6. CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SIX
KATIE
Mom: Look at this article I saw! “Ten Romantic Ways to Surprise Your Ex in London.”
Me: No way this is real.
Mom: IT IS! Found it on Pinterest! #7 involves balloons and roses—so cute!
Me: Thanks, but I know what Jared wants, and it’s not balloons and over-the-top clinginess.
Mom: Why not? Picture it. He opens the door, realizes his mistake, and BOOM! Happily ever after.
Me: Hard pass. I’ve got this handled, Mom. Love you.
MATTEO'S WORDS ECHO IN my head: No hooking up with tourists from my tours.
“This is good,” I tell my reflection in the hotel’s bathroom mirror, aggressively brushing my teeth. “Totally good. Great, even.”
The lie tastes worse than morning breath.
I’ve been up since five a.m., absolutely not thinking about the way Matteo’s wet boxer briefs clung to his thighs yesterday when he rescued my binder. Or how his voice dropped an octave when he described how he’d ruin me for other men. Or the fact that his no-tourist stance felt like both a relief and a personal attack.
Which is ridiculous. I’m engaged… Sort of. Taking a break. Whatever.
The point is, Matteo’s rule means I can stop reading into his outrageous flirting.
Stop imagining his strong hands sliding up my thighs…
His stubble scratching against my neck…
His sinful mouth whispering filthy Italian promises in my ear—
“Jesus.” I splash cold water on my face. “Get it together, Katie.”
Somewhere amid my artfully displayed toiletries, my phone chimes—another Instagram “like.” I’ve gotten approximately eight million since posting that Lake Como pic (photo credit by Matteo) .
It’s the one where I look… different. Softer. Like a woman who doesn’t fold her underwear into separate piles based on type. (Everyday undies in front, period panties in the middle, and scheduled sex nights in the back.)
I pull up the post, ignoring how my pulse kicks up at the sight of all those notifications. Jared? Nope. Scroll, scroll. Family. Scroll, scroll. Friends. C’mon Jared! Scroll, scroll… and nope!
Petra: WHO IS THIS WOMAN AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR KATIE?
Cam: That light! That angle! Excuse me but what magazine is this photo for, miss supermodel?
Mom: You look so relaxed, honey! But let’s button up that top one more…
Still no sign of Jared.
My thumb hovers over his profile. His last Instagram picture—a slightly blurry shot of his favorite triceratops skull—stares back at me, mocking my neediness. He’s probably too busy with his new exhibit to check social media. That’s all. I am absolutely not going to text him the photo directly like some desperate ex.
Even if technically I am his desperate ex.
No. Stay strong. This is all part of the plan. He’ll see these photos eventually and realize I’ve changed. That I’m spontaneous now. That I don’t need to schedule our sex life through 2065.
Speaking of scheduling sex…
My mind drifts back to the boat. Okay, yes, Lake Como might have temporarily diminished Matteo’s… assets, but that just makes me wonder about their non-frozen state. Would his little maestro match the rest of him? Of course it would. I mean all that hard, sculpted perfection comes standard issue with Italian men, right?
Heat floods my cheeks as his words rush back: “Has anyone ever taken their time… tasting… touching… making you fall apart… begging for release?”
Holy. Mother.
Jared would never—has never—said anything that brazen. Our dirty talk consists mainly of “You wanna?” followed by “Sure, let me brush my teeth first.”
Which is fine. Normal. Safe.
I recall the image of Rose and Stan wrapped around each other on their boat. Sixty years together and still acting like lovestruck teenagers. That’s what Jared and I could have. Dependable, forever love.
“Katie-kins!” Aunt Deb’s voice rings out. “Put down whatever list you’re making and help me pick a dress that’ll make these Italian boys pop a button—and not from their shirts!”
My hands mechanically pack my toiletries while Matteo’s rule plays on repeat.
No hooking up with my tourists.
Why can’t I quit thinking about it? And worse… Why won’t my heart stop racing?
