5. CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER FIVE
MATTEO
Pro tip for running a dying tour company: Nothing says safe travels like your elderly bus driver/mechanic conducting open-heart surgery on the engine while everyone pretends not to notice as they board.
“Buongiorno my bold explorers!” I pass out Carlo’s lemon cookies like they’re golden tickets, praying the sweet distraction works its magic.
My beloved seniors shuffle aboard, their warm smiles and enthusiasm make my insides all mushy. They deserve better than this hazard on wheels.
I pat the bus’s worn exterior, our daily ritual. “Just a little longer, old girl. I applied for the business loan and once it gets approved, we’ll get you a full makeover. New transmission, fresh paint job, and how about one of those disco balls for impromptu dance parties?”
The bus responds with a concerning gurgle that sounds suspiciously like a death rattle.
And then, here comes trouble in a fitted floral top. It’s pulling at her curves like a magnet, and let me tell you, my personal compass is pointing due north. I shift my weight and straighten up as Katie climbs the bus steps like she’s marching up to her throne of judgment. She looks fully prepared to ruin my day, my self-esteem, and my will to keep things professional.
“Are we actually touring Milan like it says on the schedule?” she asks, all clipped consonants.
I stroke my jaw, catching how her eyes track the movement. “Eventually. Probably. Maybe?”
The way her nose scrunches when she’s annoyed shouldn’t be adorable, but damn if it isn’t.
“So we’re at the mercy of wherever your horny brain takes us?”
“If you’re craving a private tour with me, bella, simply say the word. I’ll show you pleasures you never knew existed.”
Oops. There goes my professionalism.
A rosy hue spreads across her cheeks, and Cristo help me—watching her get flustered is my new favorite hobby. She drops into the seat beside me with a huff that gives her chest a sexy little bounce.
Not that I’m looking… much.
“The bus smells different today. Less dead animal, more toxic fart bomb.”
I bark out a laugh without thinking. She’s got a mouth on her, this one. Makes a man wonder what else that sharp tongue can do. And she’s not wrong. The smell is another reminder of how far Monti Tours has fallen. Running a travel company takes a lot of business skills, something I am not exactly known for.
But that’s a problem for future Matteo.
“You are aware,” she starts, “that customer expectations are everything in the service industry, right? You need proper protocols, quality assurance standards—”
“Trust me. My customers always leave very, very satisfied.” I let my voice drop an octave on the last word.
“That is not what I meant and you know it.”
“Perhaps.” I wink, enjoying how her blush deepens. “I want you to understand how dedicated I am at providing… full service.”
I snatch the mic before Katie can dive into what I’m sure would be a riveting lecture on the importance of schedules and punctuality. Maybe she’d even give me a sneak peek at her… binder.
Okay, fine. I meant her breasts.
“My friends!” My voice fills the bus. “Time for the moment of truth. Should we stick to our safe, already planned schedule…” I pause, aware of Katie’s knuckles going white around her binder, “…or should we let another Wish Card guide us to something magical?”
The response is instant and deafening. These seniors appear to be sweet, but they’ve got rebel souls. “Wish Card! Wish Card!”
“The people have spoken.” I look directly at Katie, and sure enough, those beautiful green eyes of hers are ablaze with irritation.
“Get ready, everyone! I’m taking you on a surprise trip to a secret destination. You’ll see that the best memories are made when you least expect them!”
I flash her a victorious smirk, and she responds with an over-the-top eye roll. For a second, I wonder why seeing her all riled up is making my pulse race. But I’ll have to dissect that thought later—right now, my audience awaits.
“Time for your morning Italian lesson!” I scan the eager faces. “Who remembers how to tell Lorenzo we’re ready to roll?”
“Guida l’autobus, Lorenzo!” they shout in their best attempt at Italian.
Lorenzo, that magnificent creature of few words and questionable hygiene habits, stomps the gas like he’s crushing his enemies. The bus shudders to life, and we rattle out of Milan like a can of loose change. Within minutes we’ve left behind the chaos of the city for the breathtaking backdrop of northern Italy. The road unfolds like a love letter to my homeland—dramatic mountain peaks, endless sky, while patches of wildflowers paint the hillsides in bursts of color.
“Let’s spice things up with some essential Italian phrases,” I announce. “First up— dove è il bagno?”
My exaggerated pronunciation elicits giggles from the tourists as they slowly echo, “Doh-vay eel bahn-yo?”
