives her a wink. “You sneaky vixen. I’m not sure the Vatican would approve.”
My aunt purrs. “That’s what makes it fun, darling.”
What the hell are Wish Cards? Did I miss some kind of senior citizen memo?
“And for today’s wish…” Matteo waves a single card in the air. His biceps flex with the movement. “Should I tell you now or keep it a surprise?”
The seniors scream “Surprise!” so loud I think I lost hearing in my left ear. But I’m too busy watching Matteo lean over the bus driver, murmuring a phrase in Italian that has no business sounding that good.
It’s only words. Regular words. So why does my skin feel too tight?
“Everybody repeat after me— guida l’autobus , Lorenzo!”
I press my lips together, arms crossed, while our group massacres the Italian language. Matteo catches my eye, and the challenge in his gaze makes my pulse skip.
“Perfetto!” His praise rolls through the bus, and the seniors glow. “You’ve just learned to say ‘Drive the bus, Lorenzo!’ Your first step to becoming Italian!”
The seniors applaud like they’ve already mastered the language.
“Now, tour tradition time!” He pulls out a camera. “Day one photos! Show me those beautiful smiles. Even you, Miss Grumpy Face.”
He winks at me.
I glare.
He grins wider.
Once again, Matteo murmurs something to Lorenzo in Italian, and I’m about to protest when music blasts through the speakers. Not soft, cultural background music. Oh no. This is full-on Italian festival music, the kind that makes nonnas drop their knitting and start dancing in the piazza.
The seniors instantly come alive—clapping, swaying, stomping chaotically. Even Lorenzo bobs his head to the infectious beat.
I’ve boarded the party bus from hell.
I grab Matteo’s arm as he strolls by, then immediately let go like I’ve been zapped by static electricity. Odd. That zing was probably… bus friction.
“Hold on, hotshot.” I channel my best don’t-mess-with-me voice. “Where exactly are we going? And what’s with the Wish Cards?”
“Ah, bella. If you hadn’t been so busy insulting me last night, I could have explained everything.”
I hit him with my death glare. “I’m not finding any of this amusing. At all. Zero amusement happening here.”
But instead of cowering like any sensible person would, he sits next to me. “You made it very clear last night that fun isn’t part of your… vacation itinerary.”
I’m ready to deliver a scathing comeback, but he leans in and—my heart starts racing—suddenly I forget how to form words.
“And about that little hand slip?” He gestures toward my chest with zero shame. “Total accident. Though watching you get all fired up, breasts heaving like that… makes me wonder if you’re secretly wanting an encore.”
He’s dead. Right after I stop blushing like a tomato having a hot flash.
Looking extremely pleased with himself, Matteo leans back in his seat with maddeningly casual confidence.
“You did not just go there!” The shriek escapes before I can subdue it.
“Relax, I’m having a little fun. No need to get those sensible cotton panties in a twist.”
“Bold of you to assume I’m wearing any.”
Wait.
What?
Did I actually just—
His eyebrows shoot up. For one glorious moment, I think I’ve rendered Mr. Smooth speechless.
Then he laughs.
Not a chuckle. Not a giggle. A full-bodied, rich-as-tiramisu laugh that does things to my insides I refuse to acknowledge.
“There she is. The firecracker hiding behind all those proper buttons.”
The way he says buttons should not sound that suggestive. Should not make me hyperaware of exactly how many fastenings stand between his gaze and my skin. And his eyes—those stupid, gorgeous, bedroom eyes—rake over me like they’re undressing my cardigan one button at a time.
“Oh yes, this tour is going to be molto interessante .”
I clutch my binder like it’s a shield against his Italian charm. No man should be allowed to make basic English words sound like audible foreplay.
“Wish Cards. Explain. Now,” I grit out.
Matteo holds up his hands in mock surrender. “All right, all right. On my tours, everyone gets one special wish—something they dream of doing in Italy. And I?” He taps his chest. “I make those dreams come true.”
“Wait. Your tours? As in, you own this company?”
“Sì, bella.” His smirk reaches dangerous levels. “I’m il capo . The boss.”
“But how do you grant wishes and stick to the scheduled itinerary?”
Matteo shrugs. “The schedule is merely a suggestion.”
No fixed itinerary?
No carefully planned timeline?
Just two weeks at the mercy of this man’s whimsical Wish Cards?
I’m going to pass out.
“Here.” He slides a blank card across the armrest, his fingers brushing mine deliberately. “Show me what desires are buried beneath that… cardigan.”
I snatch the card away, but I can still feel the ghost of his touch. “My only desire is for you to follow the schedule.”
“So you want things predictable… no surprises. Sorry, that wish is a no-can-do.” He leans in, his voice low and seductive. “But if you ever get in the mood for a little trouble, I’m totally game.”
With that painfully smug little mic-drop moment, Matteo stands up from his seat, casting one final scorching glance over his shoulder before casually strolling away.
I stuff the ridiculous Wish Card into my binder. I’ll be damned if I let this insufferable, chaos-loving man ruin the vacation I’ve spent hours perfecting.