***
OUR GROUP CLUSTERS OUTSIDE the hotel entrance, the air thick with excitement and a cloud of floral perfumes that scream, “I’ve got a purse full of Werther’s Originals.”
Matteo’s oozing rugged charm, carrying himself in a way that’s both relaxed and commanding, like he owns the world. I’m doing my best not to notice how his white T-shirt clings to his chest like it’s painted on or how his dark pants hang low on those hips.
Oh my God, his ass. I bite my lip.
“My beautiful travelers!” Matteo’s voice projects across our group. “Today is our last day in Milan, which means”—his eyes find mine with a knowing glint—“we will be sticking to the schedule.”
I snap my mouth shut so fast my teeth click. Damn him for anticipating my question.
“Well, mostly,” he adds with a grin. “We have a special shopping detour planned, because today’s Wish Card comes from our fashionable Dawson sisters.”
Agnes and Margaret saunter forward like seasoned socialites. Their matching paisley-print scarves should be a crime against fashion, but somehow they’re working it.
“You see, sweeties,” Agnes announces, adjusting her oversized Gucci sunglasses, “Margaret and I have dreamed of thrift shopping in Milan since we first saw Roman Holiday .”
“Wrong city, sister dear,” Margaret cuts in.
“Details, details. The bottom line is, we’re here to hunt vintage treasures! Because just like us, vintage never goes out of style!”
“And a designer purse,” Margaret adds, “always fits, no matter how many cannoli you eat.”
A savory smell wafts over from a café‘s dessert display where chocolate biscotti and sugar-dusted pastries sit behind the glass, begging to be devoured. Several faces in the group light up, stealing glances at the tempting treats.
Matteo beams as he lays out the plan, his excitement pulling us in. “We’ll blend classic Milan landmarks with shopping at my favorite hidden gems—the ones tourists never find. And if you need a break, Lorenzo will have the bus waiting nearby!”
As we cross the street, Matteo’s voice carries like music, painting Milan as a living, breathing entity. He doesn’t just describe the city—he conjures it, turning stone facades into whispers of history and hidden courtyards into secret gardens waiting to be discovered. The city feels less like a tourist trap and more like an old friend eager to meet us.
The group pauses for photos at the base of an ornate building, its carvings glowing in the sunlight. Suddenly Matteo is beside me.
“No binder today?” His voice teases.
“Still recovering from its brush with death in my suite,” I say, keeping my tone cool. “Thanks to my forethought to have the pages laminated, and your little lake rescue, it will survive.”
“Heroic deeds are my specialty. Besides, we can’t have your fiancé missing out on the fantastico adventures of Binder Girl, now can we?”
Something about his easy tone makes me brave… or possibly insane. “How’s your, um, love wand? Still suffering from frostbite?”
Oh my God. Did I actually say that out loud?
Matteo throws his head back and laughs. “Fully recovered, principessa. Care to verify?”
“In your dreams, Romeo.” But I’m grinning, and it feels… natural. Like maybe his no-tourist boundary is exactly what we needed. We can simply be fun and flirty with zero chance of those abs convincing me to do something stupid.
We follow him through streets that wind like spaghetti noodles until we arrive in Navigli. The district hits all your senses at once—the soft splash of canal waters, the sweet scent from a gelato shop, and the rainbow of vintage clothes spilling from doorways. Beautiful old buildings slant over the canals, their faded paint and crooked shutters only adding to the charm.
“Welcome,” Matteo announces with a theatrical sweep of his arm, “to where fashion goes to be reborn.”
The Dawson sisters are already speed-walking toward the nearest shop, and what’s left of our group disperses like confetti, drawn to different window displays and outdoor racks.
I clearly missed the dress code memo because Milan’s sidewalks are a never-ending runway show. The parade of women that strut by seem genetically engineered by some top-secret Italian lab. A girl eating pizza looks like a Gucci ad. Another casually applies lipstick while strutting in weapons-grade heels, and a brunette, weighed down by shopping bags, moves like she’s floating on a cloud.
