15. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MATTEO
The Venice Santa Lucia train station is a fucking circus at eight a.m.
The massive iron-and-glass ceiling soars overhead like some grand cathedral dedicated to the gods of transportation. Here on the ground, it’s all-out war. There’s a storm of suitcases and obscenities as visitors charge each other like deranged gladiators. Oversized luggage takes out tourists’ ankles while kids have meltdowns in French, German, and whatever language Satan’s spawn speaks.
I stand with Lorenzo near Platform Three, where he checks his ticket for the fifth time. Guilt gnaws at my insides. “You don’t have to spend your day off retrieving the bus from La Spezia. I should go.”
The words taste bitter. Yesterday’s call from the mechanic wiped out my savings. Monti Tours is now officially surviving on credit cards and prayers. If the bank doesn’t approve that loan soon…
But I can’t think about that because it’s “Free Day,” the one day that I build into my tours where I’m not playing tour guide slash babysitter slash human GPS. I schedule it in cities we’ve already explored so that the group has a better chance of making it back to the hotel alive.
“Seriously, I don’t mind—”
Lorenzo’s eyes narrow. He studies me with the intensity of a man contemplating either great wisdom or his next bowel movement. Then, in classic Lorenzo style, he delivers maximum impact with minimum words. “Lo, autobus. Tu, lei.”
Me, bus. You, her.
He claps a hand on my shoulder, mutters “Idiota” under his breath, and walks away, leaving me to deal with the growing complication that is Katie Crawford.
I glance at her, and Cristo, my body responds like she’s got me on a leash. Her golden hair dances in the morning breeze, her sundress lifting just enough to flash a peek of her perky ass. I want her. My traitorous mind teleports to last night—how she looked riding me, taking exactly what she wanted. I was under her spell. Still am, apparently.
Her perfect breasts bounced as she found that magic angle, her core squeezing me until I almost blacked out. The image of her head thrown back—when pleasure overtook her—she collapsed into my arms and fell asleep against my chest…
Stop. Now.
This is precisely why I declared the next twenty-four hours No Sex Day .
Last night—after round three—I told her today was about getting to know each other and showing her Verona, my favorite city, which seldom makes the official tour itinerary.
Today has one purpose—to prove that this thing with Katie is purely physical. It might be mind-blowing, earth-shattering, and the kind of sex that ruins you for all other women, but it’s still just sex. Nothing more.
My mission: Find every flaw and stop these feelings from spreading. We started out barely tolerating each other—getting back there should be easy. Right?
My body’s humming as I approach her. “Ready for Verona, bellissima?”
“I’m at your mercy. Let’s wing it!” She takes my offered hand without hesitation, eyes sparkling with excitement.
Our fingers intertwine, electricity shoots through me, and—merda—this No Sex Day might actually kill me.
Five minutes into the train ride, I realize I have not said a single word. Cazzo. An hour to Verona. What the hell do people do on dates? Katie’s hand is still in mine, and the silence stretches between us like an invisible wall.
Find flaws. Stop noticing how perfect her fingers feel in yours.
“So…” I clear my throat. “Scale of one to ten, how’s my dating game going?”
“Hmm. If we’re counting conversation skills? Negative three.”
“What about hand-holding?” I counter, lifting our entwined arms. “I am perfetto there, sì?”
“Sure, if you’re aiming for a participation trophy.” She smirks, a teasing glint in her eyes, daring me to do something about it.
Dio mio. She’s lethal.
“Okay,” I say, straightening in my seat. “Rapid-fire questions. Let’s go.”
I don’t give her time to process.
“Is Aunt Deb really your aunt?”
“Yes. My mom’s sister,” she answers smoothly with no hesitation.
“Where do you live?”
“Los Angeles.”
“What’s your favorite thing about where you live?”
“The weather.”
“Do you enjoy your job as an event planner?”
“Most days.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Older brother.”
“Are you allergic to anything?”
“Nope.”
Katie bursts into laughter. “Matteo, you just speed-ran through my entire life story like you’re trying to win a game show. You weren’t kidding about never dating, were you?”
I can’t help it—I grin. She’s impossible not to smile around. “Fine. Your turn then.”
“All right.” She taps a finger to her chin. “Where did you learn to speak English so well?”
“Watching reruns of Friends .”
“Really?”
“School taught me the basics, but Jennifer Aniston’s nipples were motivation for the rest. I wanted to hear her actual voice, not the Italian dubbing.”
Her eyes widen. “Her nipples?”
“I’m a nipples guy.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Noted.”
“What about you?” I ask, trying to find something—anything—to dislike. “Always wanted to be an event planner?”
