17. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MATTEO
Katie has turned my hotel room upside down. My bed is now her personal command center, with plans spread across the white sheets like battle strategies. And I have to say… I’m into it. She’s fascinating—the way she owns this space, my space, as if she belongs here. It’s past midnight, and I love seeing her sprawled on her stomach, wearing nothing but my button-down shirt.
Dio, she’s brilliant. Focused. Passionate. Her silky, golden hair still mussed from an hour ago when I laid her face down on that bed and she was begging for more (or was that me?) . That release was supposed to satisfy me, but watching her work now is revving me up again.
My laptop is overheating on my thighs while my inbox is mocking me. No word from the bank. No miracle solution for my failing company.
BING! BING!
Two new messages come in. One promising to enlarge a part of me that definitely doesn’t need it (trust me) and another hinting that I might have a long-lost uncle in Nigeria who’s very generous with his Bitcoin. Delete.
Katie makes this little sound of triumph, solving whatever coordinating issue she was working on, and she’s the best distraction I could ask for.
I love watching her mind work. The way she organizes—precise but passionate, controlled but creative—is captivating. Every note she writes, every diagram she draws, it’s all infused with fierce determination to make tomorrow perfect for Stan and Rose. My little taskmaster has the biggest heart I’ve ever seen, and it’s doing dangerous things to mine.
She rolls over in my oversized shirt, and I get a fresh peek at her cotton panties. My cock perks up like an overfed German Shepherd catching a whiff of bacon. Down boy. We’ve already christened every surface in this room. Twice.
I can’t resist sliding my hand up the back of her thigh.
“Matteo,” she warns without looking up, “if those magical fingers don’t behave, this seating chart is going to end up with Chester doing the chicken dance next to the cake.”
“Maybe your attention needs a little… redirection.” I let my fingers trail higher, dipping under the waistband of her panties.
She turns her head, fixing me with that librarian-gone-wild look that makes my cock throb.
“Don’t you have your own work to do?”
“You’re too distracting. The way you write those little numbers? Very sexy.”
She snorts. “Do not pretend you find basic addition erotic.”
“Equations while wrapped up in my shirt? Mathematical foreplay.”
I lean over, pretending to study her elaborate diagrams while actually breathing in her scent—strawberries and sex.
My eyes catch on a carefully measured rectangle in the center of her layout. “Is that a dance floor, bellissima?”
“Duh. It’s a party. Obviously there will be dancing.”
“Will you dance with me tomorrow?”
“Trust me, nobody wants to see my dance moves. I can organize circles around people, but dancing? That’s a hard pass. And I blame Aunt Deb for that particular life lesson.”
“Coming from your aunt, this has to be good.” I shift closer, drawn to her like gravity. “Tell me.”
“Fine. But this is trauma-level embarrassing. You have to promise not to laugh.”
“If I laugh, I’ll make it up to you with that thing you enjoy,” I say suggestively. “You know, with my tongue?”
“Deal.” She breathes in deeply, a playful twinkle in her eyes. “Okay, so imagine this: fifth-grade talent show and little Katie is all fired up to win. I thought, ‘Why not dance?’ One small issue—I don’t dance. I’d never been taught. But who needs formal training when you’ve got sheer willpower?”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible.”
“Just wait. I’ve always been an overachiever, so I decided to study some dance videos. Specifically, from my auntie’s collection.”
“Oh no,” I gasp, already feeling the laughter building.
“Turns out I was learning Aunt Deb’s stripper routine from her exotic dancing days. I went onstage and performed her choreography—minus the actual stripping, thank God—in front of the entire school. “Pour Some Sugar on Me” blasted through the gym, and I thought I was killing it. When I started grinding against the microphone stand, they slammed down the curtain.”
I burst into laughter.
“It earned me the nickname K-Tease for years.” She’s laughing now too, and the sound makes my chest warm. “My dad couldn’t look me in the eye for weeks.”
“Let me guess. Aunt Deb didn’t apologize?”
“Are you kidding? She gave me pointers on my hip movements and bought me a mini feather boa.”
“Of course she did.” I pull her into my lap, loving how naturally she fits there. “Dance with me tomorrow anyway. I promise to keep you far away from microphone stands.”
