8. CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHT
KATIE
Group Chat: CPK Forever
Cam: Red alert! Your mom made a Pinterest board: “Katie+Jared= Destiny.”
Petra: I already followed.
Me: Please God, tell me you’re kidding.
Cam: 467 pins and counting.
Petra: “Why Museum Men Make the Best Husbands.”
Me: Don’t worry, I have a plan.
Cam: Like mother like daughter.
“TAKE A DEEP brEATH, everyone. Can you smell the history?” Matteo’s voice carries over the harbor.
I’m currently vibrating at a frequency that could power a small Italian village. So what I smell is EVERYTHING . Fish. Sea. More fish. Coffee beans from that café six blocks away. Did someone crack open a jar of marinara back in Milan? Because I swear, I can pick up on that too.
Is it me or is Matteo moving in slow motion while the rest of us are in fast-forward?
Note to self: Maybe twelve espressos before eight a.m. was overkill. But I needed to stay alert after my all-night binder-making session. Operation Make Jared Regret Everything required fresh tabs, color-coding, and at least fourteen contingency plans for every possible fake-boyfriend scenario. Including, but not limited to, what to do if Matteo gets abducted by pirates. Hey, we’re at a port. It could happen.
My leg won’t stop bouncing. Should I be concerned?
We hit the road from Milan early this morning, and after a two-hour bus ride, we arrived at the harbor. It’s a painting come to life (minus the god-awful fish stench) with its pastel buildings and vibrant-colored fishing boats bobbing up and down. The sound of distant ship horns fills the air while seagulls circle overhead, eyeing their next gelato target.
“Today I will show you my favorite places in Genoa.” His accent wraps around each word, and my ears soak in every syllable. “Starting with this port, which was once the maritime capital of the world for over seven hundred years until 1797. Take in the salty sea air.”
The stinky sea air can kindly go screw itself. I didn’t squeeze into my most photographable sundress to smell like the dumpster behind Red Lobster.
“Genoa was once the richest city on earth,” he continues, as I count seagulls at hyperspeed. Seventeen. No, eighteen. That one just split into two. Wait. “And a little locals trivia… Genoa is also referred to as Genova.”
“You mean Genovia, like from The Princess Diaries ?“ I snort-laugh, amused at myself.
Crickets. Dead silence. Even the seagulls stop mid-swoop to judge me.
Clearly these people do not know the rom-com genius of Garry Marshall. I guess they don’t share my dream of being transformed from an awkward teenager into a princess overnight.
I clutch my binder, taking comfort in my brilliant, laminated plan for success. It’s the product of last night’s caffeine-fueled mania—a step-by-step guide to making my ex jealous. Inside? Over nineteen pages of inspirational couple poses, complete with notes that definitely don’t feature Matteo’s perfect jawline.
My eyes dart to Matteo as if they have a mind of their own. My heart races even faster, which should not be possible given the pure caffeine coursing through my veins. Sweet espresso beans. He’s pretty. Like, illegally pretty. I should add a tab about that.
WHERE'S MY BINDER? Oh right, I’m holding it. Ha!
“Today we will visit palazzi, which you would call palaces,” he says, and my mutinous mind replays our photoshoot last night. Backlit by cathedral lights, Matteo’s dark eyes burned into me as he commanded my body and thoughts. And then the velvet in his voice when he described how he’d worship every inch of me. Yes, more please.
As if he can hear me thinking, Matteo catches my eye and winks. Good Lord, his chest in that fitted navy T-shirt could make the devil himself jealous. My entire body flames up like a furnace. I’ve apparently developed a serious weakness for Italian-accented dirty talk.
I think I might spontaneously combust.
Or maybe that’s the caffeine.
EVERYTHING IS REALLY INTENSE RIGHT NOW.
“We will end the day with Barb’s Wish Card—taking an authentic Italian cooking class and making delicious pesto. And guess where that was invented? Here, in beautiful Genoa!”
Barb reminisces about the Italian restaurant she owned in the Bronx while I flip through my agenda at warp speed. I’m no longer paying attention because I’m now pondering how to casually measure Matteo’s biceps with my hands in the photos without looking like it.
