9. CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER NINE
MATTEO
Mornings on regular tour days are chaotic but on checkout days? Pure mayhem. I’ve been up since dawn, racing between the front desk and the breakfast room like a goddamn Ping-Pong ball. Thirty-two guests and their luggage is no joke.
If there’s one universal truth about senior citizens on tour, it’s that they will absolutely forget their medications in hotel rooms. Every. Single. Time.
“Last call. Anyone missing chargers, pills, or”—I spot a denture case on the floor and pick it up—“chewing equipment?”
“Those are mine!” Chester, the resident jokester, calls out with a laugh. “First they escape, next they apply for a work visa.”
The Hotel Miracolo isn’t exactly the Four Seasons. Hell, it’s not even a Travelodge. The floors creak, the wallpaper’s seen better decades, and the elevator makes sounds that suggest it remembers World War II personally. But the place is clean, family run, and most importantly—cheap. This is how you operate a travel company when you’re one transmission repair away from bankruptcy: hook them with the fancy Milan resort, then slowly transition them to places where rustic charm means the hot water’s more of a suggestion.
By week two, my guests are too in love with Italy to notice where they sleep. They’re living on pasta highs, chasing sunsets, and drowning in wine-soaked memories. After a decade at this job, I’ve learned no dodgy mattress can dampen the spirits of someone in a constant carb-induced coma. Plus, I get to support small business owners like myself.
Stepping into the breakfast lounge is a total time capsule—like traveling back to the sixties. Yellow walls faded with age, plastic flowers with decades-old dust, and hospital-worthy landscape photos. No one cares because everyone’s attention is on the Italian comfort food—baskets of pastries, local cheeses, sliced meats, and some American cereals that look suspiciously expired. But the coffee? Perfetto! By day seven, that’s all anyone needs.
Cazzo. I’m thinking about coffee again. And of course, that makes me think of her .
My mind basks in yesterday’s rickshaw kiss. When Katie’s lips met mine—with an intensity that matched my own—I couldn’t control myself. She tasted like a blend of espresso and mints that left me dizzy and wanting more. Her mouth was hungry for me. Desire coursed through me like a shock wave; the sensation was fucking electric! When my fingers felt the warmth of her breast, it was all I could do not to—
“MATTEO! The toaster is on fire.”
Merda! I sprint to where Agnes Dawson is performing an interpretive dance of panic around what is definitely not a fire, just charred toast with enough smoke to signal the Vatican.
I grab the blackened bread and, with a swift motion, toss it out the window. “And that, my friends, is how you send our little burnt friend off to toast heaven.” I say, making the sign of the cross with a grin. “Might I suggest cereal? It’s simple, tasty, and won’t burn the place down.”
Agnes nudges me with a playful elbow and pours herself a bowl of rainbow ring-shaped circles, basically giving her diabetes medication the middle finger.
My eyes dart around the room—no hint of Katie. She hasn’t said a word since bolting from that rickshaw. She even skipped the pesto cooking class and dinner last night. Used jet lag as an excuse despite us being six days into the trip.
Some fake boyfriend I turned out to be—I couldn’t make it one day without screwing everything up. Not a single photo was taken. One kiss and the whole charade imploded. Probably for the best. I’m simply no good at relationships, real or otherwise.
I shouldn’t have lost control, but Cristo, I wasn’t prepared for her heart-pounding, reality-bending lips! I’ve never experienced such sweet surrender. That kiss was like skydiving, realizing midair you forgot your parachute, then getting struck by lightning on the way down.
Exhilarating. Intense. Absolutely fucking unforgettable.
Must be because I was sober. Usually when I pick up tourists at bars, there’s enough alcohol involved to make even Lorenzo’s driving seem smooth. That’s gotta be why it seemed so intense. Has to be.
But the sensation of her melting against me, that little moan she made when my tongue—
“Matteo! Is this cheese supposed to be this color?”
Right. Focus. One more week. I can’t have Katie hiding in her hotel suite or flinching every time I speak. I’ve got to find her… Clear the air.
My no-tourist rule exists for a reason. One mind-blowing kiss won’t change that.
“Sì, Mrs. Thomas, that’s the normal color for aged pecorino. Think of those spots as cheese freckles.”
I’m doing my morning head count when Katie walks in. A spark of excitement ripples through me, uninvited. I swear—it’s getting out of hand.
She spots me and tries to escape. Not today, principessa.
“Running away so soon?” I call out. “I thought you would play nice after our little rickshaw… bonding.”