She wraps her arms around my neck, and— Madre di Dio— the trust in her eyes undoes me completely. “If you want me to.”
“I definitely do.”
I want everything with you. Every story, every laugh, every imperfect moment. I want it all.
“You laughed,” she points out, “so you owe me.”
“I feel I was set up. You knew that story was impossible not to laugh at.”
“You’ll never prove it,” she challenges, then kisses me soft and sweet.
My hands slide to her hips, ready to pull her closer, when her phone buzzes against the nightstand like a sudden alarm.
She groans, breaking the kiss with a sigh. “It’s my mom.” She reaches over me and grabs it.
“Is she still texting you about Jared,” I ask, trying to keep the jealous heat from my voice.
“Every day.”
Jared. The name I thought we’d left behind. Katie doesn’t meet my gaze as she powers off the phone and tosses it on the nightstand.
“Sorry,” she says quickly, her voice too bright. “Let’s forget it, okay?”
But I can’t forget it. Not when the mention of him feels like a rock sinking in my gut.
Does she still think about him?
Is she planning on going back to him?
The questions gnaw at me as her head nuzzles into my neck. Her fingers trace soft, mindless patterns on my skin and I lie there, letting her quiet touch soothe the raging storm in my mind.
When the hell did I turn into this guy—holding on to her like she might evaporate if I loosen my grip? I’ve always been the one racing for the exit, keeping things surface level, uncomplicated. Now I’m lying here wondering how I’ll survive when she walks away in three days.
She’s quiet, her breathing steady as she keeps drawing what feels like hearts on my chest. I want to ask what’s going on in that amazing mind of hers, but I’m afraid to break whatever spell we’re under.
“So,” she finally says, “what do you have planned tomorrow while I’m getting the party ready?”
“Several Wish Cards wanted to visit the hot springs,” I say, keeping my tone light.
How can I stretch these moments into forever?
She hums thoughtfully, fingers lightly dancing across my sternum. A heart, then a circle. Cristo, her touch sends electricity zipping through my body.
“What happens after?” she asks quietly. “When the tour ends? Do you just… jump into the next group?”
“Usually I take a week off first.” I run my fingers through her sex-messed hair. “Got to handle the thrilling paperwork. Your favorite.”
Her laugh is soft but hollow. “Oh.”
I watch her carefully—the way her mouth tightens at the corners, how her fingers pause before resuming their patterns. She’s holding something back…
“Actually,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’ve got two weeks free after this tour. Business stuff to handle.”
She goes still, then lifts those green eyes to mine. “Hypothetically,” she whispers, “would you have time if I… stayed?”
My heart stops. Literally stops.
Every muscle in my body locks up. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? I choose my next words with more care than I’ve ever given anything in my life. “Hypothetically, I could make time.”
“And hypothetically, would there be somewhere I could stay? For those two weeks?”
I forget how to breathe. This has to be a dream. Some cruel dream where Katie Crawford is talking about staying. Even if it’s only fourteen days, it’s more than I deserve.
But I’ve waited too long to answer, and she starts backpedaling, words tumbling out in a panic.
“That’s insane, right? I mean, now you’re probably thinking I’m some clingy tourist, but I’m not. I promise. I just… I don’t know, I thought maybe—”
“Katie,” I cut her off, tilting her face up to meet my gaze. Cristo, those eyes. They hold everything I’ve been too scared to admit I want. “I will rearrange my entire life for you. Stay. Please. I’ve been going crazy wondering how I can ask without scaring you off.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know what this is,” I confess, “but I want to find out. With you.”
“I feel the same way. And then… after that? After those two weeks?”
“That’s a problem for future us,” I murmur, leaning in until our noses brush. “Right now if I don’t make love to you, I will combust from happiness.”
Her laughter bubbles up, bright and free, right before I capture her lips in a heated kiss. My hand slides to the small of her back, pulling her in, as my other hand carefully gathers her binder and papers.
“Oh my God,” she breathes against my lips. “That’s so fucking hot.”
“My girl likes things neat and tidy.”
“Your girl?” she repeats, teasing.
“Yeah,” I growl, yanking her to me. “Mine.”
Those green eyes go dark with want, and before I can blink, she grabs the binder and hurls it off the bed, sending papers flying everywhere. She tugs me on top of her, fingers pulling at my hair as her body arches into mine.