“Speaking of Italian cuisine,” Aunt Deb purrs, “we should practice the other exciting ways you can use olive oil. I did a retreat with Hercules, this massage instructor in Greece…”
Oh God, no. My last functioning brain cell begins playing Aunt Deb’s Greatest Hits of TMI, featuring her Greek trainer’s equipment (which apparently required its own zip code) and creative applications of extra virgin olive oil to places that ensured nothing remained virgin.
Nope. Abort that thought.
“How long will the class take?” My words tumble out fast and jittery. A muscle under my left eye keeps jumping like it’s trying to escape my face.
“Relax and enjoy the adventure, principessa.”
I’m about to tell him where he can shove his “relax and enjoy” when—
WHOOSH!
A kamikaze seagull dive-bombs out of the sky, its beady eyes locked on target—my face.
I shriek and leap straight into Matteo’s arms; my binder turns into a rectangular frisbee and flies through the air. He catches me with ease, and now all I’m focusing on is how his muscles bunch beneath my fingers. Why do our bodies fit together so perfectly?
The seagull circles back, eyeing my precious binder where it landed. Without setting me down—his fingers tightening possessively on my hips—Matteo strides toward it like some kind of avenging knight in fitted trousers. The fact that he’s rescuing organizational supplies instead of slaying dragons is the hottest thing ever.
Matteo scoops up my binder one-handed, the other arm still keeping me firmly pressed against him. The seniors burst into applause as if he just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl.
“That’s three times I’ve saved your binder. You owe me.” His breath fans against my ear, sending lightning down my spine.
“Not like how you’re thinking, I don’t.” But my body betrays me, pulsing everywhere we touch. Or that could be the caffeine. Everything is very warm and very fast and does anyone else hear colors?
I reluctantly peel myself off his broad frame, and the moment his touch is gone, I feel… empty. I’m beginning to worry this fake relationship will be my undoing. Death by sexual frustration and too many espressos.
Here lies Katie Crawford, taken too soon by an Italian tour guide’s ripped forearms and filthy mouth. May she rest in organized peace.
I should probably make a tab for that.
Right after I figure out why my tongue tastes like a sparkler exploded in my mouth.
***
TWENTY MINUTES AGO, MY caffeine crash knocked me flat, leaving me with a heap of regret and a skull-splitting headache. On the bright side, I can finally form sentences and I stopped trying to translate every street sound out loud.
I hang back at the rear of our group, plotting out today’s photo ops, while up ahead, our lively crew of seniors huddles around a fleet of rickshaws.
Matteo announces, “Today we will travel on three wheels and experience endless adventure as we see all the highlights of Genoa.”
“Take my queen to her palace!” Howie says.
Howie helps my aunt into a rickshaw, and she’s milking every second. She never misses a chance to be overdramatic, working those rickshaw steps like they’re the Met Gala stairs. Damn, Aunt Deb! You’re wearing enough jewelry to sink a cruise ship.
Hold up. Is that another new diamond necklace?
I’m totally scrutinizing these death traps on wheels. The bikes can’t be more than one pothole away from falling apart, and they each have a rustic cagelike canopy with a seat attached to the back. Cute, maybe. Safe, not a chance.
Then Matteo helps Rose into her rickshaw. There’s a tenderness in the way he gently holds her arm, crouching slightly to meet her gaze. It feels unhurried and genuine, as if she was his own grandmother.
Next thing I know, he’s cleared the crowd, and it’s just the two of us.
“Cara mia, mettiamoci comodi.” His voice slides over me like warm mozzarella.
“What’s that mean?”
“My dear, let’s get cozy.”
“Oh no,” I say, ignoring his sinfully dark eyes. “That’s not how this fake relationship is going to go. Photos only. That’s the deal.”
He doesn’t reply, just hits me with that lethal half smile before effortlessly hopping into the rickshaw. I’m left to awkwardly climb in after him. I’m halfway inside when I feel my sundress riding up my thighs and then—
BAM! Gravity lurches the rickshaw, and I’m suddenly pressed up against his body, my face buried in his chest. I rocket upright so fast my spine cracks in three places.
These ancient cobblestone streets are determined to torture me. Every bounce sets my breasts jiggling. At this rate, a wardrobe malfunction is not a matter of if, but when. I cross my arms over my chest, praying he can’t see how my nipples have hardened beneath the thin fabric.
