19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
KATIE
Me: Any updates on Stan?
Me: Enrico and I got everyone checked into the hotel in Rome.
Me: Are you getting these texts?
Italian Stallion: Stan’s pacemaker failed. He is stable now.
Italian Stallion: Thank you for helping Enrico.
Italian Stallion: I will see everyone tomorrow at breakfast.
Me: We need to finish our talk.
Italian Stallion: I have nothing else to say.
HE SAID MI AMORE.
Not bella , not principessa , not cara mia . No, mi freaking amore . My love. He looked me in the eye, kissed me like I held the key to his freedom, and said the words he’s apparently never said to anyone else. And now— What the hell?
My phone’s screen glows in the pre-dawn darkness, mocking me with its silence. I’ve reread Matteo’s texts so many times the words have lost all meaning.
In a desperate attempt to regain some sanity, I do what I do best. I make a list.
Possible Reasons Matteo Monti is Ghosting Me:
1. Alien abduction (Replaced by a very handsome extraterrestrial).
2. He’s actually a spy, and my presence has compromised his latest mission (Code name: Italian Stallion).
3. He won the Italian lottery and thinks I’m after his newfound millions.
4. He has a secret third nipple (No. Scratch that. I’d definitely have noticed).
5. He’s allergic to Americans, and the symptoms have just started kicking in.
6. He knows I overthink everything, so he fled before I could pitch turning Monti Tours into an international franchise.
7. Deep down, he’s just an asshole.
8. My mother’s “Team Jared” energy has cursed my love life.
9. He’s secretly married to Lorenzo.
My normally pristine handwriting has devolved into aggressive scrawls. I’m a woman who’s mainlined enough espresso to give a rhino heart palpitations.
I slam the binder shut, but the restlessness coursing through my veins demands action. The hotel room has become a cage.
From her bed near the window, Aunt Deb snores obnoxiously. She rolls over, mumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “Howie” before burrowing deeper into her silk sleep mask.
Great. We’re both disasters in the romance department. At least she got a marriage proposal. All I got was an “I have nothing else to say” after the most intense declaration of my life.
The hotel’s ancient radiator clanks on, startling me so bad my pen goes flying. It skitters across the floor as if it’s trying to escape my descent into madness. I should probably follow its example, but instead, I’m hate-staring at my phone while mentally composing texts I’ll never send.
Finally it’s breakfast time, and I’ve been up since dawn, running on exactly three and a half hours of sleep and an unhealthy mix of caffeine and rage. I’m seated at a table with Aunt Deb, who’s weirdly quiet this morning—probably still processing the whole Howie and the Boulder That Could Sink the Titanic proposal fiasco—but I can’t focus on her.
My eyes are locked on the doorway with the intensity of a sniper, willing that infuriating man to appear and give me something . A smile. A wink. A hey, sorry for being a feelings-phobic jackass. Anything.
Spoiler alert: He doesn’t walk in.
I need intel. Information. Data points I can organize into some semblance of sense.
Instead, I get Lorenzo, putting professional competitive eaters to shame at the breakfast buffet. His plate looks like he’s preparing for hibernation, if bears hibernated on prosciutto and pastries.
I corner him between the bread basket and fruit display, planting myself in his path like a particularly determined traffic cone. “Lorenzo.”
He acknowledges me with a grunt that somehow manages to convey both “good morning” and “please go away” in a single sound.
“Have you seen Matteo?”
“No,” he grumbles, shoveling bacon onto his plate fast and furious.
I cross my arms. “Tell me, are all Italian men stupid assholes?”
“Sì,” he replies without hesitation, his voice devoid of irony.
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Sì.”
“Okay, well, do you know what’s bothering him?”
“Sì.”
My heart skips a beat. Finally some progress! “Will you tell me?”
He stops mid-bite. “No, piccola.”
“Why not?”
“Some men, they carry world on shoulders. Until they ready to share weight…” He shrugs.
Then, as if he’s just dropped some secret piece of wisdom, he inhales his pastry and walks away.
I stand there, shell-shocked, as he plops down at a table and digs into his buffet for one, utterly unfazed by the emotional bomb he just dropped.
What. The. Actual. Hell.
“Men,” Aunt Deb mutters when I flop back into my seat, radiating frustration.
“Men,” I echo, stabbing my croissant with unnecessary force.
For a brief moment, she smirks, her usual Aunt Deb sparkle flickering back to life. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re in love with that Italian stud.”
I scowl at her. “I’m not in love with him. I’m in rage with him.”
“All shades of the same color, darling,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee.
I glare at my plate, my chest tight with confusion and hurt and a tiny glimmer of hope I can’t quite extinguish. Matteo Monti might have called me mi amore , but right now? He’s mi headache . And I’m not leaving Rome without some damn answers.
“There she is! Katie! Katie!”
I freeze mid-stab into my half-dissected pastry. That voice. That voice belongs to— No. It couldn’t be. My head swivels toward the entrance, and my stomach drops.
I blink. Once. Twice. “Mom?”
There, standing in the doorway, is my mother, Suzanne Crawford. Her impeccably highlighted blonde hair and country-club tennis tan radiate suburban perfection. But she’s not alone. Oh no. Behind her is my entire family, lined up like suspects in a crime where the weapon was passive aggression.
