16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KATIE
Group Chat: CPK Forever
Me: Quick poll: Are we having a hot girl or a hot mess summer?
Petra: OMG NEITHER! My brother just held an emergency staff meeting about proper email etiquette.
Petra: He used the phrase “font crimes against humanity” six times. Apparently someone used Comic Sans…
Petra: It was me. And I’ll do it again!
Cam: Can’t talk. Boss is having an Instagram-induced breakdown. Currently googling “How to stage your own kidnapping for content” while I hide in his closet.
Me: Maybe I’ll stay in Italy forever. Way less drama here.
Cam: Don’t you dare!
Petra: NOT FUNNY!
LORENZO IS IN FULL beast mode—standing at the side of the bus, chucking suitcases like they’ve personally offended him. There’s no rhyme or reason to his method. No Tetris-style stacking. It’s sheer brute force, sweat, and aggressive handkerchief brow swiping.
THUNK. CRASH. BANG.
I wince as another designer suitcase takes flight, propelled by Lorenzo’s surprising upper body strength. It ricochets off the vehicle’s undercarriage like a deranged pinball before joining its fellow travel companions.
“Need help?” I ask Lorenzo.
He grunts, then shoots me a look that says, No.
“Got it,” I say, nodding way too agreeably to get on his good side. “I wouldn’t want anyone messing with my organizational system either.”
The morning sun warms the cobblestones outside our Venice hotel, making them glisten like tiny mirrors that reflect the endless blue sky. Our faithful rust-bucket-of-a-bus has returned, and I hate how happy it makes me. Seeing it parked there feels strangely reassuring, as if the bus carries a piece of Matteo with it.
I lean against the motorcoach, scrolling through the same three apps on my phone without taking anything in. The truth is, I couldn’t sleep last night. I tossed and turned like an overstuffed burrito being rolled by an aggressive Chipotle employee, replaying every second of our date.
And Matteo—true to his word—stuck to the whole No Sex Day thing.
Every time I close my eyes, the moments from our date come alive: our fingers laced together—wandering through hidden Verona alleys—how his eyes crinkled when he laughed at my terrible attempts at Italian. I especially loved the warm press of his shoulder against mine as I fell asleep on him on the train ride back to Venice.
My heart seriously needed the breathing room last night. These feelings inside me are growing faster than Aunt Deb’s stash of pricey Italian jewelry.
WHOOSH. THUD.
A red hard-sided case pulls off an impressive triple axel before crash-landing upside down.
“I really need someone to talk to. My friends are drowning in work drama, my mom still signs all her texts Team Jared, and my auntie’s relationship advice is always ‘Don’t buy the gelato shop… sample all the flavors!’”
SLAM. A designer duffel becomes one with the pavement.
“And, I mean, I trust you,” I add. “You didn’t rat me out to Matteo about my little beachside meltdown. So… you’re my guy.”
Another grunt. This one sounds like reluctant acceptance.
“I’m just gonna say it: I really like Matteo.”
“Sì,” Lorenzo says flatly.
“I’m not imagining it, right?” I press. “Matteo likes me too. The way he talks to me, the stuff he’s shared… He told me about his parents.”
This earns me a faint flicker of acknowledgment—a raised eyebrow maybe? Or it could’ve been sweat dripping into his eye… Hard to tell.
“Have you ever been in love?”
He pauses, a designer suitcase in hand. “Sì.”
“What happened? Marriage? Little Lorenzos running around Italy?”
“No.” He wipes his face again. “I was… foolish. She want marriage. I want… life to live. Young, idiota.”
“Did she wait?”
His weathered face softens. “No. She marry. Have bambini. Very happy.”
“And you never fell in love again?”
“With life and love, piccola, we not know what we have until…” He gestures vaguely. “Gone.”
I’m about to ask if this sage wisdom applies to Matteo or Jared when—
“Lorenzo!”
The man himself appears. He’s even more gorgeous today, wearing a fitted olive-green button-down shirt and tan pants that make his butt look extra yummy.
“How’d she drive yesterday?” Matteo asks.
Grunt.
“Any concerns about our three-hour trip?”
Shrug.
“You learn to speak Lorenzo the more you’re around him,” Matteo explains to me with a grin.
Lorenzo sneaks a wink my way when Matteo’s attention is elsewhere. I flash him a smile in return.
“Everyone’s loaded except one very important passenger.” Matteo smiles, and it’s a tsunami of warmth, crashing over me from head to toe.
Lorenzo mysteriously vanishes, and before I can blink, Matteo pulls my body flush against his.