Palazzo after palazzo blur past like a candy-colored fantasy, with mint-green shutters and sunflower-yellow walls. Unfortunately, I can’t appreciate any of it because I am too focused on avoiding becoming a human pancake on the pavement from this seat belt-less rickshaw.
WHAM! Another bump. My binder flips open on my lap to reveal—please God no—my comprehensive guide to fake boyfriend touching zones, complete with anatomical diagrams.
“Approved physical contact zones, eh?” Matteo peers at the image, his breath tickling my ear. “Is this a chart of where I’m supposed to put my hands?”
I snap it shut. “It’s a systematic approach to fake-relationship photography.”
His arm drapes behind me. “What does your diagram say about this?”
SLAM! The rickshaw hits the Grand Canyon of potholes, and suddenly I’m sprawled halfway into his lap. Lord, even through his pants I can feel how hard he is. His muscles, I mean. His muscles.
“This is not in the chart,” I manage to squeak out.
He firmly places his hand on my hip, his thumb tracing small circles, and my skin ignites beneath my sundress. “But what if I need to keep you steady?”
“I keep myself satisfied… Steady! Gah, you know what I’m saying!”
My voice reveals how flustered I am, which is embarrassing since I’m the queen of keeping things under control. Everything except my heart rate thanks to this infuriating Italian.
“Of course you do.” His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Romance doesn’t come with a planner, even if it’s a fake one.”
“Hate to break it to you, but I will not take organizational tips from someone who blows up his schedule every day.”
I slide off his lap, reclaiming my side of the seat, but my skin still tingles. His scent—smooth vanilla and smoky leather—clings to me, rich and intoxicating. I frantically pull up Instagram on my phone.
Snap out of it, Katie. You are supposed to be using him to mess with Jared’s head, not to start swooning over his… everything.
“I’ve strategically planned our photo opportunities for maximum impact. We have three important posts today. First, a casual shot at a fountain—it has to look spontaneous to introduce us as a couple. Then, during the cooking class, I’m thinking flour on the nose, maybe a playful food-fight moment? And finally, at sunset, you’ll gaze at me and pretend I’m the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. I’ve analyzed the optimal angles—”
“Put the phone down.” Matteo’s warm hand covers my screen, his fingers dwarfing mine. “Katie, enjoy the beauty around you. I promise we’ll get your photos later. I know the perfect spot.”
“But my timeline—”
“Trust me.” His voice softens with genuine enthusiasm. “Genoa isn’t like Rome with its tourist traps and endless lines. Here you can feel the real Italy. You must not miss it. See this building in front of us? That is the Palazzo San Giorgio. Observe the beautiful Renaissance painting of Saint George slaying a dragon.”
The fresco stretches across the palazzo’s facade, colors impossibly vivid against the weathered stone. A dragon writhes beneath Saint George’s spear, scales glinting like emeralds in the afternoon sun. It’s breathtaking—captivating—in a way my phone camera could never capture. Still…
“A dragon?” I arch an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Legend says the dragon terrorized the city,” Matteo explains with gusto. “Saint George slayed it on this very ground. Some say the dragon’s bones were found in a cave not far from here.”
“Let me guess—the bones mysteriously disappeared?”
“Mock all you want, but the legend lives on.” His eyes dance with amusement. “Oh, and Marco Polo was imprisoned there.”
“The explorer or the pool game?”
“Both. Tragic water sports accident. Very sad.”
I snicker, then something flutters deep in my chest, like a trapped bird frantically beating its wings against my ribs. I watch Matteo’s face come alive. The smooth-talking tour guide act disappears when he speaks about the city’s treasures. His brown eyes spark with passion, which is doing dangerous things to my insides.
The realization slams into me like a cold shower: my body has never reacted to Jared this way. Six years of diligently nurturing our romance, not once did I experience this kind of electric spark.
How can Matteo light me up with only a look or accidental touch?
The rickshaw bounces again, and I grip the seat tighter. I try to admire the buildings around us, but I’m fixated on him—how his accent gets thicker when he’s excited—how obscenely attractive he looks in that navy fitted shirt—how his hands would feel on my—
No. Control yourself. Focus on the mission!
Get photos. Make Jared jealous. Win him back.
Don’t get sucked into Matteo’s infectious joy. Ignore how his whole face transforms when he shares stories of his beloved Italy. Do not, I repeat do not, let it stir something inside you.
