10. CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER TEN
KATIE
GROUP CHAT: CPK FOREVER
Petra: Those fountain photos are fire.
Petra: If you’re not letting Tour Guide Hottie rearrange your organs, I’m disowning you.
Cam: The way he’s looking at you!
Cam: Even my boss’s staged “romance” shots for YouTube aren’t that hot.
Me: It’s not like that! He’s just helping with Operation Win Back Jared.
Petra: Quick poll: Who’d give better orgasms?
Me: I’m instituting a new rule about inappropriate polls in group chats.
Petra: The fact you haven’t immediately defended Jared’s honor tells me everything.
Cam: GET IT GIRL!
Me: I’m muting this chat.
Cam: No you’re not. You love us.
Petra: Trust me—one night with an Italian and you’ll forget Jared ever existed.
Petra: Your vagina will thank you later… Possibly in multiple languages.
DEAR GOD, I'M GOING to die.
Not in the good way, not because of the dreamy Tuscan landscape rolling past my greasy window. And not due to the madness of this rickety tour bus. And not even because of the shouting senior citizens who forgot their hearing aids.
I’m going to die because I’m trapped in a bus with a man who’s intimately familiar with my eagerness-soaked panties, but is now acting like I’m invisible.
I won’t let my thoughts wander there. Not a chance. I refuse to relive how his fingers felt outlining my entrance over my underwear, unveiling just how much my hoo-ha was on board. How my nipples tightened, crushed against his chest while every single nerve ending in my body screamed, Yes. Please. More. NOW!
I smooth my floral dress over my thighs for the twentieth time, not thinking about how I skipped over my sensible walking slacks this morning. The ones I’d already laid out. The ones that were the obvious choice for a day of wine tasting and touring vineyards.
But no. Here I sit in this breezy little sundress that keeps sliding up my thighs every time the bus hits a bump. I tell myself it’s for the Instagram aesthetic. Just innocent photo ops. Not because I’m hoping for a repeat of yesterday. The ache between my thighs grows more intense, and electricity zips through my body as I recall how I was climbing for release in his arms. I swear a few more strokes of his finger and I would have had an orgasm. Which is crazy. Right?
I can’t let myself climax for another man… and in public no less? I can’t do that. It’s not me.
Not that Jared ever… well. Why can’t I recall a single time when Jared made me climax.
Another pothole sends my water bottle soaring. It lands, rolls forward, and stops directly at Matteo’s feet. Without looking back, he picks it up and passes it to Mrs. Thomas. Who then returns it to me like I’m carrying the plague.
The bus sputters around another curve, and I start a new list.
Reasons I Need to Stop Fantasizing About Matteo Monti:
1. His touch turns my brain into sparkly mush.
2. His accent that does illegal things to my ovaries.
3. His smile makes me forget how to breathe (this is very impractical) .
4. That growly Italian thing he does makes me forget my own name.
5. The way he kisses me like he wants to devour me whole.
6. His stupid rule has made it very clear that I’m off-limits.
7. His chaos must be contagious because I can’t think straight.
8. I’m supposed to be winning back Jared.
I underline that last one three times, just as Lorenzo slams on the brakes, sending my pen skittering under the seat. When I reach for it, I catch Matteo watching me in the overhead mirror.
The look in his eyes makes me forget every single item on my list.
Jared. Think about Jared.
I drag my attention back to my plan, my mission to make my ex realize what he’s missing. I refresh my Instagram feed again—hopeless. Either Jared hasn’t seen these photos of me draped over six feet of pure Italian temptation, or worse… he has and doesn’t give a damn.
The bus coughs and hacks as we climb the hill, and I’m totally hypnotized by the way Matteo’s forearms flex while he holds on to the overhead bar.
“These hills”—Matteo’s voice carries through the speakers—“were carved by centuries of— LORENZO! Both hands on the wheel!”
Our driver reluctantly abandons his quest for the elusive diamond in his nose, and the bus swerves slightly.
HOOOOOONK!
Like everyone else on the bus, I twist around in my seat to look out the back window. A sleek red Ferrari is practically dry humping our exhaust pipe, close enough that I can see the driver’s styled hair and red Gucci track suit. Really dude? Who coordinates their clothes with their car? A douchebag, that’s who.
It seems our bus’s turtle-like pace is a personal affront to Mr. Midlife Crisis in his red Ferrari, because he’s pounding on his horn like a serial masturbator. After years of LA traffic, this barely registers on my road-rage radar, but our bus full of senior citizens are not having it.