Even the tourists have mastered that casually glamorous I-woke-up-in-Prada vibe. A group ahead of us is taking selfies, and they’ve got that head-tilt-hair-flip-laugh combo down to a science.
Meanwhile, I’m over here in my clearance-rack blouse and practical flats, feeling about as runway-ready as a Pizza Hut breadstick.
“They’re all so… intimidating,” I mutter to Matteo, watching another goddess float past. “How do they make it seem so effortless?”
“Ha! It’s more of an illusion,” Matteo says, a faint smirk on his lips. “You’d be surprised how much effort goes into looking effortless.”
“Well, whatever they’re doing, it’s working.”
“Depends on what you think ‘working’ means.” Matteo tilts his head, assessing me on a level that makes me feel vulnerable. “Some people like to be seen. Others… don’t feel the need to try so hard.”
“Are you saying I don’t try?” I shoot back, defensive now.
His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. “I’m saying, true beauty comes from the soul and you… look beautiful with or without clothes.”
“Excuse me? Are you, like, a local?”
Before I can respond, a blonde American bombshell, who surely owns stock in push-up bras, stands there eye-fucking Matteo so hard that her stare is rounding third base.
“Born and raised, bella.” And there it is—the panty-melting smile I was stupid enough to think was mine alone.
“We’re staying at Hotel Milano.” Her equally stunning friend appears like they’re tag-teaming their prey, all perfect hair and practiced pout. “Maybe you could show us the kind of intimate spots we want to see?” She glances between Matteo and her friend. “We’re very… open-minded about sharing authentic Italian experiences.”
Wow. About as subtle as a neon sign advertising Down For A Threesome .
Matteo soaks up their attention like it’s his life force. Reality check delivered: I’m not special. I’m just another tourist getting the standard Matteo Monti experience, complete with smoldering looks, casual touches, and flirty nicknames.
“Ah, bellissime . You’re painting a very… enticing picture. Under different circumstances, I’d give you both a thorough Italian education.“ He winks. “But sadly, ladies, I’m working. Enjoy your trip.”
They slink away like pampered princesses denied their prize, and I’m trying hard not to think about what kind of “lessons” Matteo offers in his spare time.
“What happened to your no-tourists rule?” I arch an eyebrow.
“I said no tourists from my tours.” His mouth curves into an infuriating smirk. “Other tourists? Much simpler. Here today, gone tomorrow. No complications.”
Right. Matteo treats relationships like Airbnbs. Meanwhile I’m over here planning joint cemetery plots. Add that to the list of Reasons Why the Hot Tour Guide Is Eye Candy Only.
“That’s kind of sad. And lonely.” I gesture toward Stan and Rose, who are sharing a gelato as if they’re starring in a romance movie. “I want that. Sixty years with someone who still looks at me like I’m their whole world.”
Something dark flashes across his face. “Sure. Until the day it’s all taken away.”
The raw pain in his voice surprises me. Before I can ask what he means—
“Darlings!” Aunt Deb’s voice cuts through the air. “I simply must have your opinions on some scandalous purchases.”
She hooks her arms through ours with surprising strength and drags us toward a high-end boutique that screams “Your entire paycheck won’t cover the tax.”
“The vintage can wait,” Aunt Deb declares.
Howie trails behind us. “Lead the way, sugar.”
The moment we step inside, I know I’m in trouble. This isn’t Target. It’s not even Nordstrom. This is what you get when money and fashion have a passionate affair and send their love child to the most prestigious school in Paris. The lighting is designed to make you forget about trivial things like rent and food. The air smells like a bouquet of fresh flowers, but also the sweet scent of financial recklessness. The clothes hang on minimal racks like precious artwork, each piece spaced far enough apart to suggest they’re too elite to mingle with the others.
A price tag peeks out from a “simple” black dress. “Holy shit. Maybe I could start an OnlyFans for my binder collection.”
Matteo’s laugh rumbles beside me, but it’s drowned out by the sound of Aunt Deb’s full-on chaos. Three saleswomen flutter around her, their arms straining under the weight I swear is half the store’s inventory. She selects pieces rapid-fire, like a fashion-obsessed orchestra conductor.