“Yes!” Her whole face lights up. “I love it! Taking chaos and turning it into a perfect moment. I’m going to start my own company before I’m thirty.”
“Maybe if I had you, I wouldn’t have so many troubles with my—” I catch myself.
“Oh look, olive trees, bella!”
That was too close. The last thing I need is for Katie to find out what a shitshow my life is. Her effortless competence makes me feel like a damn amateur. A woman that sharp doesn’t want to spend her time with a guy who can’t run his own business. No, it’s better if she keeps seeing me the way she does now—assuming I have my act together.
“Bella, cara…?” she asks. “Explain all your nicknames.”
“Ah, bella means beautiful. Cara is dear. Principessa is princess.”
“And what’s an expression you never say?” Her voice carries a challenge. “A phrase you don’t use on all your female flavors of the week?”
My mouth opens, then closes. This feels like a trap. But there’s no point in lying. “ Mi amore ,” I admit quietly.
“What does that mean?”
“My love. I’ve never said that to anyone.”
The air between us crackles with tension. Katie’s lips part slightly—
“ Prossima Fermata , Verona!” The train speaker blares.
“We’re here.”
Thank fuck. Because one more second and No Sex Day would’ve ended right here.
***
“Is this your secret to seduction? Dragging women to hole-in-the-wall pizza joints that haven’t had a makeover since the eighties?” Katie says, leaning back in her chair and scanning the room with a skeptical but amused expression. “I don’t know what is sexier, the mismatched chairs or the peeling paint?”
“This isn’t about seduction,” I say, grabbing a napkin to wipe down the table. “This is about educating that American palate of yours. You’re about to have the best pizza of your life.”
“Let me set the record straight. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a BBQ chicken pizza from CPK.”
“BBQ… chicken? On pizza?” I say, horrified. “ Mi dispiace , Katie. That’s not pizza. That’s a cry for help. And what’s this CPK?”
Her jaw drops. “California Pizza Kitchen! You’ve never heard of it?”
I freeze, mid-clean, like she’s insulted my entire existence. “California… pizza? You’re joking, right? You’re comparing California to Italian pizza? In Italy?”
“Well,” she says, folding her arms on the table and leaning forward, “I’ll have to see if this pizza of yours lives up to the hype. But I’ll warn you—I’m a loyal woman. CPK’s been there for me through thick and thin.”
“You talk about pizza like it’s an old lover.”
“More like a therapist. My friends and I have regularly gone there since college. And not to brag, but our names spell out the initials CPK.”
I tilt my head, intrigued. “Tell me about your friends.”
“Petra and Cam.” A small smile plays on her lips. “We met in art history class freshman year at UCLA. One minute we were strangers debating Renaissance paintings, the next we were sharing a pizza and our deepest secrets.”
“And they were okay with you running off to Italy?”
She traces the rim of her water glass, a nervous tell I’m learning to read. “They were all for it. Petra said I needed to ‘get some sexy Italian dick to cleanse my palate.’”
“Petra sounds very wise,” I say with a grin.
“She’s a force of nature,” Katie says softy with affection. “Fearless and completely unapologetic. The kind of person who’d dig you a grave and be your alibi, no questions asked. And Cam… pure positivity in human form and so freaking talented. She can do literally anything. I’d be jealous if I didn’t love her so much.”
Her tone changes. “But after my wedding got called off, I don’t know. I couldn’t lean on them.”
“Why not? They’re your friends.”
“Petra started this corporate job she’s terrified of failing. Her brother owns the company, so she’s trying hard to prove she’s not the family screw-up.” Her voice catches. “And Cam’s dealing with this YouTuber boss from hell who treats her like a servant. They would have dropped everything. That’s who they are.”
“But you didn’t let them.”
“I’ve always been their rock,” she says.
The confession tumbles out as if she’s been holding it in.
“I’m the one with the plans, the answers, the solutions to every crisis. But this time…” She swallows hard. “This time I’m the crisis. And I don’t know how to be that person.”
She glances down at her hands, and I see fingernails digging into palms.
“I thought if I handled it alone, kept moving and planning and controlling everything—it wouldn’t feel so real. That I could avoid the ugly truth that everything I knew about myself, about love, about my future—it was all bullshit.”
She finally looks up, and the raw honesty in her eyes breaks me. “I’ve spent my whole life being the stable one, you know? But now I feel like I’m trying to build a puzzle with missing pieces.”
My heart lurches—I need to protect her, to comfort her, to show her that sometimes the best things in life can’t be planned.
“Maybe,” I say carefully, taking her hand, “that’s not such a bad thing.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “Why’s that?”