“Congratulations! You’ve all unlocked the key to survival anywhere: ‘where’s the bathroom?’”
Chester, the group’s resident comedian, stands up in a T-shirt that reads with a body like this, who needs hair? “Bathroom schmathroom! At our age, we’ve upgraded to portable plumbing!” he declares, patting his hip with a wink. “We’ve got the luxury of adult diapers!”
Laughter explodes across the bus, followed by more loud, raunchy jokes that would scandalize a proper tour guide. Good thing I’ve never been proper.
Katie stares out the window like she’s determined to be miserable her entire vacation. It’s a challenge, I realize, to break through her walls and get her to loosen up. Lucky for her, I’m a man who doesn’t back down easily.
“Next phrase! Mi scusi, non parlo italiano —”
“Hang on, handsome!” Deborah’s bold voice cuts in. “Forget the tourist talk. How do you say ‘your place or mine’?”
I swallow a laugh. While Katie’s got herself wrapped tighter than a nun’s habit, her aunt’s basically Betty White at Mardi Gras—beads optional.
“Trick question,” I say coolly, playing along. “An experienced woman, in any language, knows the way to speak this… is with her body.”
Deborah pushes out her chest and shimmies, her movements eliciting hoots and hollers from the laughing crowd. Her carefree spirit is contagious.
A distinguished Texan by the name of Howie Dixon rises to his feet. His tall, muscular frame makes him an imposing sight, especially for someone in their seventies. His gray mustache adds to his rugged charm.
“How do y’all say ‘Sorry about my large erection,’” he blurts out with a laugh, his strong Southern drawl adding to the absurd situation.
“Scusami per la mia grande erezione , I say, making an exaggerated hip thrust gesture that I’m not proud of. Okay, maybe I’m a little proud of it. Hell, who am I kidding? I nailed it.
I catch a tiny quirk of Katie’s lips before she wrestles her features back into disapproval. It’s like gazing at a rainbow trying to peek through storm clouds.
Bring it on, bellissima. Before this trip is over, I will have you laughing so hard that your whole body will be shaking. You’ll throw your head back, your cheeks will be sore, and your mouth—ah, I better stop thinking like that.
Glancing out the window, I realize we’ve reached our destination. “All right, my wild crew, we’re here. Rose, come up here and join me—today is all about making your wish come true!”
Rose glides to the front of the bus as if she were walking on clouds. She’s petite—barely reaches my shoulder—but her presence fills the entire space. Her striking blue eyes hold a world of wisdom and experience. Her white hair, styled in a classic, short cut, frames her face gracefully, highlighting her timeless beauty.
She takes the mic from me with trembling fingers, but her voice is steady as a heartbeat when she speaks. “Stan and I came to Italy for our honeymoon.” I swear the entire bus is holding its breath. “We were young and broke, but so in love. Now here we are, sixty years later…”
I catch Katie shifting in her seat, her grumpy expression softening. Heck even Lorenzo stops picking his nose to listen.
“My Stan, he loves the water,” Rose continues. “Every weekend, rain or shine, he’s out on his little boat. But there’s one lake he’s always dreamed of seeing.” She shifts her gaze to the back row where Stan sits. “Lake Como.”
I glance over at Stan, this stocky guy with eyebrows bushier than a Tuscan pine tree, and he’s not even trying to hide the tears behind his Coke-bottle glasses.
“Well, Stan,” I say. “Your lovely wife has used her wish to make your dream come true. Everyone look out your windows. Behold the famous Lake Como and all its breathtaking beauty.”
The bus erupts in cheers and whistles, but Stan only has eyes for his Rose. He’s throwing kisses, his weathered face glowing with the kind of love that makes cynics believe in happily ever after. It’s raw, unfiltered love—pure as it gets. I soak it in.
This is why I do it. This feeling—this high—I fucking love my job.
***
“What do you mean the main tour is booked?”
“Complete-ah-mente full, Matteo Monti,” Signora Ricci announces. Her penciled eyebrows arch. “All large boats, reserved. Weeks ago. By people who plan ahead.”
That last bit comes with enough judgment to fill Saint Peter’s Basilica.
Of course, this is on me. I had to wing it, confident my charm could pull off the impossible. And now? I’m standing here with my dick flapping in the breeze while thirty-two seniors—Katie included—are expecting a once-in-a-lifetime tour of Lake Como.