“The nerve of some people!” Margaret Dawson shouts like he can hear her.
The hill steepens, the hairpin turn mocks us from up ahead, looking more treacherous by the second. Our ancient bus wheezes with an ungodly sound… like a chain-smoking grandfather at mile twenty-six of a marathon.
Lorenzo rolls down his window, flips him the laziest bird I’ve ever seen, and motions the Ferrari to pass. The instant the red car starts to pull out— Oh God . A yellow Fiat comes screaming around the corner ahead.
The Ferrari swerves back behind us—just in time—his enraged horn blaring. Our bus belts out a dying groan, really selling the drama, before the engine calls it quits.
For a suspended moment, we’re frozen in time. Then gravity remembers it has one job.
We start rolling backward.
“LORENZO! Do something!”
Matteo’s shout is barely heard as the screams of the elderly tourists fill the bus. We’re rolling back down the hill and picking up speed.
Lorenzo just grunts and takes his hands completely off the wheel in the most dramatic “not my problem” gesture I’ve ever witnessed.
“Porca miseria!” Matteo lunges for the emergency brake, his muscles straining against his shirt as he yanks it with all his strength. The metal screams in protest.
SCREECH!
The bus jerks to a stop so hard that my belongings—purse, water bottle, binder—each pick a different direction to launch in and I’m suddenly airborne. I catch a glimpse of Matteo’s panicked face before I tumble into the aisle, my sundress giving everyone a show.
When the dust settles, I’m flat on my back, staring at the ceiling as a sharp pain radiates through my chest, each heartbeat pounding like a sledgehammer. My whole body is trembling with leftover adrenaline.
HONK! HONK!
I hear the Ferrari zoom past without even slowing down. If I wasn’t currently sprawled on this sticky bus floor contemplating my mortality, I’d be more offended by the lack of human decency.
“Everyone okay?” Matteo calls out, doing a quick head count.
A chorus of groans answers him as my fellow passengers untangle themselves from various positions. Somehow, our geriatric crew seems completely unfazed by our near-death experience. They’re already cracking jokes like, “We’ve got more fun to have” and “Death will have to wait.”
“Everyone out!” Matteo orders as smoke starts billowing from under the hood. “Into the field, per favore.”
We step out onto a breathtaking Tuscan hillside, one that would make any Instagram influencer weep with jealousy. The grass tickles my legs as I pick my way through wildflowers, trying not to dwell on the fact that bugs are likely conspiring to nibble on my bare thighs.
“Emergency yoga time!” Aunt Deb announces, whipping off her designer sandals. “Nothing releases tension like stretching. Especially…” She waggles her eyebrows at Howie. “…the kind of stretching that requires a partner.”
“Deb darlin’, my new hip is ready whenever you are,” Howie drawls.
I gag a little in my mouth.
Meanwhile, Matteo and Lorenzo are having the world’s most fascinating nonverbal conversation by the smoking bus. Lorenzo responds entirely in facial expressions that range from “mildly constipated” to “deeply constipated.”
“How bad?” Matteo asks.
Lorenzo grunts. “L’autobus è…” Shoulder shrug.
Behind me, Aunt Deb’s voice carries across the field. “Now everyone, assume the position of the Lustful Leopard. Howie, demonstrate with me!”
Oh God.
Chester’s voice rises from somewhere in the grass. “Is this position supposed to make my artificial knee sound like a popcorn machine?”
“Actually, that was my back.” Stan adds with a chuckle.
I continue to try to focus on decoding the Matteo-Lorenzo show, but it’s like watching a foreign film without subtitles. From what I can gather from their cryptic exchange, we’re definitely stranded, and this bus is ready for its last rites.
Lorenzo makes a sound like a deflating tire and throws his hands up in what I’m learning is his signature move.
“Can I help?” I step forward. “I’m an event coordinator. Crisis management is literally what I do for a living.”
Matteo’s immediate “No” feels like a slap, but I press on, trying not to notice how his sweat-dampened shirt clings to his chest.
How big his hands are as they run through his hair.
How sexy he looks with that frustrated, furrowed brow.
Or how the sweat glistening down his neck makes my nipples stand at attention.
“Please?” I fidget with my phone. “I like feeling useful. And right now I’m just standing here watching Aunt Deb teach what she claims is yoga but looks suspiciously like moves from her exotic dancing days.”
Matteo studies me for a moment. “Event coordinator?” His lips quirk up. “Like retirement parties and baby showers?”