“Sit with me today?”
I nod, my heart doing backflips.
“Tell me, were your sheets cold without me?” His whisper sends shivers down my spine.
“Actually, yes. My lady parts got lonely so I hopped a train back to Verona for a quickie with the pharmacist.”
“ Farmacista ,” he corrects. “And that’s not funny.”
“You seemed to enjoy the joke yesterday.”
“Yesterday I hadn’t spent an entire night without you,” he says, cradling my face. “Without your soft breaths against my chest, and the way you curl into me like you belong there.” His eyes go dark as espresso. “Now I’m starving for you, principessa.”
His hand slides to the back of my neck, anchoring me in place as his mouth moves against mine, coaxing, demanding, tasting as if he’s memorizing me. The kiss is devastating, consuming, and obliterates every thought in my head. My fingers grip his shirt, the soft fabric bunching beneath my palms as I try to steady myself.
But when Matteo kisses me like this—it’s full-on vertigo.
And then, just as suddenly, he pulls back, his forehead resting against mine, both of us gasping for air.
“You’re making this impossible,” he murmurs, grabbing my hand like he owns it. Next thing I know he’s hauling me toward the bus as if I’m some prize he won at the fair.
Impossible? What the hell does impossible mean? The kiss? Me? Him?
***
I sink into my bus seat, the worn fabric greeting my thighs like an old frenemy. Up front, Matteo and Lorenzo are performing their daily mime show of vehicular communication. Lorenzo responds to questions about fuel levels with eyebrow choreography while Matteo somehow translates “check engine light” from a single nostril flare.
“Katie-kins!” Aunt Deb’s voice sings from across the aisle where she’s cozied up in Howie’s lap. “You’ll never believe the evening we had!”
Her eyes sparkle, matching the massive ruby pendant hanging between her breasts.
“Club del Doge.” She sighs dreamily. “Right on the water, facing the Doge’s Palace. The most romantic dinner of my life. We drank so much champagne! Howie only orders the best, don’t you, sugarplum?”
“Every minute with you deserves celebration, darlin’.” Howie’s drawl has gotten thicker, if that’s possible.
I can’t stop staring at what appears to be the Crown Jewels around my aunt’s neck. “Is that—”
“Oh, this?” Aunt Deb casually adjusts the heart-shaped ruby, which is the size of a baby’s fist. “Howie insisted.”
“Miss Deborah Fox has stolen my heart,” Howie declares. “Might as well make it official.”
“I told him it was too much—over a hundred thousand euros!” Aunt Deb fans herself dramatically. “But then this naughty boy went and got the matching earrings!”
She swishes her head side to side like she’s Beyoncé on stage, flashing ruby earrings so big they could fund an ocean-side mansion.
“It’s only money.” Howie waves his hand dismissively. “I spent my whole life making it, never had anyone worth spending it on. Besides”—he takes Deb’s bejeweled hand—“no gem could outshine my sweet tea’s natural beauty.”
“Oh you!” Aunt Deb playfully swats his chest. “You know what that nickname does to me!” She grabs his face and plants a kiss that makes several seniors wolf whistle.
“We painted the town red!” she announces, lipstick slightly smeared. “Dancing in the streets until three a.m.! Singing ‘That’s Amore’ to confused street cats! I haven’t felt this young since that weekend with Mick Jagger in Belgium—but that’s a story for another time.”
Howie chuckles. “Deborah, you make me feel twenty-five again.”
Deb giggles, batting her eyelashes at him. “And you got me feeling… like a teenager but with fancier accessories.”
My heart does this weird squeeze-flutter thing watching them. Italy has scrambled their brains like the world’s most romantic omelet. Of course, who am I to judge?
But maybe that’s all this is—the “Italy Effect.” It’s beer goggles with better carbs. Take away the gondolas, the sweeping vistas, and the sunset-stained canals—what’s left? Credit card debt and buffet bellies.
“Speaking of romance.” Aunt Deb’s smile turns wicked. “How did you spend your day, Katie darling?”
“Oh, you know,” I say, trying to keep my tone casual. “I went on the train to Verona.”
“Alone?”
“Well… Matteo offered me a hands-on sightseeing experience… showing me tour guide stuff.”
“Mm-hmm. Tour guide stuff. Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Attenzione!” Matteo’s voice rings through the bus interior. “Time to tell Lorenzo to drive! Uno… due… tre! ”
“Lorenzo, guida l’autobus!” we all shout in varying levels of competence. Aunt Deb’s version comes out as “Lor-enzo goo-da le bust!” while Howie sounds like he’s chanting “Lord Zen, guide us.”