Honest to God, I’ve never been so devastatingly happy in my entire life.
***
“Smells like somebody fed a dog a half pound of Limburger cheese,” Chester says as he pinches his nose.
I swallow my laugh, having heard every variation of fart jokes possible at these springs. From “Fart-nado Falls” to “Bubble Butt Bidet” to “Satan’s Bunghole,” my tourists never disappoint.
“Signore e signori.” I gesture to the cascading pools before us, steam rising like nature’s own special effects. “Welcome to the Saturnia Hot Springs. That distinctive aroma? It’s sulfur, straight from Mother Earth herself.”
The pale blue waters cascade down natural stone terraces, creating steaming pools that look like something from a fantasy movie. Water flows from a small waterfall at the top, rushing down over smooth rocks, the sound soft and hypnotic. The scent? Okay, it’s not exactly an ocean breeze, but the sight more than makes up for it.
My group of seniors are already suited up, ready to conquer these springs with towels and beach bags.
“These waters are heated by our local volcano. A constant temperature of thirty-seven degrees Celsius, maintained by…” I trail off, my mind drifting to Katie.
Katie. Her name lingers in my mind like a melody. She’s at Enrico’s vineyard with Caterina, preparing the place for Stan and Rose’s sixty-year celebration. I can picture Caterina in one of her flamboyant rants about Italian men and Katie chiming in with an exaggerated story about me. Those two are probably making an assembly line of decorations and food while teasing each other about who’s more of a perfectionist (Katie). I’m sure Katie’s working her organizational magic and turning the chaos of a last-minute party into a dream come true.
“Earth to Matteo!” Margaret snaps. “You were telling us about the magical powers of fart water?”
“Ah, sì, scusate,” I say. “These waters have been known for their healing properties for thousands of years. In fact, the Romans would journey here to heal their wounds.”
“Well, hot damn.” Chester grins, adjusting his swim trunks which are riding dangerously high.
“Maybe it’ll fix my arthritis!”
“And my bum knee!” Agnes adds. “Years of teetering in stilettos—worth every twisted ankle!”
“What about fixing my second ex-husband’s personality?” Mrs. Thomas says. “He’s permanently glued to his La-Z-Boy, so we’re gonna need a crane to get him in there.”
The distinctive rumble of a tour bus engine cuts through our laughter. I don’t even need to look. It’s Italy Express—a rolling crimson reminder of everything wrong with modern tourism. Their massive bus gleams in the afternoon sun, pristine and soulless.
Their guide steps out in his pressed red polo, looking as if he irons it between mandatory gift shop stops. His herd of tourists follows, each sporting matching shirts and those ridiculous headphones, shuffling out like a horde of zombies.
“Fifteen minutes for photos and restroom breaks,” Red Polo announces with the excitement of a flat soda. “Please maintain appropriate distance from the water; we don’t have time to towel off and the buses have a strict no-swimsuit policy.”
Any other day this would make my blood boil. But today? My heart is too full of Katie to care about these corporate puppets. Let them have their fifteen minutes. We’ll stay here and soak up paradise until our fingers prune.
“Let’s get wet!” I say and my group bursts into cheers.
“Cannonball!” Howie’s war cry echoes across the springs as he launches into the water.
“Right behind you, my Southern stallion!” Deb says, her designer swimsuit a shimmer of stardust? before splashing in.
I help Rose navigate the slick stones, her small hand gripping mine with fragile strength. The water laps at our ankles, warm and inviting.
Katie would love this, the two of us floating in this oasis. Her lips would taunt me, drawing us closer, our bodies pressing each other until—
Cazzo. My cock just threw me a surprise party, and I’m suddenly very grateful for the water’s cloudy properties. It’s going to be a long day until I see her again.
Maybe tonight I’ll take her back to that wine cellar, show her exactly how much I missed her…
Merda. Romeo’s dagger strikes again. It seems my dick won’t rest until it embarrasses me in front of all my seniors.
“Matteo!” Chester’s voice breaks through my increasingly dangerous thoughts. “Watch this! I’m going to do a handstand!”
“Wait!” I shout. “Don’t go—”
Too late. He’s upside down mere seconds before he emerges from the water, spitting and choking.