“Katie-kins. Dressing room. Now!”
My stomach drops. I know that tone. It’s the same one she used when I was eleven and refused to participate in her “junior burlesque” dance recital. OMG, the feather boa incident…
I still have nightmares.
“Strip!” Aunt Deb announces as she corrals me into the dressing room. It’s less of a room and more of a small palazzo, where the mood lighting could rival a Vogue photoshoot.
“I can’t—” My protest dies in my throat as my aunt’s outfit drops to the floor. Underneath, she’s wearing a crotchless lace bodysuit in sapphire blue to match her eyes.
“Darling, how do you expect to seduce anyone if you can’t undress in front of the woman who pulled a highlighter cap out of your left nostril when you were five?”
Fair point.
Faced with the unstoppable force that is my aunt, I slowly start peeling off layers.
She gasps. “Oh, honey. Are those… are those beige?”
“They match everything!” I defend, though even I have to admit the color could best be described as sad oatmeal.
“Darling, those cotton panties are forcing your vagina into early retirement.” She circles me like a stylish shark. “A stud like Matteo wants to unwrap you like a saucy Christmas gift, not tear open a boring Amazon Prime box.”
The thought of Matteo unwrapping anything of mine sends heat surging through my body.
“It’s not your fault. Your fashion faux pas come from your mother. She struggled with perms, puffy sleeves, and pantyhose. I couldn’t save her, but you, you still have a chance. Here.” She tosses something silky at my head. “Try this.”
I hold up the dress. Not sure if this flimsy bit of material qualifies as a dress. The neckline plummets to my belly button, and are you kidding me… “It’s see-through!”
“That’s the point!”
“There should be some imagination left for an outfit.”
“This is going to be more work than I thought,” Aunt Deb says, studying me like a particularly challenging puzzle. “First clothes, then lingerie. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was sexual confidence.”
Ten minutes and several minor wardrobe malfunctions later, we’re doing our best runway walks for an audience of two. Howie’s drooling as Aunt Deb twirls and shimmers under the boutique’s strategic lighting.
“Sweet tea, you are stunning! You could make a paper bag look like haute couture,” Howie drawls.
I would sell my soul for a paper bag right now. It would provide more coverage than this so-called dress. Note to designer: Less isn’t more and fabric is not a suggestion. My hands are playing a game of tug-of-war, trying to keep everything from popping out.
And then there’s Matteo—leaning against the wall like an Italian dessert menu.
“Matteo, darling! We need your masculine perspective.”
His lips curve into that stupid, cocky smirk. “It’s… fine.” He shrugs with indifference. “But not quite sexy enough to catch a real man’s attention.”
Oh, you arrogant Italian ass. I see right through him—five minutes ago, he was Mr. “Beauty is on the Inside,” and now he’s purposely provoking me.
“No trouser tingles? Challenge accepted! Katie-kins, back in the changing area. We’re going to turn you into a model or die trying!”
“I. Hate. You,” I mouth at Matteo, narrowing my eyes.
“More skin!” Aunt Deb demands, tossing dress number two at me. “A little cleavage never hurt anyone, baby girl. Now put on this push-up bra, and try a size smaller.”
Each dress Aunt Deb chooses is progressively more scandalous. And Matteo keeps playing his part to a tee—the bored, unimpressed critic whose disinterest only fuels my auntie’s determination to reveal more Katie lady parts.
Dress number six welcomes everyone into my VIP section.
“Boring,” he drawls.
Dress eight exposes my entire left butt cheek.
“Perhaps something tighter?” he says.
Dress nine could double as dental floss. I refuse to leave the room.
And then.
Oh.
Then.
The red dress happens.
Not just red—this is make-the-devil-blush red. The sort of red that could trigger an international scandal.
The fabric doesn’t just hug my curves—it’s serenading them with love songs. The neckline is downright illegal, the back is nowhere to be found, and the slit? Well, my mom took baby pictures of me in the tub that were less revealing.