“Because when you’re falling… that’s when you learn who’s willing to catch you.”
She looks at me then—really looks at me—and I see what she’s hiding. The fear. The hope. The trust she’s terrified to give again.
Today is about finding flaws, about pushing her away. But her insecurities and honesty have only made her more endearing. I want to help her discover the joy of the journey—the passion that comes from putting the puzzle together even if some of the pieces are missing.
This woman isn’t just getting under my skin. She’s exposing a part of my heart I thought was locked away forever.
CLINK!
The waiter sets two steaming pies in front of us. The smell of fresh dough, tangy tomato sauce, and bubbling mozzarella fills the air, and Katie’s eyes widen in anticipation.
“All right, Mr. Tour Guide,” she says, picking up a slice of her Margherita pizza. “Let’s see if your precious Italian pizza can dethrone CPK.”
“You’re going to eat your words. And probably half my pizza too.”
She takes a bite, and the moment the flavors hit her tongue, her eyes close, and a soft moan escapes her lips. My stomach flips like I’m the pizza she’s devouring.
“Oh my God,” she mumbles through a mouthful of cheese and sauce. “This is… this is life-changing. Matteo, I think I’m in love.”
“With me or the pizza?” I ask, grinning.
“Let me finish the slice and I’ll get back to you,” she says, already reaching for another piece.
We fall into an easy conversation—about her family, her childhood with an overachieving brother, and her dreams of starting her own company.
Find her flaws , my brain screams.
She has none , my heart whispers back.
***
In the heart of Verona, the hotspot for romance is Juliet’s Courtyard, and love is in the air. So is lust, which has made its way into my pants. Because I cannot stop obsessing about Katie in that dress. The fabric hugs her curves—my sanity is slipping—and every time she tugs at the hem, my zipper grows a little tighter. Each innocent adjustment hikes that skirt higher, flashing those thighs that were wrapped around me hours ago.
Focus on the statue, not on how Katie’s skin feels under your fingertips.
Juliet stands tall and proud, her bronze figure shimmering under the Italian sun, one hand resting gently on her chest. Tourists swarm about, eager to cop a feel of her breast, hoping the legend of true love will “rub off” (pun intended). The courtyard is a romance novel come to life, with ivy snaking up brick walls and that famous balcony where Romeo professed his love.
Love notes and padlocks adorn the walls, each a testament to the promises of visitors from across the world. Yet amid all this romantic chaos, it’s Katie who commands my attention, and I’m wondering if she senses the same electric pull.
“You want me to just… grab it?” Katie hesitates, her gaze darting between me and Juliet’s bronze breast. “This feels illegal. Is this illegal? It feels illegal.”
“It’s tradition, principessa. See how the right one shines?” I adjust Mamma’s Nikon, looking through the lens. “Centuries of people seeking luck in love.”
“From Romeo and Juliet? The teenagers who had the world’s worst communication skills? Are you sure this isn’t some pervy plot to watch women grope statues?”
“If I wanted to watch groping, bellissima, I’ll continue replaying last night in my head.”
She reaches out tentatively, then pulls back. “What if it’s cursed? What if I touch it and suddenly start writing sonnets about your abs?”
“You don’t write sonnets when you explore my body. You compose symphonies with moans of pleasure.”
“God, your ego is bigger than Italy.”
She makes contact, giving the statue’s breast the world’s most apologetic pat.
CLICK.
The shutter captures her adorably scrunched nose.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Says you. At least let me pretend to buy her a drink first.”
“You need me to demonstrate proper technique.” I reach out deliberately, but instead of touching the statue, I cup Katie’s breast.
“Matteo!” she squeals, smacking my fingers away playfully. “Wrong breast!”
“Honest mistake. Yet strangely I’m already feeling luckier.”
A nearby group of teenage girls erupts in giggles. Katie’s face flames red, but then she surprises me by asking them. “Could you take our photo?”
One of the girls takes my camera with surprising care and lines up the shot.
“All right lovebirds!” she calls out. “Hands on boobies! Three… two… one!”
We slap our fingers on Juliet’s breasts—me grinning like an idiot—but at the last second Katie pulls her hand away.
CLICK.
“Gotcha!” Her victorious laugh bounces off the timeworn stones. “That’s what you get for copping a feel on No Sex Day .”
“Worth it.” I grab her waist, pulling her close.
“ No Sex Day , remember?”
“This isn’t sex. It’s… appreciation.”
I crush her lips with mine, and there’s a chorus of awws from the teen girls.