She freezes mid-step, turning back with an authoritative scowl that dares me to argue. “I wasn’t running. I was… strategically relocating.”
“Attenzione!” I address the group before she can ‘strategically relocate’ herself out of the building. “Once everyone’s finished with breakfast and bathroom breaks, Lorenzo’s waiting with the bus. We’re heading to Florence for Chester’s wish to see Michelangelo’s masterpiece—the original statue of David.”
I keep Chester’s second part of his wish to myself. That surprise is going to be either brilliant or a disaster. Knowing Chester, probably both.
“Join me?” I gesture to an empty table. “I promise to keep my hands where you can see them. Unless you prefer otherwise…”
She sits anyway, pointedly ignoring my smirk. “What I want is a time machine… to erase that mistake.”
“Do you mean when you accidentally attacked my mouth? Very traumatic. My lips are still feeling vulnerable and afraid.”
“I didn’t—” Her cheeks flush that dangerous shade of pink. “Will you keep it down! We both know that rickshaw was bumpy and that gravity—”
“Gravity made you grab my hair and moan into my mouth?” I lean closer.
“I was trying to strangle you,” she hisses, glancing around nervously. “And you kissed me back!”
“Self-defense. My lips were fighting off a very aggressive tourist.”
Her eyes narrow. “Don’t you have a rule about tourists in your groups?”
“Ah, yes.” My phone nearly slips from my suddenly clumsy fingers. “Which is why I made plans. To prevent any more of your sneak attacks on my face. I, uh, mapped out some photo locations in Florence. For the fake-boyfriend thing.”
I pull up screenshots of some incredible backdrops, then switch to my Notes app where I have the whole plan laid out. The schedule is über-organized (especially for me) , with detailed directions and the best times for natural light. Yeah, I should have been sleeping instead of obsessing over how to get her to smile again, but here we are.
She takes in the detailed planning. Her playful defensiveness melts away. “You made this? For me?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie. “I know you like things organized, and after yesterday…”
“Matteo.” The way she says my name makes my heart squeeze and my cock twitch all at once. She reaches for my phone, her fingers brushing mine as she studies the screen.
“No one has ever made a schedule for me before.”
The vulnerability in her voice… I’m floored. For a moment, we’re not the uptight American and the playboy tour guide.
Her finger traces delicately over my knuckles as she scrolls through the plans, and my entire body hums. The casual touch feels more intimate than any full-body contact I’ve ever had. My heart pounds against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape.
This is dangerous. This is exactly what I can’t let happen.
WHAM!
I shoot up from my chair so fast it crashes backward, making several seniors clutch their hearts.
“Right! So that’s the schedule. Very scheduled. Much planning. I should—bathroom! Because you really don’t want to use the one on the bus. Lorenzo’s driving makes aiming impossible. Not that you need to aim, obviously, because you’re a woman and you sit and— Madre di Dio , why am I still talking about pissing?”
My brain is screaming shutupshutupshutup , but my mouth keeps moving. “It’s physics really. Motion and trajectory and—and I should… go… now.”
Katie’s lip is caught between her teeth like she’s fighting hard not to laugh, but there’s something else in her eyes. Something that makes me want to sit back down and see what other sounds I can draw from that smart mouth of hers.
Instead, I back away so fast I nearly take out Mrs. Thomas and her questionable cheese.
What is wrong with me?
I’m the guy who once convinced an entire bachelorette party I was a long-lost Italian prince. Why am I babbling about bathroom logistics because Miss Organized grazed my knuckles?
Dio mio. Is this a panic attack? Am I finally cracking under the pressure of managing my travel business? There can be no other explanation. This woman’s not even my type.
I think I’m having a medical emergency.
***
After a grueling three-hour bus ride from Genoa to Florence, I’ve come to three conclusions: (1) Lorenzo needs to invest in better deodorant; (2) stealing glances at Katie Crawford nine rows back feels as tragic as a middle school crush; and (3) my brain’s officially on vacation and it’s my dick that’s running the show.
But I am determined to regain that control… starting now at the museum.
“And here we have one of the Galleria dell’Accademia di Firenze’s finest examples of Renaissance artistry.” I point to the massive painting before us.
The seniors crane their necks, eyes wide, taking in the oil canvas depicting saints draped in rich, jewel-toned robes—their faces serene in martyrdom. Our footsteps echo sharply off the polished marble floor. We pass rows of sculptures, each carved muscle frozen in time, alongside paintings so detailed they seem to breathe.