This. This is the one.
Jared won’t see me coming. One glimpse of me in this dress, and he’ll be screeching into my parents’ driveway, begging for those wedding invitations. He’ll go into Door Dash driver mode and blow through stop signs in every zip code just to hand-deliver those wedding invites himself!
“You look breathtaking,” Aunt Deb says with a genuine smile and glassy eyes. “Now let’s fix these tragic undergarments. You can’t put Target under Valentino.”
“This is way too expensive,” I say, but I can’t look away.
“Consider it my gift, Katherine.” She adjusts my neckline slightly, somehow making it even more lethal. “This trip is about your transformation, your sexual awakening! Speaking of which…” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Be a dear and tell Howie I need help with a stubborn zipper.”
And that’s my cue to leave. I step out of the fitting room. “Um, Howie? My aunt needs your… assistance.”
He almost levitates from his chair, moving quicker than any man his age ought to. His mustache twitches with excitement. He zooms past like a silver-haired bullet.
That’s when I notice Matteo’s gaze. Fixed on me. He’s enamored.
His mask of indifference has cracked, replaced by something that makes my pulse race. The way his dark eyes roam over me is so potent, so intense—it’s as if this silk dress is charged, like I’m wrapped in a thunderstorm. I saunter over to him, amused by his eyes that keep ping-ponging between my face and my neckline.
“So?” I twirl, channeling my inner goddess (who apparently has been hiding under cardigans all this time) . “Think Jared will be into this?”
“You look…” His voice comes out gravelly.
He swallows hard. Twice.
Trying to recover his cool, Matteo attempts to lean casually against what he thinks is a wall.
Spoiler alert: It’s not a wall.
Matteo’s body slams into a mannequin display.
CRASH!
The domino effect is spectacular—mannequins fall like, well, dominoes, and Matteo goes down in a heap of plastic limbs and Prada. He’s managed to get his head wedged between a mannequin’s legs while another’s arm is stuck down his pants. Each attempt to stand up only makes things worse.
“Merda!” THWACK. Another mannequin attacks.
“Cazzo!” SMASH. A display rack goes down.
“Porca miseria!” BOOM. Drowned in Gucci bags.
“Matteo?”
An American redhead in stilettos storms over, her heels as lethal as her glare. Matteo, still wrestling with his plastic companions, looks up and smacks his head on a fallen display.
“I’ve been texting you nonstop for three days!” she screeches. Matteo’s a hot mess, wrestling the plastic arm out of his pants as he stands to face her.
“Ah, Rebecca—”
“Sadie! My name is Sadie, you pig!” She turns to me, nostrils flaring. “Run while you can. He’s not even that good in bed. I didn’t even come the third time.”
Something possesses me—temporary insanity maybe? Or it could just be the sight of Italy’s hottest tour guide being attacked by department store fixtures.
“Wait,” I gasp, summoning my best over-the-top telenovela star. “He’s my boyfriend! Are you saying you slept with my boyfriend ?!”
His eyes go wide.
“Matteo, how could you?” I dramatically press the back of my hand to my forehead. “After all those promises of forever!”
SLAP.
Sadie’s palm hits Matteo’s cheek with a smack that registers on the local seismic monitors. She storms out muttering, “Sexy Italian fuckboy.”
I absolutely lose it. The laughter bubbles up uncontrollably as Matteo stands clueless, surrounded by fashion carnage and sporting a bright red handprint on his cheek.
“Oh, this is funny to you, principessa?”
“Your face!” I wheeze, doubled over. “When I said ‘boyfriend’—while you were—with the mannequins—” I can’t even finish—I’m laughing so hard.
“Enjoy laughing now.” He moves closer. “But revenge is like good wine best served… unexpectedly.” He tries to sound menacing but stumbles over a silk scarf and lands back in the pile.
The boutique now resembles a murder crime scene—legs everywhere, decapitated torsos in a pile, and heads scattered on the floor like trophies. Somewhere, Guccio Gucci is rolling in his grave.
Best. Shopping. Trip. Ever.