I give it my best shot, but Matteo’s eyes meet mine with a wink, and I know I’ve butchered it as badly as everyone else.
Lorenzo grunts in acknowledgment from the driver’s seat and slams the door shut. The bus lurches forward, groaning like an arthritic elephant, and we’re off.
Matteo pulls out a Wish Card with his signature flourish. “Today’s wish comes from Mrs. Thomas!”
“Let me guess,” Chester calls out. “Wishing for husband number three?”
“Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me!” Mrs. Thomas shoots back. “There won’t be a third sequel to those disaster movies.”
The passengers erupt in laughter, and Matteo grins. “Actually, Mrs. Thomas wished to visit the Fountain of Youth. Now as much as I would love to promise eternal youth,” Matteo says, his voice still tinged with laughter, “I must inform you that particular tourist attraction is in Florida. Perhaps that will be your next trip.”
“Only if you’re the guide!” someone shouts from the back.
“We better book it soon,” someone adds, and the riders explode into another round of morbid jokes about burial plots, two-for-one cremations, and retirement communities.
“So instead of Florida, we are going to the Medieval Days Festival in San Marino!” Matteo announces with dramatic flair. “Where you’ll all step back in time and become Lords and Ladies for a day.”
“Do we get swords?” Chester yells.
“We already saw yours on the nude beach!” Howie drawls. “Not exactly Excalibur!”
The group erupts again. Wowza, these seniors are wild today. Maybe they were all out partying with Aunt Deb and Howie until three a.m.
“We’ll feast! We’ll dance! And guess what?” he pauses dramatically. “We’ll even try our hands at archery.”
As Matteo launches into his tour guide spiel about San Marino, I’m mesmerized by him—how his hands paint pictures in the air, his eyes sparkle with excitement, and yes, fine, the way his forearms flex when he gestures is giving my hormones a lap dance.
He’s magnetic.
Alive.
Present in a way that makes my binders feel like security blankets I need to set on fire.
This isn’t the smooth-talking player I first pegged him for—this is a man who gets genuine joy from making other people’s dreams come true, even if those dreams need some creative reinterpretation and possibly liability waivers.
But does he care about me? Or am I just another notch in his tour guide belt? One more story he’ll tell the next group while sipping wine and laughing about that American girl who fell for the tour guide?
It’s only a fling. There’s no logical explanation for this. We live on different continents, speak different languages—we want completely different things.
So why does my heart keep betraying me, whispering that I want him anyway?
“San Marino,” his voice cuts through my spiral, “is the world’s oldest continuous republic. Founded in 301 AD, never conquered, never ruled by a monarch. It’s technically not even part of Italy—it’s its own country with only thirty thousand residents. Like Vatican City but with better parties and fewer guilt trips.”
Matteo finishes his big medieval-themed announcement with the kind of grin that makes everyone swoon—myself included—and hands the microphone back to its holder. The seniors burst into chatter as Matteo slides into the seat beside me, his hand finding mine with practiced ease.
“Sounds like a fun day ahead,” I say.
“Sì, principessa.” But Matteo’s smile falters, just for a second. It’s subtle, but I notice.
“What’s wrong?”
He brings our joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Tell me? Maybe I can help.”
I bite my lip. Have I crossed a line? Just because he opened up yesterday about his parents doesn’t mean he’s ready to make vulnerability a habit. Some walls take more than a day—even a perfect one.
But then his shoulders drop slightly, and he lets out a soft sigh. “It’s Stan’s Wish Card. He wants to throw Rose a surprise party for their sixtieth anniversary. But there’s no time. The tour… the tour ends in three days.”
Three days? The words hit me and my stomach drops, but I push the panic aside.
“What about Enrico’s winery?” The idea bursts out of me. “That terrace where we had dinner? With the views and the string lights? Add some food, decorations, music—it would be perfect!”
“There’s no time, no money. The only opening in the schedule would be tomorrow evening, and—”
“I’ll do it.” The words come out firm, certain. “I can skip tomorrow’s activities and set everything up. I want to do this for them. For you.”
His eyes search mine. “Katie, you’re on vacation. You shouldn’t have to—”
“Have you met me?” I wave our joined hands between us. “Planning is literally my love language. My idea of foreplay is creating a detailed timeline with a dozen backup plans.”
The minute the words leave my mouth, his eyes darken dangerously. Right. Maybe bringing up foreplay wasn’t the smartest move when we’re surrounded by seniors with questionable hearing aids.