“Try celebrity product launches and multimillion-dollar weddings.” I lift my chin. “Last month I coordinated a Sweet Sixteen that had more security than the president.”
“That actually explains so much about you.”
“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”
He chuckles, and then it turns into a full-blown laugh—low and rich and wonderful—a tidal wave to my soul. “It’s a compliment for sure, principessa. You intrigue me. Your attention to detail is…” He trails off, his gaze dropping to my mouth before he looks away.
I’m processing the sudden shift in his expression, when the obnoxious roar of a massive red Italy Express bus barrels past, leaving a trail of exhaust and smugness in its wake. It makes its intentions clear of not helping by speeding up a little. Matteo’s jaw tightens. And then… he explodes.
“ Cazzo! Che cavolo fanno, quei pezzi di merda arroganti!” The Italian flows like an angry symphony, and I pretty much know what he’s saying by how he’s saying it. Especially that enraged middle finger.
If I thought he was stressed before, the tension radiating off him now could fuel a nuclear reactor.
A yelp from behind us is followed by “Don’t worry! My new knee pops right back into place.”
Matteo glances over my shoulder and winces. “Dio mio.”
“Let me help,” I say again.
“We’re headed to my friend Enrico’s winery, but after…” He glances at the smoking bus. “We won’t make it to tonight’s destination. I need to think about the Wish Cards, find a town with the right mechanic…”
I watch, fascinated, as he mentally sorts through options. His mind is racing, calculating, and something warm unfurls in my chest as I realize something. He’s got every single wish memorized. This isn’t just a job—he genuinely cares about making these seniors’ dreams come true.
“Lorenzo,” he says suddenly. “La Spezia?”
The old man performs what I’m starting to recognize as his yes shrug.
“La Spezia,” Matteo tells me. “Eighteen rooms. Double beds. I’ll handle the negotiating once you find somewhere.”
“I can negotiate.”
Matteo’s voice drops low. “But can you do it in Italian?”
“I’m full of surprises.” The words come out flirtier than intended.
“That I don’t doubt,” he says with a wink. “It doesn’t need to be perfect, principessa. Just functional.”
His casual dismissal of perfection hits differently than when others say it. There’s no judgment in his voice, no expectations of flawlessness. Just… space to be myself.
But I don’t have time to analyze why his acceptance makes my chest feel tight. We’ve got a crisis to handle.
After forty-five minutes of rapid-fire phone calls, my event-planner skills pay off. I find a hotel in La Spezia that not only has enough rooms for our entire crew but also working bathrooms (crucial) , complimentary breakfast (score) , and only two blocks away from the mechanic Matteo found (lifesaving) . My fingers are still smoking from how fast I’ve been typing notes and room configurations into my phone.
The rush of solving an impossible problem? Better than sex.
Well, better than any sex I’ve ever had.
The clip-clop of hooves pulls me from my list-making trance. Two enormous horse-drawn carriages appear over the crest of the hill, their wooden wheels crunching a rhythm against the gravel road. They look like they’ve rolled straight out of a fairy tale, all gleaming cherrywood and polished brass. The back sections are fitted with curved benches upholstered in leather, arranged in tiers so everyone can see.
“Matteo, you stubborn cretino!”
A man who could be a Roman statue come to life hops down from the lead carriage. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with sun-kissed olive skin. His simple black shirt is rolled up at the sleeves, overalls splattered with dirt, and hands calloused from hard work. And his smile? It could outshine the Tuscan sun.
“Enrico, mio fratello!”
They collide in one of those aggressively affectionate man-hugs that involves way too much back-slapping. Enrico says something in rapid-fire Italian that has Matteo laughing with his whole body. I’ve never seen him like this—guard completely down, no smooth tour guide persona in sight.
“Your luck, she finally run dry, eh?” Enrico says, gesturing at our smoking bus. “First transmission go boom, now this?”
Something dark crosses Matteo’s face—there and gone like a camera flash. “Not yet, amico. But days like this…” He shrugs, leaving the sentence hanging like the smoke still curling from our bus’s hood.
“Amore. Wait!” Enrico suddenly shouts, his voice jumping two octaves. “You wait for help!”
A strikingly gorgeous woman, who could easily be mistaken for an Italian movie star, carefully steps down from the second carriage. One hand supports her very pregnant belly while the other grips the rail. She’s petite but fierce with honey-gold skin and waves of dark hair cascading past her shoulders. Her dress stretches over her bump, and she looks more elegant than I do on my best day.