***
“MERCATO!” Katie announces, surveying the chaos of Verona’s outdoor market. “I nailed that pronunciation.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. Watching Katie Crawford attempt Italian is my new favorite form of entertainment.
“If by ‘nailed it’ you mean ‘made every vendor here cringe,’ then yes. Perfetto.”
She zeros in on a stall overflowing with silk scarves. “I am one with the mercato . The market and I… we are simpatico .”
“That’s Spanish.”
She whirls around. “Don’t ruin my vibe. I’m channeling my inner Italian goddess here.”
“Your goddess needs subtitles.”
“Shhh. Watch and learn, tour guide.”
Oh, this is going to be spectacular.
She picks up a tan silk scarf with blue flowers, clearing her throat dramatically. “Bon-joor!”
“Wrong country, principessa. But please continue. This is better than cinema.”
Her nose does that adorable scrunching thing that makes me want to kiss it. “Fine, Mr. Perfect Pronunciation. How do you say scarf?”
“ Sciarpa . But clearly you don’t need my help.”
“Skee-arrr-pah,” she says, rolling the R like a purring cat. The scarf vendor blinks, probably wondering if she’s having a stroke.
I nod solemnly. “Flawless pronunciation. Want to try asking the price?”
“Please.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I’ve got this. Quanto costa la… neck thingy with flowers?”
The vendor’s face does some impressive gymnastics trying not to laugh.
“ Quanto costa la sciarpa color cammello con fiori celesti?” I say quickly.
“That’s what I said,” she says, then attempts to repeat it. It comes out sounding as if she’s having a sneezing attack while ordering pizza in Dutch.
“ Venti euro!” the vendor says.
“Twenty euros! I understood that!” Katie claps her hands, radiant with pride. “I’m an expert now. Quick, teach me to say ‘I speak better Italian than my smug tour guide.’”
“How about we start with thank you first?”
“Relax. I know what I’m doing.” She turns to the vendor with complete confidence. “Gracias!”
“Still Spanish.”
She forks over the money for the scarf, and the vendor grins from ear to ear as we walk away.
“You were supposed to haggle.”
“Me no haggle-ah. I’m-ah happy with the scarf-ah.” She wraps the scarf around her neck with a flourish. “How do I look?”
Like everything I never knew I wanted.
“Like someone who should stick to English.”
She smacks my arm, but she’s grinning.
“When it comes to my native tongue, bella, it’s best if you just lie back and let me do it.”
I steer us toward a small shop with a glowing green cross above the door.
She eyes the sign warily. “Is this… a pharmacy or a weed dispensary?”
“ Farmacia, ” I say, pulling the door open for her. “Time for your next lesson.”
She crosses her arms, leveling me with a suspicious glare. “You’re up to something.”
“I am but a humble tour guide,” I say, my tone the picture of innocence.
“That face,” she mutters as we step inside. “That’s your scheming face.”
“It’s also my incredibly handsome face. Very versatile.”
An elderly pharmacist greets us from behind the counter, his smile warm and welcoming. Katie immediately relaxes. Amateur move.
I whisper a phrase in her ear.
“Okay, here we go.” Katie straightens her spine and repeats the phrase (sort of).
The pharmacist’s eyebrows rocket skyward, nearly launching off his face.
“Nailed it, right?” She beams. “My accent was perfect. I’ll have to show Aunt Deb my new skills.”
“Very memorable,” I say, struggling to keep a straight face as the man returns with an overflowing armful of boxes. Box after box of condoms spill onto the counter like an avalanche.
Katie’s eyes go wide. “What did you make me say?”
I grin, unable to hold it in any longer. “You said. Excuse me. I am a sex addict from America. I need condoms. Lots and lots of condoms. I want to sample as many Italian men as possible.”
The pharmacist winks at her, and I lose it.
I laugh so hard I keel over on the counter. Through tears, I apologize profusely (to the man, not Katie) , who laughs and waves me off like this is the highlight of his day. I buy a few boxes for his trouble. “Grazie!”
“This is No Sex Day !” she protests as we leave.
“Tomorrow isn’t.”
“Bold of you to assume you will have access after that stunt.”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
She looks down at our joined fingers like they’ve committed treason. “That’s… that’s just because I need someone to carry all these condoms.”
“Sure it is, principessa. Sure it is.”
***
After hours of wandering and chatting, we’re now at Ponte Pietra—a bridge so historic you’d half expect it to still demand a toll in Roman coins. We overlook the Adige River, and the water churns in a rhythm so perfect it’s like it knows we’re getting the ultimate romantic movie backdrop.
Katie leans her elbows on the stone railing, her wide, curious eyes taking in everything, as if she’s trying to memorize it all. “I could get used to this.”