***
CLUNK. SCREECH. WHEEZE.
My hands shoot out to grab the seat in front of me, narrowly avoiding face-planting into the decades-old upholstery. The ancient vehicle shudders to a stop, and I swear I just heard something important fall off. And by thing I mean the whole freaking transmission.
Through windows that appear to have been cleaned with a dirty sock soaked in olive oil, I stare at what has to be the most underwhelming building in all of Italy. The brown brick facade could be a prison. Or maybe a DMV?
It’s not the Leaning Tower of Pisa that’s for damn sure.
My event-planner senses are tingling, and not in a good way.
Ah. Now it all makes sense.
This isn’t a wish-granting detour. This is Tourist Trap 101. Any minute now, he’ll claim his “dear friend” owns this “authentic” establishment and offer us a “special private tour” for the low, low price of fifty euros each. I’ve seen more polished acts from magicians at kids’ birthday parties.
He better get ready for a scathing review because I’m documenting every single way this con artist is destroying my vacation.
Reasons Matteo Monti Is Definitely a Scammer:
1. Late pickup.
2. Bait-and-switch transportation.
3. Mysterious unscheduled stop.
4. His smile (too perfect).
5. Those forearms (distractingly suspicious) .
6. The way his ass looks in those pants that makes my thighs clench ( wait, no. Scratch that one).
“Signore e signori!” Matteo’s honeyed voice fills the bus. “Prepare yourselves for something magnifico !”
He dances down the aisle, all calculated charm and well-rehearsed finesse. The seniors are eating it up, but I see through his performance. Every gestured flourish and flawless grin—it’s Tourism Theater, and he’s going for a Tony.
“Principessa.” He appears beside my row, hand extended in an invitation that I have no intention of accepting. “Allow me to escort you to your first Italian adventure.”
“I can manage,” I inform him coolly. “But thanks for the transparent attempt to separate these nice people from their money.”
His eyes darken dangerously. “You think I’m running a scam?”
“If the suspiciously overpriced shoe fits…”
“Such little faith. What must I do to have your trust?”
“Sticking to the schedule would be a start.”
“Patience, bella. Good things come to those who—”
“Let me guess. To those who pay inflated prices for ‘authentic experiences’?”
An emotion flashes in his eyes—hurt? guilt?—before his mask of charm slides back into place.
“Let’s get this surprise over with. I have an important picture to take at the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and I’d like to get there while there’s still sunlight.”
“Katie, darling!” Aunt Deb clutches my arm, her bangles jangling. “Isn’t this absolutely thrilling? The mystery! The romance! The view!” She makes a show of fanning herself while openly ogling Matteo’s retreating form.
The seniors spill out of the motorcade, and Matteo motions everyone forward, then claps his hands sharply, demanding the group’s attention.
“Please meet the star of today’s adventure, Otto Peterson!”
Otto looks like every sweet grandpa in every heartwarming holiday movie ever made. His wire-rimmed glasses sit slightly crooked on his nose, and his silver hair forms this perfect fluffy halo.
“Can you please tell the group about your Wish Card?”
“Been playing violin since I was small,” Otto begins. “Back in Idaho, my father and I, we’d play together. Some of my best memories.” He adjusts his glasses with trembling fingers. “The Stradivarius violins… they’re more than instruments. They’re pieces of history. My father dreamed of seeing one. He never got the chance.”
“My friend.” Matteo places a hand on the older man’s back. “This is the Museo del Violino. Today you live that dream for both of you.”
The seniors explode into applause while Otto hugs Matteo.
“Didn’t that just wrap your heart in the coziest little hug?” Aunt Deb gushes beside me, squeezing my arm as a dreamy sigh escapes her lips.
“I guess?”
“Oh, Katie-darling, that heartwarming moment was poetry in motion! We are living out the grandest of bucket list fantasies on this trip. Let the magic wash over you, my dear!”
This has to be an act. Has to be.
Even if Otto’s tears are real enough to drown in.
Even if Matteo’s joy seems to light him up from within.
We trail through the museum like ducklings following their mother. The air hangs heavy with history and wood polish. Our footsteps echo off marble floors as we trail between glass cases that stretch into forever, each one housing another priceless instrument bathed in amber lighting.
But this boring museum has me thinking about Jared and his fossil lectures—not that he’s boring of course, just, like, the fact that it’s a museum.
“And here we have a masterpiece by Giuseppe Guarneri,” drones our ancient museum guide. “Notice the revolutionary varnishing technique—”
The seniors predictably “ooh” and “aah” on cue while I stifle a yawn. Violins, check. Now let’s go.
“The way your eyes glaze over really adds to the museum ambiance,” Matteo murmurs, suddenly right beside me. His presence startles me, an unexpected pull I can’t ignore. “I didn’t know anyone could look so desperately unimpressed.”
“Oh yes, riveting.” I gesture at the display. “I particularly enjoyed the part about”—I squint at the plaque—“spruce versus maple. Life—changing.”