“Just ask Enrico,” I push on, trying to ignore the heat in his gaze. “Let me help. Consider it my gift to Stan and Rose. And to you.”
“ Sei incredibile . Thank you.”
But then reality bitch-slaps me.
Three. Days.
Thanks to Matteo, I’m finally the main character in my own life. But… I’ve been so lost in this Italian fling—in wine cellar revelations and nude-beach shenanigans—that I completely lost track of time. How didn’t I notice? I literally have seven different time-tracking apps!
Three days—that’s all I have.
Not enough to figure out if this thing in my chest is love or carb-induced euphoria.
Not enough to know if I’m falling for Matteo or if Italy has pickpocketed my common sense.
Not enough to decide if I can go back… to my old structured ways… to before I felt so alive.
Am I falling for him or just the idea of him? How can I know for sure?
***
I’m hanging at the rear of our group like a coward, pretending to study San Marino’s fairy-tale skyline while actually watching Matteo through my phone’s camera. Not taking pictures—just using it as cover so I can sneakily stare. Because apparently that’s who I am now.
“Stay together, everyone!” Matteo calls out from the front of the group. “The tram will arrive soon, and we’ll all board at once. No wandering off!”
I used to pride myself on my well-constructed life plans and my ability to anticipate every possible outcome. But here I am, melting into a puddle because Matteo just helped Rose adjust her sun hat and that sweet gesture makes me want to cry.
My fingers twitch, seeking comfort in what I do best—making lists. I open my notes app.
Reasons Why I Am Not In Love with Matteo Monti:
1. His smile. It’s too perfect and ridiculously comforting (Highly suspicious) .
2. His endless patience with our group of chaotic seniors (No one should be this calm around Aunt Deb) .
3. The stupidly adorable way he mutters in Italian when he’s frustrated.
4. How many orgasms he produces—no way that’s sustainable.
5. My name on his lips—not just the accent but how he makes “Katie” sound precious.
6. How he actually listens when I ramble about spreadsheets, like my organizational fetish is endearing instead of weird.
7. The stories he tells about his mom and dad—not just the happy ones but the hard ones too—he trusts me with his pain.
8. The fact that he values my need for control, like it’s not a defect, but an important part of me.
9. How he’s my safety net and a trampoline all in one—making me feel protected even as he launches me into chaos (and yes, I see the irony).
“Attenzione! The tram approaches!” Matteo calls out, and his eyes find mine across the crowd.
And there it is, reason number ten:
When I’m with him I know I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
My heart hammers as I look at the list. It’s not denial; it’s undeniable.
This is a confession.
A declaration.
A love letter. I’ve completely, utterly fallen for him.
The tram creaks up the mountain track, and my stomach drops—partly from altitude, mostly from facts. I have three short days to figure out if he feels the same way or if I’m another tourist passing through his life.
Is there a WikiHow for “Figuring Out If Your Hot Tour Guide Loves You Back without Dying of Embarrassment?”
San Marino steals my breath the second we arrive. Not just because we’re literally in the clouds on top of a mountain, but because this place looks like someone took every Disney castle I watched as a kid and made them real. The cobblestone streets are so narrow they seem designed for goats. The air smells of wildflowers, roasted chestnuts, and the faint tang of sunscreen from all the tourists. Everywhere I turn, people are dressed like extras from a Medieval Times dinner theater.
Jared once took me to Medieval Times in Orange County, and I thought that was immersive with their plastic swords and bored horses. This is a gazillion times better.
My fingers trace the rough stone of a thousand-year-old wall as I try not to stare at Matteo. He’s in his element, navigating our group through streets barely wide enough for crowds of humans, much less the parade of vendors hawking their wares. Every time he speaks—whether it’s explaining a historical detail or giving directions—my body reacts as if he’s whispering something scandalous for later, not just telling Mrs. Thomas to watch her step.
Because I’m so busy having an emotional crisis about my rapidly dwindling time with Matteo, I almost miss Aunt Deb’s grand entrance.
She and Howie step out of a vendor’s stall, looking like the medieval prom king and queen. Most of the group wears small souvenirs—a cone hat here, a knight vest there—but they’ve gone all in. Aunt Deb twirls in her velvet gown with gold embroidery and a tiara while Howie strikes a pose in a lord’s cape and tunic. It’s like they did Disney World’s Princess Makeover but with a medieval twist—and zero restraint.