From every direction, saints stare down at us in judgment as if to say “You’re headed straight for hell, sinner.” Of course, it could just be my imagination—or guilt—since I’m struggling to keep my eyes (and hands) off another man’s woman for more than thirty seconds.
Katie stretches up on her tiptoes to read the artwork description, that sundress doing unholy things to my concentration. The woman is taking notes with surgical precision in not one, not two, but six different museum guides.
The way she dives into each page with such laser focus, as if the little details are the most important things in the world and she wants to capture them all.
“If you need a better view,” I murmur as I pass behind her, “I’d be happy to give you a lift. Though I should warn you about my wandering hands. Professional hazard.”
“I’d rather use Alice’s walker,” she whispers back with a ghost of a smile.
“Documenting your fascination with me?”
“No, I’m gathering evidence for a refund.”
“Ah, but my tours are priceless. Like that blush creeping up your neck.”
She quickly flips to a new page but not before I spot her fighting another smile.
“And here,” I announce to the group, maintaining my rhythm, “we have a masterpiece that’s pure seduction of form and light. The artist captured intimate details with breathtaking precision, using the tempera technique—pigments blended with egg yolk. Think of it as the early Renaissance’s version of Photoshop.”
Katie’s scribbling away, and I can’t stop staring. Those delicate fingers wrapped around that pen turn even the act of note-taking into something inexplicably sensual. And when she brings that pen to her lips, lost in thought? Fuck. I’ve never been more jealous of an inanimate object in my life.
But it’s not just her body that’s got me tied up in knots; it’s the way Katie Crawford organizes everything around her with such careful attention. After seven days of observing her, I’m learning her tells. Like how she taps her left foot when she’s processing information. I’ve started to recognize her problem-solving face—lips pressed together, head tilted slightly, and that little crease between her brows that’s always there because her brain never takes a break.
Her intensity is hypnotic. I’m finding it impossible not to be fascinated by her. She approaches each moment with the same unwavering determination, whether taking notes on Renaissance art or positioning her water bottle so the label faces perfectly forward. The world is one giant puzzle she’s determined to solve.
Fanculo. I need to stop obsessing over her. Stop letting myself get caught up in the secrets behind those mesmerizing green eyes. Stop imagining how her soft, commanding hands would feel on my—
“Matteo!” Chester’s voice cuts through my Katie-induced haze. “When do we get to see the giant naked guy?”
“Um… ah, yes. It’s showtime, my friend.”
Time to focus on someone else’s dick instead of my own—Chester’s wish!
I lead our group through the crowded halls of the Accademia, where Michelangelo’s iconic statue of David is surrounded by a sea of selfie sticks and fanny packs. The crowd noise swells around us—a symphony of “Wow” in twelve different languages, incessant camera clicks, and at least five different tour guides trying to out-lecture each other.
“All right, my beautiful people, gather round,” I say, gently maneuvering Chester to the front. “Before we admire David in all his marble glory, Chester has something to share about his Wish Card.”
Chester straightens his i’m with stupid T-shirt (the arrow points up at his own face) and clears his throat. “You know me—always cracking jokes, being the group clown.” The usual mischief in his eyes dims. “But today I want to tell you about my Gladys.”
I give Chester a comforting pat on his shoulder.
“This trip to Italy? It was her dream. She talked about it constantly—wanting to see the art, savor the food, experience it all.” Chester’s weathered hand presses against his heart. “She’s still with me, right here. And let me tell you, she would’ve loved every single minute of this adventure with you all.”
Katie edges closer, and I catch the shine of tears in her eyes.
“Gladys, she always laughed at my jokes,” Chester continues. “Especially the bad ones. God, she had this snort-laugh that could wake the dead, but it was the most beautiful sound on the planet. Even when I told the same terrible pun for the thousandth time, she’d giggle like it was the first time she’d heard it.”
I scan the group, and my seniors all wear the same glassy-eyed expression. Stan’s arm tightens around Rose’s shoulders. The Dawson sisters clutch hands. Even Aunt Deb has stopped making eyes at Howie long enough to dab her cheeks with a silk handkerchief.
I look at Katie again, and the longing on her face guts me. After that dickhead Jared left her, she still wants this soul-crushing kind of love. Can’t she see? She’s lucky to avoid wasting half her life before realizing love’s cruel truth. Before the inevitable, that love always fucking ends in loss. Someone is left behind—left trying to solve an impossible problem—left to have their heart bleeding out for eternity.