Parked alongside our bus is the giant red Italy Express motorcoach, looming like a middle finger in my peripheral vision. Its glossy paint reflects my shame. A swarm of tourists in matching red shirts pours out like ants from a hill.
My jaw tightens as I glance at the lake. Sure enough, the massive tour boat I’d been hoping to reserve is boarding now—its spacious decks ridiculously packed with those same red shirts.
I drag my gaze from the grand sightseeing ship to the small wooden vessels bobbing against the dock. They’re gorgeous, sure—classic Italian craftsmanship with vintage elegance—but they’re also… tiny.
“Okay, what about the small boats?”
She makes a show of consulting her ancient ledger. “Sì. Six people maximum per boat. Very romantic.” Her eyes narrow. “Very expensive.”
Of course they are. Because the universe loves to remind me that “making it up as I go” is not an actual business strategy.
Merda. At these prices, I might have to sell a kidney. But one look at Rose and Stan, holding hands by the water’s edge, and I refuse to let my poor planning ruin their sixty-year dream. This is exactly the type of financial decision-making that has Monti Tours circling the drain.
“Per favore, Signora Ricci.” I lean across the dock’s ticket counter, deploying my most charming smile. “Surely we can work something out? These are special customers.”
Signora Ricci peers at me over rhinestone-studded glasses, immune to my charms after decades of dealing with fast-talking tour guides.
“How many you need?” she asks, though her tone suggests she already knows I can’t afford it.
I do some quick math. Thirty-two people, plus me and Lorenzo, divided by six per boat… “Six boats.”
She names a price that causes my balls to retreat into my body. “Dio mio!” I choke out. I’m going to have to sell both kidneys. And maybe my left testicle.
“Pardon me, folks.”
A voice smooth as aged bourbon cuts through my panic. Howie, our resident Texan, strides up to the kiosk like he owns it—hell like he owns the whole damn lake. Everything about him screams old money, from his pressed linen suit to his Rolex that’s worth more than my entire bus.
His sharp eyes survey the boats, then drift to where Aunt Deb is currently scandalizing a group of fishermen. She has one hand on the man’s chest and the other suspiciously low on his hip, grinding to the rhythm of a tango that she’s clearly improvising on the spot.
“I reckon”—Howie strokes his impressive mustache thoughtfully—“a fellow with enough grit and gumption might secure himself a private vessel… for two?”
I clear my throat. “The private boats are quite expensive.”
“How much we talking, son?”
“For everyone, including your extra boat, it’s seven thousand euros.”
Without missing a beat, Howie pulls out a black credit card and sets it on the counter like he’s playing a royal flush. “Sold. There’s one li’l detail we gotta work out.”
His gaze shifts to Katie in the background, who’s intently studying her binder. As the sun catches in her hair, illuminating those bouncy blonde waves, I imagine running my fingers through it. Fuck me sideways. I need to stop noticing these things.
“The lovely Miss Deborah’s niece,” he continues, mustache twitching with pure mischief. “I’m gonna need you to keep her… otherwise occupied. Can’t have her puttin’ a damper on our good time.”
“Done,” I say before he can change his mind.
Howie turns to Signora Ricci. “Now tell me what kinds of lovebird specials you got.”
The change in Signora Ricci is like observing a piranha spot a wounded fish. That black credit card disappears faster than wine at an Italian wedding. “For you, signore? We have many special romantic options.”
Never pit charm against money… money always wins.
***
“Everyone, find your assigned boats!” I shout, consulting my hastily scrawled passenger list.
Naturally, Katie ignores the command. Of course she does. She marches up, all sharp green eyes and clipped steps, like she’s demanding to speak to the manager—oh wait, that’s me.
“Why aren’t we renting a bigger boat like that Italy Express tour group?” she asks, pointing at the ferry in the distance crammed full of red-shirted tourists.
My patience snaps. “Because that’s not a tour. That’s a human filing cabinet. Intimate boats like ours give you the real Lake Como experience.”
“Or maybe you’re justifying your lack of planning.”
“You think I don’t plan?” I step closer, tilting my head to meet her challenging gaze. “I plan magic . I plan moments people remember their whole lives. You want a checklist? Fine. Here’s mine: laughter, bliss, unexpected beauty, and memories so good they make you cry in the airport on the way home.”