“I’m Lady Deborah of Pasadena!” Aunt Deb declares, her arms spread wide. “And this is my Lord Howie of the Butter Bliss Bars Kingdom!”
The group bursts into applause as Howie sweeps into an exaggerated bow, nearly losing his balance. It’s so fabulously over the top that I whip out my phone and snap a picture to send to my mom.
The day is jam-packed, leaving no room to breathe, let alone have a serious conversation. We do everything: practicing archery, basket weaving, touring a castle with actors playing knights and ladies-in-waiting, plus watching a parade complete with dancers, drummers, and those extra-long trumpet players. It’s glorious and overwhelming, but it’s also leaving my heart unable to ask its tour guide for directions.
Through it all, Matteo moves like water—fluid, constant, everywhere at once. His hand finds mine in stolen moments, fingers tangling briefly before duty calls him away. Each touch whispers a promise, but of what?
There’s been no time. No quiet breaks. No opportunity to pull him aside and talk. And as the day wears on, a sinking thought edges its way into my mind: Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Matteo’s keeping us all so busy so we don’t have time to talk.
I offered to help earlier with tour guide triage—I mean, I wanted to—but Matteo just smiled and told me to enjoy the festivities. Which, fine, I have been. But I’ve also found myself wishing I could be useful. There’s something oddly satisfying about helping these people, making sure everyone’s okay, and solving the little problems before they spiral into bigger ones.
A realization creeps up slowly, then hits all at once. Like dominoes hitting one another with slow momentum before leading up to the big crash.
Matteo and I—we’re two sides of the same coin. Both of us chasing that high of creating the best moments, of turning chaos into magic. Him with his natural charm and endless stories, me with my need to organize and produce results.
And suddenly I can’t stop imagining what we could be together.
What if I didn’t go back?
The very thought should terrify me. Should send me running for my comfort zone of corporate events and predictable outcomes. Instead, it feels as if I’ve been holding my breath for years and now I’m finally exhaling.
We could work… together. I could handle the business side—the stuff that makes Matteo break out in hives—the schedules, the bookings, the spreadsheets. And he could keep being this force of nature that makes everyone fall in love with Italy. With him.
We’d make a hell of a team.
Mornings spent wrapped in his arms, trading kisses and itinerary changes. Late nights planning routes over wine and laughter, arguing about the best stops while his hands draw patterns on my skin. Working in harmony, knowing what the other needs without asking. Creating something bigger than ourselves.
Each tour would be unique. Each group would become family.
And the people we’d meet—the travelers from around the world, each with their own stories, their own dreams. We’d love watching faces light up as our guests experienced the unforgettable, knowing we made that happen. It’s honestly what I love about my job now, except here? It feels… different, better, life-changing.
I can picture us both packing up the bus at the end of a long day, Lorenzo grumbling in the background. Matteo slipping his arm around my waist, pulling me close, and telling me I’m working too hard… again. I’ll roll my eyes and respond, telling him he talks too much… again. Then he’ll kiss me with a soft, lingering kiss that says everything words can’t.
It’s ridiculous, right? Totally, completely ridiculous.
I’m having an out-of-body experience while planning my own intervention. But for the first time, my life back home is not the only option. I can actually see myself here—with him.
“Everything okay, principessa?” Matteo says, breaking my fantasy. His eyes are soft, curious.
“Just thinking about party logistics,” I lie.
“My beautiful planner,” he murmurs, his fingers finding mine. “Always trying to organize the world.”
That’s when it hits me—the wake-up call I’ve been avoiding harder than my mother’s constant texts about Jared.
Matteo doesn’t do relationships.
There it is. The voice of Old Katie—perpetual planner, professional overthinker, and captain of the SS Anxiety —chiming in right on schedule. She’s already reaching for her phone, ready to create a bulleted list titled Ways This Could Go Horrifically Wrong.
And honestly? She’s got a point.
But then.
Something shifts inside me. This new version of myself—the one who’s learned that sometimes the best memories come from unplanned moments and questionable decisions—just stands up and says: Hold my wine.
Am I terrified? Ab-so-freaking-lutely. But you know what? Fuck that.
Fuck the lists and the plans and the careful calculations. Fuck playing it safe and always knowing the outcome before you start. And especially fuck this idea that Matteo “doesn’t do relationships.” He’s never tried one with me .
Old Katie is having an aneurysm right now, but New Katie? She’s yelling “YOLO” and swan-diving into God-knows-what.
Because what’s scarier than telling him?
Not telling him.
And if he doesn’t feel the same? Old Katie echoes in my head.
But what if he does…?