“Enrico,” she says in accented English, “if you treat me like fragile bambina one more time—”
“Caterina.” Matteo smoothly steps in to help. “Still haven’t told him the bambino is mine?”
She lands a playful smack on his arm before kissing his cheek. “Keep joking, I tell him is true. Then you deal with crazy husband, sì?”
“The hormones!” Enrico’s eyes go comically wide as he gestures behind his wife’s back. “They make her…” He mimes what appears to be a brain explosion. “Is no joke.”
“Like sleeping with grapes, amore?” Caterina’s sweet smile promises murder. “That also no joke.”
“Everyone”—Matteo’s voice carries across the field—“meet Enrico and Caterina, owners of the best vineyard in all of Tuscany, La Dolce Vite—The Sweet Life. They’re going to rescue us with some proper Italian hospitality.”
“Ah!” Enrico’s eyes land on me with delighted interest. “This must be your fidanzata, sì?”
Caterina translates with a knowing smile: “He asks if you are Matteo’s girlfriend? If our wild boy has at last been tamed?”
“No!” Matteo and I yelp simultaneously.
“We’re not—” I stammer.
“She’s just a—” Matteo starts.
“Tourist!” I blurt.
“Temporary!” he adds.
“Purely professional.”
“Completely platonic.”
“Ah yes,” Caterina’s eyes dance with amusement. “This is why you both turn red like pomodoro ? Because is so… how you say… platonic?”
Can I just vanish into this field and let the bugs eat me alive? Anything to avoid this humiliation.
Matteo rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Katie, I hate to ask, but could you work your event-planning magic with the group? I need to wait for the tow truck and then handle the hotel check-in. I promise we’ll get your photos later—the vineyard at sunset is bellissimo.”
The fact that he remembers about my pictures—that he’s thinking about me when he’s clearly stressed about fifty other things catches me off guard.
“Of course.” I try to ignore how my stomach drops at the thought of him leaving. “Any special instructions?”
He rattles them off: “Mrs. Thomas needs hourly glucose check reminders. The Dawson sisters turn into wine vampires after two glasses. Chester’s got a new knee—watch the stairs. And Stan needs bathroom breaks hourly but won’t ask—Rose will signal by adjusting her hat.”
A warm sensation flutters through me as I realize how well he knows them all. Every quirk, every need. I was so wrong about him. Behind that flirty facade and those ridiculous pickup lines beats the heart of someone who knows every single one of his tourists like family.
“Wait—” He pulls out his phone just as Enrico starts herding seniors into the carriages. “We should exchange numbers. For emergencies.”
“Only emergencies?” I raise an eyebrow and offer him my phone.
He types. “Unless you can’t resist texting me about how devastatingly handsome I am.” That deadly smirk returns. “How much you miss my accent. My charm. My—”
“Your modesty?” I grab my phone back, glancing at the screen. “Really? You put your contact name as Italian Stallion with an eggplant emoji?”
“Just stating facts, bella.”
The restless horses stamp impatiently. I climb into the carriage, suddenly very aware of Matteo’s eyes on me. I glance back just once to see him staring, looking somehow both lost and determined. He grows smaller as the carriages pull away, standing next to our sad, smoking bus like some kind of gorgeous Italian action hero.
My phone buzzes.
Italian Stallion: I saw the single tear in your eye. It’s okay to miss me.
I won’t admit to him, but I already do.
***
The Tuscan sun beats down on my head as I try (and fail) not to check my phone for the eighty-seventh time in the past hour. Not that anyone’s counting. Except me. Because apparently I count everything now, including the minutes since Matteo disappeared with our smoking bus.
“Observe,” Enrico commands, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle on the Sangiovese grapes. “In two months, these will become pure Italian magic. Like my bambino, and my wife, they cannot be rushed.” He pauses, then smirks. “Our Famiglia Passione Rosso, it isn’t just wine. It’s legacy in a bottle. And legacy takes time.”
Workers move through the vineyard like a well-choreographed dance, checking leaves and adjusting vines. The late-June heat shimmers off the hills, making everything look like a mirage . This can’t be real.
“See how we trim?” Enrico demonstrates with careful precision. “Make room for air, for sun. Like relationship—need space to grow, sì?” He chuckles at his own metaphor.
I hang back from the group, pretending to take notes but actually watching the fascinating mix of people working the vines. Some speak rapid-fire Italian, others definitely sound American, and I’m pretty sure that guy over there just said crikey .
“You like?” Caterina appears beside me, both hands supporting her very pregnant belly. “The vineyard, she is beautiful, no?”