Which is exactly why I have a system. My life, my way, my rules—it’s all flings and early-bird exits because I’m not strong enough to survive the devastation of that kind of love. It hijacks your entire existence.
Chester surveys our group, his smile wobbling but genuine. “This trip—since I lost my Gladys—has been one of the best times of my life. Traveling with you guys, swapping stories, and getting to know your wonderful personalities has been more fun than I could’ve imagined. You’ve become more than just travel companions; you are my friends.”
“Oh Chester…” Rose lifts a tissue to her tear-streaked face, sniffing softly.
“So folks, I’ve got a little request, and I hope you’ll humor me.” Chester’s familiar grin starts to return. “I want to have a silly photoshoot right here with David. That’s right! I want each of us to take the funniest, naughtiest pictures we can with the giant ol’ naked guy. Then I plan to put them all together in a collage and print them on one of my famous wacky shirts. That way I’ll always have this memory close to my heart.”
He gestures toward the towering statue. “Because if Gladys was here, this is precisely what we’d be doing. She’d be pretending to pinch his marble behind while making me take twelve different angles. What do you say?”
“For Gladys!” The cry rings out from thirty voices, echoing off the gallery’s vaulted ceiling. Even the security guard, who definitely doesn’t speak English, raises his fist in solidarity.
What happens next can only be described as elderly anarchy.
I watch through my camera lens in embarrassment and awe as my (mostly) dignified seniors transform into a geriatric flash mob of statue harassers. Margaret Dawson moves with shocking speed for someone who complained about her hip all morning, practically parkouring into position behind David’s marble assets.
“Time for some hands-on art appreciation!” she announces, throwing down her purse and striking a pose where it looks like she’s grabbing David’s ass and motorboating his butt cheeks.
“You’re a supermodel!” Chester cheers her on as he directs the shot. “You’ve got the whole world in your hands.”
“More like the whole moon,” her sister Agnes cackles.
Mrs. Thomas adjusts her bifocals, peering at David’s anatomy. “Do you think Michelangelo…” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Polished everything himself?”
SNAP.
The photo catches her holding her glasses up to David’s marble goods as though she’s appraising diamonds at Tiffany’s.
“Our turn!” Deborah announces, yanking Howie forward. Together they form a heart shape with their hands around David’s package like they’re framing the world’s most inappropriate Valentine. “You know what they say. A hard man is good to find!”
“Good thing you found me, sweet tea. Two blue pills and I’m ready twenty-four seven,” Howie says with a wink.
Stan nods wisely from his spot next to Rose. “I remember being young—didn’t need any pills—my little soldier was always eager to serve.”
“Stanley!” Rose cuts him off with a scandalized giggle.
Chester guides Rose, our sweetest group member, into position. “Okay stand right here…”
She cups her hands beneath David’s exposed bits like she’s about to catch holy water. “Is this right, Chester? Should I offer some support? Poor thing’s been standing here so long out in the cold…”
“Perfect! Now look surprised, like you just got an eyeful of what’s under his fig leaf.”
SNAP.
Pretty sure I’m going straight to hell for that shot.
The security officer appears to be having the same crisis I am, caught between professional duty and the infectious joy of seniors treating art like a Magic Mike show. Right when I think he’s shutting us down, he purposely glances the other way.
Chester pulls a feather duster out of his bag and poses as if he’s dusting off David’s package.
SNAP.
He distributes fake mustaches to our crew, who eagerly hold them up for a group pic. Chester whips out an extra ‘stache and holds it up to David, forcing him to be part of the fun.
And then—sweet mother of tortellini—Katie steps up.
“How’s this angle?” She tilts her head so David’s marble bits appear to rest on top of her head like she’s getting teabagged and loving it.
My jaw drops as she crosses her eyes and contorts her face—sticking out her tongue to complete the goofy photo.
SNAP.
Chester wipes tears of laughter from his cheeks. “Gladys would have loved this.”
“To Gladys!” The cry goes up again, and this time even the German tour guide joins in.
David stands stoically through it all, probably wondering what he did to deserve this particular form of immortality. Though I swear that marble face looks more amused than usual.
***
The late-afternoon sun bathes Florence’s cobblestones in warm hues. The piazza bustles around us—tourists snap selfies, street performers strum lively tunes, and impatient locals weave skillfully through the crowd. Katie’s oblivious, positioning my camera for the hundredth time while I try not to stare at the light dancing in her hair and turning it into sunlit silk.