She blinks, momentarily caught off guard, before her defenses snap back into place. “Some people appreciate structure,” she fires back—daring me to argue. “Not everyone wants their vacation to feel like an episode of Survivor .”
“Your boat’s down that way, principessa,” I say, pointing toward the far dock. “Let’s not scare the captain with that death glare, okay?”
She huffs, brushing past me, but not before her shoulder bumps mine too hard to be accidental. As she and her attitude walk away, I catch the sway of her hips and my grin stretches wide.
If she thinks she’s getting the last word on this, she’s got another thing coming.
Rustic brown wooden boats gently bob in the crystal-clear water as the sun paints the lake’s surface with sparkles like scattered diamonds. Mountains in the background frame the postcard-worthy view, releasing my frustration.
“Mrs. Thomas, careful with those steps.” I steady the elderly woman as she boards.
“Lorenzo!” I bark at my driver, who’s excavating his nasal cavity again. “Get a damn Kleenex and help Mr. Jenkins.”
A burst of laughter draws my attention to where Deborah is dragging Howie toward their private boat. “Time to make some waves, my Southern stud!”
“Comin’, sugar!” Howie’s grin could light up Rome as he follows her.
I check my list again. One boat left—me, Katie, and the Dawson sisters who are currently… leaving? Why are they walking away from the dock?
“We’ve decided to skip the seasickness adventure,” Agnes Dawson announces. “Margaret and I spotted the cutest little shops in town. Those Italian leather bags have our names on them. They just don’t know it yet.”
Her sister nods enthusiastically. “You two have a ball! We’ll be back before the bus leaves, scout’s honor.”
Before I can protest, they’re power-walking toward town.
Which leaves me with—
“Absolutely not,” Katie says, arms crossed. “I am not getting on that tiny boat alone with you.”
“Scared of a little one-on-one time, principessa?”
“You’re so full of yourself. Does your giant ego have a hard time fitting into your pants? Wait, no, don’t answer that.”
“Relax.” I gesture to the elderly captain arranging cushions on our boat. “We’ll have a chaperone. Due persone ,” I tell the captain. “Just two.”
A knowing grin stretches across his timeworn face. “Ah! Gli amanti!” With renewed enthusiasm, he sets to work, transforming the back section into a floating love nest—presumably for our benefit. Plush cushions arranged like a bed, complete with soft throws and— Cristo—are those rose petals?
Katie opens her mouth to argue, but the captain is already urging us forward, his forceful hospitality something only Italian men over seventy can pull off. “Presto! The romance package, very special!”
“Romance package?” The pitch of Katie’s voice could shatter glass. “Tell him no thank you!”
“Perhaps next time you’ll pay attention in my Italian lessons so you can tell him yourself.”
“Vieni!” The old man pushes us toward the boat. “Love waits for no one!”
I step on board, instantly unsteady on the cushion paradise. “Take my hand before you fall.”
Katie lifts her chin, defiant as always, and attempts to board without assistance while maintaining her death grip on that binder.
“I’m perfectly capable of—”
The boat lurches.
Katie’s eyes go wide. She pitches forward with a yelp. And then she’s airborne.
WHAM!
She lands on top of me. Her breasts press against my chest, her thighs bracket my hips, and that strawberry scent that’s been driving me insane since the night we met floods my senses. My cock immediately stands up to introduce itself.
Those green eyes meet mine, darkening with awareness. Her lips part with a soft gasp that does dangerous things to my self-control. A strand of her silky, sweet-smelling hair brushes my cheek, and I swear I feel her heart pounding against me.
Katie jerks back as if stung, but Signore Meddling Romantic, the captain, decides it’s the perfect time to gun the engine, catapulting her precious binder into the air.
“No!” She launches herself after it with zero self-preservation instinct. She’s halfway off the boat with a death grip on her binder, unaware of how momentum is dragging her dangerously overboard. One more inch, and she’ll be gone.
“Fanculo!” My hand snaps out, catching her wrist before a splashy disaster. The boat hits a wave as I yank her back and—
CRUNCH.
Her hefty planner smashes into my nose with the force of an angry nonna wielding a rolling pin. Spots dance in my vision as hot pain blazes across my face.
“Oh God, your nose!” Her hands flutter near my cheeks. “I swear I didn’t mean to—”
WHOOSH!