“Most engaged women find this romantic.” His voice drops lower. “They see the beauty in tradition, the passion in—”
“The brown?”
His laugh rumbles through the space between us, too intimate for strangers. “You work so hard at being cynical.”
“Not as hard as you work at being charming.”
“Who says I’m working at it?”
“Your whole”—I wave my hand vaguely at his everything—“performance is an act.”
He shifts closer. “I find your skepticism oddly attractive.”
My mouth goes dry. “Your flirting needs work.”
His grin turns wicked, predatory. “Oh, piccola tigre , when I’m flirting with you,” he says, his low voice setting my ear on fire, “you’ll know it.”
He walks away before I can respond, leaving me burning and breathless between the displays.
Damn him.
We finally reach the Stradivarius display after what feels like seventeen years of varnish appreciation. Otto snaps pictures next to the display cases. I’m mentally calculating how far behind schedule we are when Matteo steps forward, grinning with seasoned showmanship.
“I could not convince them to let you play a Stradivarius,” Matteo says, presenting Otto with a polished violin. “But this beauty is one hundred and fifty years old. Would you honor us with a song?”
I settle in for what is sure to be a creaky, off-key squeaking session. Otto closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and draws the bow across the strings. My jaded expectations… are shattered.
The first note hits me like a physical blow. Rich and deep and devastating. He plays a dramatic concerto, and the rich, resonant notes echo off the walls, saturated with longing and passion. Otto sways, fully consumed in the rhythm, and the music swells. Tears shine on his cheeks. Each note carries weight, carries memories, carries… so much more than just the notes.
Against my will, the power of Otto’s performance triggers a wave of emotion. Jared’s face flashes through my mind.
Jared. The man who was supposed to be my future, my everything.
I dig my nails into my palms, fighting back the lump forming in my throat.
No. It’s going to work out. This is not our farewell tune. Rather, the melody of our bright new future.
I have a plan. I have a schedule. I have a fiancé to win back.
***
“That stupid Leaning Tower of Pisa is ruining my life!” I mutter.
Behind me, that world-famous hunk of slanted marble looms mockingly, as if to say, Nice try, but even I can tell how painfully unsexy you are.
Thanks to Matteo and his relaxed sense of time management, I have less than ten minutes of sunlight to capture a thirst trap sultry pose that’ll make Jared’s jaw drop. I hold out my phone and sum up every ounce of seductive femininity my body can muster.
Butt out.
Head tilted.
Lips pursed.
CLICK!
I compare the photo to the pose I’ve preselected in my binder. Grr! I can’t get the right angle. And why does my face give off serious constipated vibes? There’s no time to go back and get my selfie stick. Maybe if I lean the phone against this chunk of rubble on the ground? I set my timer and hurry into position.
Arch back.
Chest out.
Open mouth.
CLICK!
I cringe at the image. My sultry wish-you-were-here photo has turned into something straight out of a porno. My hands look like I’m molesting the tower while trying to give it a blow job!
“Very seductive, bella,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbles in my ear, a rush of warmth sweeping across my neck.
I nearly jump out of my skin as Matteo materializes, his maddening smirk plastered all over that annoyingly handsome face.
“Go away,” I snap, angling the phone away from him. “This is not for your pervy eyes. I’m trying to take a picture for my fiancé, Jared.”
Matteo grabs my phone and swipes through my pictures. “Your angles are all wrong. You do know I’m a photographer, right? Let me help you.”
I snatch back my phone. “I’d rather endure a twelve-hour root canal without novocaine than let you take my photo.”
“I think drilling you for twelve hours sounds like an incredible way to spend a day.”
Flames dance across my skin. “You’re—”
“MATTEO, darling!”
Oh, thank goodness.
Aunt Deb shouts through the crowd like a bedazzled foghorn. “We simply must discuss the impressive length and girth of this phallic masterpiece!”
“Duty calls, bellissima.”
I watch him saunter away, trying very hard not to notice how well his pants fit (for purely professional reasons). I’m documenting suspicious tour guide behavior.
Right. Focus.
I can do this. I am a strong, independent woman who can take one damn sexy photo without help from Mr. Italian Stallion over there.
Channel your inner vixen. Work those angles. Make Jared eat his heart out.
CLICK!
“Nailed it!” The caption is perfect: Ciao! From Italy! Simple. Elegant. Not at all desperate.
POST!
My phone explodes:
Petra: YOU’RE IN ITALY???
Cam: Um… surprise vacation?
Petra: Have you been kidnapped by the Mafia?
Cam: You look gorgeous!
Petra: Total smoke show. But who’s the clueless senior citizen spelunking in his nose?
The what now?
I zoom in and—
Oh dear God no. There’s Lorenzo. Our veteran bus driver. Standing behind me with his finger so far up his nose he’s touching his brain.
This cannot be happening.
I just posted soft-core tower porn that features a geriatric nose-picker to my Instagram feed.
I give up. This day is a total bust, and there is only one person to blame… Matteo.