“Yes, very. The workers—they’re from everywhere?”
“Ah, sì! Our volunteers.” She waves at a group of twentysomethings hauling equipment. “They stay in dormitory, work the farm, learn real Italy. Not tourist Italy.”
I watch the workers laugh together, their joy as obvious as their suntanned skin and dirt-stained clothes. “So they just… stay here? Work here?”
“One month, three months. We give them home, food, family. They learn Italian, travel on days off.” She pats her belly. “Some never leave. Like me.”
“I have a friend who did that,” I say, thinking of Petra’s fearless journey. “She traveled all around Europe, staying in places like this, trading work for room and board.” My throat tightens with a mix of admiration and envy. “She’s the brave one. I could never take on that kind of adventure.”
“Ah, many young people find themselves here.” Caterina settles onto a wooden bench, fanning herself. “Some running from something, some running to something. All find what they need.”
I snap a quick photo of the sun-drenched vines and send it to Petra.
Me: Hey, I’m at one of those volunteer places you told me about.
Petra: Well, well, well… looking to ditch your binders and run away like I did? I know a great tattoo artist in Florence.
Me: No! Just… realizing how brave you were to actually do it. To leave everything behind.
Petra: Stop. You’re making me feel things. I’m trying to look badass in my new corporate hell.
Petra: Wait, which vineyard did you stumble into? Need to make sure you’re getting properly corrupted.
Me: La Dolce Vite.
Petra: FUCK ME SIDEWAYS. YOU’RE AT ENRICO’S?!!
Me: for reals?
Petra: I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU’RE MESSING WITH ME, CRAWFORD. THAT’S MY FUCKING ITALIAN FAMILY.
Me: You’re kidding.
Petra: Tell Caterina her favorite delinquent says hi. Oh, and ask Enrico about the time he tried to make “drunk chicken racing” a thing.
Me: You’re not kidding?
Petra: See if he still smells like burnt feathers.
I pull up a photo of Petra and show it to Caterina. “Do you know—”
“Petra!” Caterina claps her hands together. “Our beautiful wild heart! So strong, so sad when she come to us. But this place?” She gestures to the endless vines. “It heal broken hearts.”
I’m imagining Petra as I watch the volunteers, their faces alive with laughter. They seem so unburdened, so liberated. That kind of freedom terrifies me. My mind drifts to Petra’s stories when she dropped out of college and chose the unknown path. I’d judged her for running away, but now I understand—she wasn’t running from something.
She was running toward herself.
Meanwhile, what was I doing? Creating a PowerPoint on how Jared and I could align our fiber intake—charting our future children’s college careers—designing a blueprint for the perfect life, as if list-making and ticking off boxes earned me the right to be loved.
I’ve invested six years into becoming Perfect Katie. The girlfriend who never made waves, the fiancée who knew what Jared needed before he did, the future wife who planned for every contingency.
And he still left.
Out here, where the vines grow wild and the air tastes like possibility, there are no schedules. No plans. No need to control every heartbeat, every breath, every moment. Just… living.
The opposite of who I’ve been.
The realization steals my breath. What if this whole Operation Win Back Jared thing isn’t about him at all? What if it’s about the one person I’ve been afraid to face?
Me.
Oh fuck. I’m going to need more wine.
My phone buzzes, and Matteo’s name lights up my screen.
Italian Stallion: Hotel secured. Missing your organizational skills. And your face.
Italian Stallion: Definitely your face.
Pure need crashes through me, hot and demanding. Seeing his words makes me throb, remembering how his fingers felt against me in that fountain square. How he found places that made me gasp—writhe—forget everything. Everything except the craving for more.
I’ve never felt this before. Not once in twenty-five years of living. Not in six years with Jared. Never felt my body surge toward release like it did with just a few strokes of Matteo’s skilled fingers. Never knew pleasure could build so fast—feel so intense.
What would it feel like to let him finish what he started?
Everyone else seems to know the secret. They dive into desire like it’s a perfectly temperature-controlled pool while I’m here awkwardly checking the pH balance.
My fingers shake as I type. For once, I want to be reckless. I want something that makes my heart race, my skin buzz, and shuts down my brain’s habitual reruns of worst-case scenarios.
Me: Better hurry back. The vineyard isn’t the same without someone making inappropriate grape innuendos.
Italian Stallion: Careful, principessa. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you want me to be inappropriate.
Me: Maybe I do.
I hit Send before I can overthink it.
For the first time in my life, I want to be the woman who takes what she wants.
Now I just need to make him break his rule.