Matteo’s voice trails off mid-sentence about some medieval scandal. Oh shit. He’s caught me staring. His eyes become darkened storm clouds, but he clears his throat quickly. “The Palazzo Lomellino. Most tours skip it, but inside…” My view is blocked, but I see him shift and point to a building on his side. “There are secret gardens that feel frozen in time. Like stepping into another century.”
Before I can veto this monumentally bad idea, I lean across him to get a glimpse of the palazzo—my hand pressing on his thigh. The building stands tall and proud like a wedding cake—all pastel blue and cream with carvings so intricate they must have been crafted by Renaissance angels. Cherubs and flowers dance across the facade, their delicate designs weaving a love letter to a bygone era.
I tilt my head back, following the ornate stonework up to where it meets the sky, marveling at how the palazzo’s blue perfectly matches the heavens. The rickshaw keeps moving forward, and I’m not ready to lose sight of this architectural marvel. I turn my head to keep watching. I turn even farther, and—
Oh.
Oh.
My lips are a breath away from Matteo’s, and every nerve ending in my body short-circuits at once. I’m stretched across him, my palm now firmly gripping his thigh. The reality of our position hits me. His eyes drop to my mouth—the lust in them could trigger a nuclear meltdown.
One tiny movement and we would—
I surge forward, crashing my mouth into his. His lips are impossibly soft, parting instantly for me. My head is a whirlwind. I push closer, hungry for more, craving more. He tastes like espresso and trouble and everything I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.
The first slide of his tongue against mine makes me gasp.
Matteo’s rough exhale vibrates against my lips as he deepens the kiss. Some primal, unknown part of me takes over. My tongue strokes against his, demanding, exploring. The soft groan he makes ignites me, urging me on.
His tongue plunges hot and deep into my mouth, scraping against my teeth, and my brain completely whites out. No thoughts of Jared, no plans, no timelines. Just the overwhelming sensation of Matteo’s mouth moving against mine.
His hand grips the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. The slight tug sends a cascade of fireworks racing through me. I arch into him, begging for more. He responds by tilting my head and nipping at my bottom lip before beginning his tongue exploration all over again.
I have to get closer. Must feel more of him. My body moves on pure instinct, breasts pressing against his solid chest. The deep moan that rumbles through him makes me throb in places that I didn’t know existed.
I want—no, need—to hear that sound again.
My fingers dive into his thick hair, gripping the strands while his mouth devours mine. I’ve never been this reckless, this out of control. This isn’t me—I’m the girl who plans out her underwear choices a week in advance. The girl with a label-maker collection. I don’t do reckless. I leave for the airport four hours early just to be safe. I don’t wing it. I staple it, highlight it, and file it away.
His mouth finds a sensitive spot on my neck and he sucks hard. This embarrassing sound escapes me—half whimper, half plea. Something wild flashes in his eyes, turning them nearly black. His hand slides between us, cupping my breast through my sundress while his lips move to my ear. His finger dips beneath the fabric, rough and hot against my bare skin, and just as he brushes my hardened nipple—
We.
Have.
Stopped.
Moving.
Our rickshaw driver has paused mid-pedal and is shamelessly watching us through the rearview mirror, clearly enjoying the show.
I scramble backward so fast I nearly topple onto the street. Heat floods my face as I take in Matteo’s thoroughly ravished appearance—hair wild from my fingers, lips pink and swollen, chest heaving with each breath. The intensity of his expression makes my insides clench all over again.
“Thank you for getting that eyelash out of my eye!” The words come out strangled and high-pitched. Before he can respond, I launch myself out of the still-stationary rickshaw, my legs shaking beneath me.
Shitshitshit.
What have I done? My lips are tender from his stubble, tingling with the ghost of his kiss. My skin burns everywhere he’s touched, like he’s branded me. I’m dizzy, and there’s an ache between my thighs that has absolutely nothing to do with the rickshaw’s bumpy ride.
This is meant to be a fake relationship. Not… whatever that just was.
I cannot want this. Cannot want him. He’s merely a pawn in my master plan—a way to make Jared realize what he’s lost. He’s not supposed to make me feel things. Not supposed to kiss me like he’s been craving it for eternity. Not supposed to have me forget why I flew all the way to Italy.
One kiss. One unplanned, impulsive, breath-stealing kiss and my world has shattered like a dropped wine glass.