“It’s official.” Chester gags. “This water tastes worse than it smells.”
An hour later, Lorenzo appears at the edge of the springs, his face the color of overripe tomatoes. He’s holding his breath, a handkerchief clamped over his nose like it’s all that stands between him and death by sulfur. With a dramatic flair, he flashes five fingers.
I know why he’s here, but today I’m feeling mischievous.
“Mi dispiace!” I call out in my most innocent tour guide voice. “Your hand signals are confusing me. Perhaps draw me a picture?”
His shoots me a look that says he’s reconsidering his life choices, specifically the one where he agreed to work for me. His five fingers now wave frantically.
“What’s that?” I shout, cupping my ear. “You want to practice your synchronized swimming routine?”
His eyes bulge out of their sockets. If this were a cartoon, steam would be shooting from his ears. He jabs his finger toward the picnic spot, and his face transitions from red to purple.
“Are you trying to tell me the bus is on fire again?”
That does it. He takes an involuntary gasp of sulfur-laden air and immediately doubles over.
“Merda!” GAG… “Puzza!” RETCH… “Fanculo!” He dry heaves, then straightens up just enough to spot my shit-eating grin.
The look of pure betrayal he shoots me could wither the richest man’s vineyard. I start laughing hysterically. Damn, I wish Katie was here to see this.
“Sì, sì, old friend. Time to set up lunch.” I wipe tears from my cheeks. “Your commitment to avoiding the fumes is impressive. Even better than that time in Rome with the broken sewage pipe.”
“Idiota,” he mutters, but the corner of his mouth twitches—the Lorenzo equivalent of rolling on the floor laughing. He shuffles back toward his beloved bus, occasionally stopping to cough.
I call out to the group. “Keep marinating in Mother Nature’s hot tub! I’m setting up lunch on that hill. When you’re ready, the changing rooms are to your right. Take your time!”
The hill gives a breathtaking view of the springs, like nature’s own balcony seats. Wildflowers dot the grass in bursts of purple and yellow, dancing in the light breeze. The view stretches out forever—rolling Tuscan hills painted in shades of green and gold. The best part? Not a whiff of stinky sulfur, making it the perfect picnic spot.
I spread out the blankets that Caterina packed this morning. Despite her advanced pregnancy, she insisted on helping to prepare the picnic—fresh bread, an assortment of cheeses, cured meats, and twenty bottles of La Dolce Vita wine. Before I met Katie, I’d have told myself this is as good as it gets.
I slide my phone out of my pocket and begin typing.
Me: How’s the party planning, bella?
Her response comes fast—she’s been waiting.
Katie: Everything here is incredible, but it feels wrong without you.
Katie: God that sounds clingy after only four hours.
Me: Keep talking that way and I might leave these seniors stranded.
Me: Worth it to get my hands on you sooner.
Katie: Already hid a blanket in the wine cellar.
Katie: The red dress might make an appearance tonight…
Cristo Santo. My cock instantly twitches to the memory of that dress, of her curves wrapped in silk that begged to be peeled away.
Me: You’re testing my self-control , bellissima.
Katie: Maybe I like making you lose control.
I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face. Two weeks. Two whole weeks of having her all to myself after this tour ends. My mind races with possibilities—places to take her, things to show her, ways to make her fall more in love with Italy. With me.
What about after that? I shove the thought down. We’ll figure it out. She cares for me, I care for her. That’s enough for now.
My phone buzzes again and my heart leaps, hoping for another teasing message from Katie.
But an unknown number flashes across the screen.
“Pronto,” I answer cheerfully.
“Signor Monti? This is Luigi Vincetti from Banca di Roma.”
My spine stiffens. The bank, finally. “Sì, buongiorno.”
“I’ll be direct. We’ve exhausted all options for refinancing. No one is willing to take on the risk. Your books simply don’t show enough profit margin to justify a new loan.”
The world tilts sideways. My throat closes up.
“Your existing loan payment is due in full by the end of the month. If you cannot make the payment, we’ll have no choice but to begin bankruptcy proceedings.”
“I understand,” I manage, the word tasting like ash in my mouth.
“Mi dispiace, Signor Monti. I truly am sorry.”
The call ends. I stare at my phone—at Katie’s last message still glowing on the screen. I feel my world crumble.