The boat lurches violently as a massive wake from a passing ferry hits us broadside. Katie screams—not a dainty yelp but an all-out shriek—and launches herself into my arms like I’m her personal lifeguard. My arms instinctively lock around her waist, and I pull her close.
Fuck me. The feel of her curves melting against my body sends all the blood from my nose rushing back down south.
Cristo, she feels good. Too good.
Our eyes lock, and I get hit with that captivating contradiction again. Fear flickers in her gaze, but it’s the defiant spark beneath that sends a thrill through my veins.
We’re so close I’m seeing amber-colored flecks in her irises and counting each perfect eyelash. Her lips part slightly, and my body reacts with a jolt of pure want. She relaxes into me, and my arms tighten, holding her steady. Safe.
“Perfetto!” Our captain’s joyful shout shatters the moment. “The lovers cannot be denied!”
He breaks into song. Not just any song—a full-throated, passionate rendition of “That’s Amore” complete with dramatic hand gestures that make me seriously question how he’s still steering the boat.
Katie jerks away, straightening her clothes like she can iron out the sexual tension crackling between us.
“You know, cara mia,” I say, sitting up on the seat. “I’ve been with many complicated women, but you—you’re a fucking masterpiece of mixed signals.”
Our enthusiastic captain stretches out his arm, presenting me with champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, his eyebrows doing a playful waggle.
“Does everything have to be a seduction with you Italian men?” Katie huffs.
“We’re irresistible and unmatched in bed—it’s in our DNA.”
“Wrong on both counts.” Her eyes light up. “And trust me, women can get very good at faking it.”
“Is that what you do with your man?”
“Don’t talk about Jared.” Her eyes flicker.
I lean in, unleashing my bedroom eyes. “Interesting how you don’t deny it. Tell me, principessa, has anyone ever taken their time with you? Tasting and touching—making you fall apart piece by piece until you’re desperate, writhing, and begging for release?”
Her breath hitches. “Sex is overrated.”
“Tesoro, you wouldn’t say that after one night with me,” I say, my voice turning dark and promising. “I’d destroy you for any other man’s touch, and you’d never settle for mediocre again.”
Her thighs press together—a tiny tell that shoots straight to my groin. “If you think I’ll be your personal plaything just because you’re the only man here who doesn’t need Viagra, you’re out of your damn mind.”
“For a proper girl, you have a very filthy mouth.” My lips curl. “But I only tease. I am not serious. You need not worry because sex is off-limits.”
“It was never an option! I’m engaged.” She holds her binder up, hiding her breasts.
“Plenty of engaged women go looking for one last wild night.” I let my gaze drift over her curves. “And bella, I bet you’re magnificent when you let go. But I have one rule I never break—no hooking up with tourists on my tours.”
Something ignites in her emerald eyes— disappointment? —before she masks it. “Never?”
“Never.”
“Perfect.” Her chin lifts in defiance, but I detect the slight quiver of her bottom lip. “Finally we agree on something. No sex.”
Fucking hell. I never should have told her about my goddamn rule. The words just tumbled out, and now I’m sensing that tiny spark of possibility fade from her eyes. Why does her quick agreement feel like a kick to the gut?
And why the hell do I care?
Katie sets down that soul-sucking binder and picks up a strawberry. Watching her lips wrap around the chocolate-dipped fruit has me swallowing hard and shifting in my seat.
“So what’s in there anyway?” I nod at the binder, trying to distract myself from inappropriate thoughts about her mouth. “I think I earned a peek, considering I saved both your lives.”
She swallows, leaving a smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth that I desperately want to lick away. “Ideas and poses for pictures to show my fiancé what I’m doing. Different vacation itinerary things.”
“And where’s Prince Charming while you’re touring my beautiful country?”
“London. He’s opening a new exhibit at the Natural History Museum.” Her voice falters slightly.
“Must be hard being apart.” Why am I pushing this?
“Yes, but that’s why I’m documenting everything.”
“Always prepared, aren’t you, principessa?” I study her profile against the lake. “Bet you’ve never forgotten a birthday or missed a deadline in your life.”
“Being organized helps me feel grounded.” She blinks, as if she startled herself with the admission. “I don’t know why I just told you that.”
“Maybe you’re finally succumbing to my Italian charm.” I wink.
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the hint of a smile.
“Have you filled out your Wish Card yet?”
“No, honestly, I haven’t given it much thought.”