These staged fake-boyfriend photos are killing me slowly. Not even the spectacular view of the Arno River can distract me from the torture of having Katie so close yet so far. Every careful pose she arranges screams “siblings on vacation” rather than “passionate Italian romance.”
“A little to the left.”
She adjusts the tripod, that sundress riding up her thighs, and my hands flex with the need to grab her hips. To yank her back against me and show her exactly how unbrotherly my thoughts are.
“The composition has to be perfect.”
Perfetto. Like the way her ass fills out that dress. Like how her nipples would feel under my tongue. Cristo, I need to get my shit together.
Every pose has been crafted to look as platonic as humanly possible. Hand-holding that could pass a Pope’s inspection. Side hugs with enough room between us for Jesus and the seven apostles.
“How’s this?” She positions herself next to me, careful not to actually touch me. Her hand hovers over my chest as though she’s afraid I might combust.
Which, fair enough. My body temperature has been running about twenty degrees above normal since that rickshaw kiss. And if I touch her, I’m scared I won’t be able to control what unfolds.
CLICK.
I’ve snapped thousands of photos of people lost in the thrall of Italy. There’s a world of difference between posed shots and genuine moments—the ones where people forget the camera’s there.
Mamma taught me that. She never staged a shot, only captured unfiltered life. Those photos of her and Papa are reminders of that—their love, raw and real, preserved forever. They’re also a brutal reminder of what I’ve lost.
“Set the timer,” Katie orders. “Then hover your arm near my waist while we stare at the fountain.”
Damn. Her strawberry fragrance consumes me. I’m going to need a dozen cold showers to scrub her scent away, and even then, I’ll be stroking myself raw to get her out of my system.
CLICK.
She rushes to check the screen. “Will this make Jared jealous?”
His name hits me like a sucker punch, reminding me exactly what this is. And what this isn’t. I’m the stand-in. The prop. The guy teaching another man’s woman how to make him burn with desire. The thought makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
Whenever she says his name, something deep inside me snarls. Because he gets to have her—really have her—while I’m here playing pretend. My body screams at me to corner her like an animal and kiss her until she forgets that anyone else exists.
She’s not yours. She’ll never be yours.
“No.” My voice comes out harsh. “That wouldn’t make a dead man jealous.”
Frustration flashes in her green gaze. “Then show me what would.”
Dio mi aiuti . I’m about to do something monumentally stupid.
“I’ll have to actually touch you.”
Her tongue darts out, wetting those lips I’m not allowed to sample. “Okay.”
I set the camera to burst mode (I can relate) , hands trembling. “Now don’t think. Just feel.”
I act on impulse, grabbing her ass under her dress and lifting her against me. My hands grasp her firmly, and hell, she’s wearing sensible cotton panties just as I thought. The confirmation only intensifies my urge to rip them off with my teeth and taste her.
The surprised gasp she lets out shoots straight to my cock, making me throb so hard I see spots.
I lift her higher until she’s peering down at me, her hair falling around us like a golden curtain. Her arms wrap around my neck and Cristo, the look in her eyes. She wants to devour me whole. I think she’d let me devour her right back.
Her breasts press into my chest with each breath, and I’m dying to cross that line. But I can’t. I won’t . Because she belongs to him even if he doesn’t deserve her.
Katie stills in my arms, uncertain. I see the moment guilt creeps into her face. She’s loyal to a man who threw her away, and it pulls at me—makes me yearn more for her. I’m driven to understand this woman who loves so deeply and gives of herself so completely.
A tiny moan escapes her lips as my fingers dig into the soft flesh of her thighs, and what’s left of my control shatters.
“Tell me you want my mouth on yours, principessa.”
“I—” She trembles against me. “Everything in me wants… you to keep touching me.”
That breathy confession is a torpedo to my restraint.
I slide one finger along her center, feeling the dampness through the cotton. “Cazzo, you’re soaked.” My cock throbs against my zipper. “Say that’s for me.”
She doesn’t answer, but how she arches against my hand reveals her body wants this—wants me. But not her heart. It’s already spoken for.
With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I set her down. Every cell in my body protests, demanding I pull her back, fuck her right here against the fountain until Jared fades into oblivion. But I’m not the kind of asshole who takes what isn’t freely given.
“That should get his attention,” I manage to say, voice wrecked.
I turn before she’s able to see how much this is killing me. But not before I see her face is flushed, chest heaving.