***
The empty bus reeks of defeat. Or perhaps that’s just me, sitting here alone while my seniors enjoy their picnic under the Tuscan sun. I sent Lorenzo away with some excuse about business calls. He knew I was lying—his left eyebrow said as much—but he went anyway. Loyalty I don’t deserve.
The cloth seat beneath me is torn, worn bare by thousands of tourists who trusted me to show them the real Italy. Now the seat is mocking me. Every imperfection, every tear, every patch job—they’re all proof of what I couldn’t maintain.
I’ve been praying, bargaining, hoping this loan would come through. This company isn’t just a business to me—it’s my parents’ legacy reimagined. Every Wish Card granted, every moment of joy created, it’s all been for them.
But apparently passion doesn’t pay the bills. My spontaneous detours and determination to give everyone their perfect moment have finally caught up with me. The numbers don’t lie, even if I’ve been ignoring them for months.
I’ve run countless scenarios, searching for alternatives to this backup plan. But there’s nowhere left to turn. Time to be a man and admit I’m exactly what I’ve always feared—a failure.
No more chances.
No more Monti Tours.
My fingers shake slightly. I dial the number I swore I’d never call again.
“Ciao, welcome to Italy Express. Your call is very important to us. If you know the person you wish to speak with, please say it now.”
The recorded voice is as soulless as their tours.
“Antonio Toscano.” My voice sounds as if it’s been dragged through gravel.
“Buongiorno!”
“Buongiorno, Antonio—”
“Matteo Monti! I know that voice.” His voice booms with fake cheer. “Your words still make the ladies swoon, no?”
I press my forehead against the window, the glass cool against my skin. Outside, wildflowers dance in the breeze, oblivious to my world imploding. “Nice to be remembered.”
“Ha! You were my star! Best-rated guide ever. The tourists, they worshiped you!”
I close my eyes, remembering why I left. “That’s good, because I’m calling with a proposition.”
“Ah, let me guess—your little dream cards, they finally failed? I wondered how long before reality caught up with you. Though you lasted longer than expected.”
“Wish Cards,” I say. “And yes, they’re popular but—”
“But expensive! This is what I always say—streamline! Tourists just want pictures for Instagram. In, out, cash in pocket.”
The worst part is, he’s right. I’ve been a fool, thinking I could build something special in this plastic world.
“So.” His voice drips with satisfaction. “You want to come back?”
Through the windshield, I watch my seniors laughing together on their picnic blankets. Chester’s telling another terrible joke. The Dawson sisters are sharing a bottle of wine. This—this is what touring should be. Real connections. Real joy.
But dreams don’t pay bank loans.
“Yes. I’m stepping away from my company.” The words are a surrender.
“You mean you’re bankrupt.”
My fingers curl into a fist. “No, it’s… personal reasons. But I’d like to bring my bus driver with me.”
“Ah, still sentimental! Well, you always had the best reviews. I do this for you, but just remember—no funny business. Stick to the schedule.”
“I understand.”
“Fantastico. You start in Rome in two days.”
My heart stops. “Sorry, but I’ll need more time to get my affairs settled.”
“Now or never, Monti. I had a guide quit this morning.”
Katie’s face flashes through my mind—earlier today, wearing my shirt, her hair a mess from my hands, planning our next two weeks together with that expression of wonder.
But I’m chaos incarnate. A man who couldn’t even keep his parents’ dream alive. What could I possibly offer her now? She deserves better than a failed tour guide who can’t fucking balance his own books.
She cares about you , my heart whispers.
She shouldn’t , my brain answers.
I’m worthless. It’s over. I lost.
“I’ll be there.” My voice sounds dead even in my own ears.
“Excellent! Welcome back to—”
I hang up before he can finish his victory speech. The phone slips from my numb fingers onto the seat.
Through the window, I spot Howie helping Deb adjust her sun hat, both of them laughing. They make it look so easy—choosing love, choosing joy.
But some of us don’t get those choices. Some of us must accept reality and admit we’re not good enough.
I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s over. Since I lost my parents, every good thing in my life eventually slips away.
Why should Katie stay?
If walking away makes me a coward, then maybe I am—because I don’t know how to stand in front of her without breaking.