Something tells me that’s a lie. I get the sense that she’s overthinking it, but I drop it. We fall into a comfortable silence, the kind that feels as natural as breathing. Katie leans back, drinking in the view, and I do my best not to stare at her… I’m failing miserably.
Lake Como is showing off today. It’s like being in a lover’s dream—all sparkle and seduction under the golden sun. The water now parts smoothly for our boat, as if welcoming us into its embrace. Majestic mountains shoot up around us, their peaks kissing the sky. The air is clean and crisp with a hint of pine. This is no ordinary view; this is an experience that seeps into your soul.
What the tourism websites don’t mention, however, is that this stunning water is ice-cold and will have your teeth chattering and your… parts shrinking, no matter what month it is.
Katie takes a big breath, and it’s the first moment I’ve seen her unwind. This is why I do this—unveiling Italy’s beauty and watching people fall in love with it the way I have. Even when my bank account’s crying and my bus sounds like it’s saying its final goodbyes.
But right now? All I can focus on is how the light plays across Katie’s features. She gazes out at the lake—lips curving ever so slightly—eyes reflecting the calm waters. The quiet wonder on her face hits me square in the chest, and before I know it, I’ve got my mother’s old Nikon in hand.
CLICK.
Her head whips around, eyes flashing. “Did you just—”
“Sì.” I check the preview screen. Perfect. The light, the composition—the way her profile angles against the backdrop of mountains, she’s fucking gorgeous.
“Delete it.” But there’s curiosity in her voice.
I hold out the camera, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. “Look first. Then decide.”
She takes it carefully, and I notice her face as she studies the image. I’ve caught her in a rare unguarded moment.
“This is…” She trails off, touching the screen gently.
“Breathtaking?” I lean closer. “That’s because you are, principessa. Even when you’re trying to kill me with your binder.”
A blush creeps up her neck, and damn if I don’t want to trace it with my tongue. She keeps her eye on the camera, but I see her pulse jumping at her throat.
“You are actually talented,” she says softly. “I mean, really talented.”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I’m more than a pretty face and the best tour guide you’ve ever had.”
The boat’s engine sputters, jerking us to a sudden stop. Without warning, the jolt sends Katie’s precious binder hurling across the cushions and off the side of the boat.
“No!” Katie lunges for it, but she’s too late.
I don’t think. I dive.
One thought blazes through my mind as I launch myself over the side: That binder is her everything.
SPLASH!
Holy mother of frozen fuck.
The water hits me like ten thousand ice daggers straight to the nuts. My lungs seize as Lake Como reminds me why it’s meant for admiring, not swimming.
The binder twirls in slow motion below me, pages starting to spread like wet butterfly wings. My muscles scream as I knife deeper, fighting the cold that’s trying its best to turn my dick into an innie.
Got it! My fingers close around the plastic cover right as it’s about to become fish food.
The captain swings the boat around as I break the surface, gasping and sputtering Italian curses. I haul myself back aboard, water streaming off me as I hand Katie her sopping wet binder.
“Merda, it’s freezing!” I strip off my shirt, then attack my pants, not even caring that I’m putting on a show. The wet clothes are pure ice against my skin.
I catch Katie’s eyes going wide as I stand there in nothing but clingy boxer briefs. Her gaze travels from my chest down to my abs, then lower, and—
“Ah!” The captain’s laugh booms across the water. “The great Lake Como, she makes even the mighty Italian Stallion look more like a tiny pony, no?”
Katie’s eyes snap to my groin and—oh Cristo—she’s definitely noticing the current… situation.
“It’s cold!” I protest, grabbing for the towel the captain throws at me. “Shrinkage is a perfectly normal male response to freezing water!”
And then it happens.
Katie Crawford—Miss Organization, Queen of Control—loses it. She doubles over, howling with laughter. The sound bursts out of her like she has been storing it up since birth, pure and unrestrained and fucking beautiful.
“The water…” I try again, but my mouth twitches. “It’s very, very cold.”
“Oh sure,” she gasps between giggles, wiping her eyes. “I’m sure you’re usually very…” Another laughing fit hits her. “…impressive.”
“I’ll have you know that under normal, non-Arctic conditions—” But her laughter is contagious, and before I realize it, I’m howling too—half-naked, freezing my ass off, and fully humbled by Mother Nature.
I want to make her laugh every day for the rest of this tour.
And fuck me. That thought is more dangerous than hypothermia.