She’s breathtaking.
I thread my fingers through hers. “I love the feeling of your hand in mine.”
She squeezes back. The simple gesture floods my body with warmth.
“So this is the famous Ponte Pietra,” I say, focusing on something other than kissing her senseless. “Built by the Romans in 100 BC, which makes it Verona’s oldest bridge. The Romans built it, of course, but it’s been destroyed and rebuilt a few times since then. Kind of like Chester’s new knee.”
“That thing is indestructible! Did you see him doing squats on the beach?”
“Sì, sì, it’s burned into my brain—one day, my boys will be taking a permanent vacation down south.”
Her laughter fades as her gaze drifts to the river below. She’s quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful, almost hesitant. “Matteo,” she says as her fingers brush against mine, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but… what happened to your parents?”
My body stiffens, the weight of her question sinking into my chest like a stone.
Her face falls. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. Never mind. Forget I—”
“No.” The word surprises me as much as her. “No, it’s okay.”
And it is. Somehow. With Katie, it feels… safe. Like maybe I can say the words without them breaking me all over again. There’s a tone to her voice—genuine and gentle—that compels me to share this part of myself.
“They died in a car accident,” I say. “I was ten.”
Her hand tightens its hold on mine, her grip solid and grounding. “Matteo… I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine not having parents growing up.”
I nod, my gaze now fixed on the river’s rushing water, catching the way the sunlight dances on the surface. “It’s not something you really ever get over. You just… learn to carry it.”
I brace myself for the look—the pity, the awkward head tilt, the well-meaning but hollow platitudes. But Katie doesn’t give me any of that. Instead, she lifts her head, her voice gentle but curious.
“Will you tell me about them? What were they like?”
I didn’t expect this. Most people ask about the accident—the aftermath—the pain. But Katie? She wants to know about them.
I breathe deep, the memories rushing back in vivid detail. “They were both history buffs,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips. “They met working as tour guides in Rome. My dad was obsessed with architecture, and my mom loved ancient mythology. They used to argue over which was more important—the buildings or the stories behind them.”
“So that’s where you get it from. The passion, the storytelling?”
“Yeah,” I say, the ache in my chest easing a little.
“Is that why you became a tour guide?”
“It’s my way of staying connected to them,” I say, feeling a pang of sadness.
“Were they as fun as you?”
I chuckle. “My mom was. She had this laugh—loud and contagious. You couldn’t hear it without smiling. She always smelled like lemons. Huh… I don’t know why, but I forgot about that.”
Katie smiles and asks, “And your dad?”
“Stern at times but also tenderhearted. My mom always said he was the most handsome, charming man she’d ever met. They were… affectionate. Always holding hands, sneaking kisses when they thought I wasn’t looking. As a kid, it drove me crazy. But now… I think I understand.”
Katie laughs softly. “That’s every kid with their parents. My mom and dad weren’t too mushy, but Aunt Deb makes up for it. She’s a walking PDA.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. “Would you like to see them?”
Her eyes brighten. “I’d love to.”
I swipe to the folder I keep hidden. I only open it when I’m feeling lost… when I need to remember. I hand her the phone, watching her expression soften.
“Wow,” she says with awe. “Your mom was right. Your dad is way better looking than you.”
I laugh, snatching the phone back. “That’s enough family commentary from you, principessa.”
We fall silent, allowing the soothing water to lull us into a peaceful stillness. Katie wraps her arms around me in a hug, and I find myself accepting the comfort.
“You know,” I say finally with a rough voice. “The Wish Cards were their idea.”
She stays quiet, but her thumb strokes across my back, encouraging.
“Right before… before the accident, they gave me this stack of blank cards. Said every dream deserved to be written down and that no wish was too big or too small. We were going to do them together, one by one.”
The memory cuts through me like a jagged blade. “After their funeral, I found them in my room. All these cards. Promises we’d never keep. I almost burned them.” My voice cracks. “Years later I realized—what if their gift wasn’t meant to end with me?”
“That’s why you do it for the tourists.” Understanding dawns in her eyes. “You’re not only granting wishes. You’re keeping their dream alive.”
“Every card people fill out, every wish I grant—it’s like they’re still here, helping me create the magic they believed in.” The confession burns in my throat. “Some days it’s the only thing keeping me going.”
“Matteo.” She pulls back to look at me, her eyes glistening. “What a beautiful way to honor them.”
I meet her gaze, my chest tight but warm. “They would have loved you.”
She reaches up and kisses me gently, and for the first time in years, I feel something I thought I’d lost forever.
Home.