My fork clatters against fine china as I take in the emerging catastrophe. My dad in his signature golf polo. My brother David, who probably squeezed in this family ambush between saving babies and walking on water. His perfect wife Emma and their Instagram-worthy children. And hovering at the edges like supporting characters in my personal rom-com gone wrong: Jared’s parents?
“Surprise!” Mom’s voice could shatter the crystal chandeliers. “We’re in Rome!”
She yanks me from my chair and pulls me into a hug so tight I’m pretty sure one of my tits just got a mammogram. “Can you believe it? We’re all here!”
“No,” I manage, my voice strangled. “Really. I cannot believe you are all here.”
I shoot Aunt Deb a desperate look, but she simply raises her coffee cup with a smirk. “You’re on your own for this one, kiddo.”
And then, as if Satan himself is determined to turn my life into a horror movie, I see him.
Jared.
Standing there in his neatly knotted tie covered in tiny dinosaur fossils. He’s a man who missed the memo to stay in the past.
“Hey there, Katiebug.” His smile is hesitant, familiar.
“Hi?” I say, the word tumbling out more like a question because my brain has gone offline.
“Oh, isn’t this just wonderful!” my mom chirps, clearly oblivious to the fiery vortex of chaos she’s unleashed. “I’ve been talking to Jared’s mom, Barbara, and we both agreed it was time to hatch a plan to get you two back together. Surprise! ”
I gape at her, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish desperately searching for water. Words? Where are the words?
Jared takes a step closer, rubbing the back of his neck in that boyish, awkward way he used to when he’d forget my birthday. “Katie, listen. I… I’m sorry. I’ve missed you like crazy. I didn’t reach out because I didn’t know what to say after being such a jerk. But Katie, I still love you.”
“And don’t worry,” Mom chirps, patting Jared’s arm as though he’s a prized show poodle. “I told him all about your tour guide fake-boyfriend scheme to get his attention.”
“Yes, it worked!” Jared nods enthusiastically. “I was insanely jealous. When I saw those pictures of you with that guy, I thought I’d lost my shot completely. Then your mom reached out and told me your true feelings.”
She said what now?
I stand, dumbfounded. Aunt Deb gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up, clearly enjoying the show.
“Okay.” I finally find my voice. “But what are you all doing here? Why are you in Rome?”
My mom gives Jared a nudge that’s about as subtle as Chester doing naked lunges on the beach.
And then? The entire Crawford-Wagner clan pulls out their phones and starts filming.
Jared drops to one knee.
“Oh shit.” Did I say that out loud?
Aunt Deb whispers loud enough for me to hear, “Well, this just got interesting.”
Chairs creak as the seniors lean forward in their seats. Mrs. Thomas actually pulls out opera glasses.
“Katherine Blair Crawford,” Jared starts, pulling out a ring box. “I was an idiot. A big one. Losing you was the hardest thing I’ve ever endured. But we can fix it. Let’s have a wedding in Rome! Be spontaneous! Will you marry—”
I lose track of the words. Matteo stands at the back of the room.
No. No no no no no.
He’s just… standing there… hands shoved into his pockets… eyes steady and intense. He’s zeroed in on me, but his expression is unreadable.
I’m frozen. I have no contingency plan for this.
“Oh, how romantic!” my mother squeals. “You’ve made her speechless. Of course she wants to. Jared, stand up, put the ring on her finger!”
Both mothers start clapping and cheering like they’ve just successfully merged two Fortune 500 companies. The room erupts in applause; the sound is a wall of static.
My eyes find Matteo’s across the room. For a moment, agony flashes across his face, before he masks it with a bright smile. He claps loudly, shouting “Congratulazioni!” as though this isn’t breaking both our hearts.
As if mi amore meant nothing at all.
Aunt Deb clears her throat, the devil’s glint back in her eye. I know that look. It’s her “I’m about to cause a scene and thoroughly enjoy myself doing it” look. “Jared, sweetheart,” she says, her voice saccharine sweet, “you simply must meet Matteo. The tour guide who played such a pivotal role in getting our Katie back on the path to true love.”
My head jerks toward her so fast I’m surprised my neck doesn’t snap. I give her my best what the actual fuck are you doing? glare, but Deb just winks back. Winks. “No, that’s really not—”
“Matteo! Be a dear and come meet Katie’s fiancé!” Aunt Deb blurts out.
Oh God. Every step Matteo takes toward us feels like watching a slow-motion train wreck, and I’m caught in a surreal, out-of-body experience watching it unfold.
His face is carefully blank, but there’s tension in his jaw that makes me want to either kiss it away or run screaming from the room. Neither seems appropriate with my entire family recording this disaster on their phones.
Deb, on the other hand, is in her element. She gestures grandly between them. “Matteo Monti, meet Jared Wagner. The man who dumped our Katie and broke her heart into a thousand tiny little pieces. And Jared, this is Matteo. The man who worked tirelessly to help put her back together and win you over again.”
Kill me now. Just… please, universe, let me spontaneously combust into a pile of ash right here.
Jared extends a hand, looking sheepish but trying to be polite. “Uh, nice to meet you,” he says, though his tone suggests he’s not entirely sure if Matteo is friend or foe.
In a panic, I blurt, “My mom told Jared all about our fake-dating scheme.”
Matteo’s gaze is so intense it could set fire to an iceberg. “So glad it worked out. I know Katie had only one goal when she came to Italy, to win you back.”
The emphasis he puts on “one goal” feels like being stabbed with Lorenzo’s pastry fork. Repeatedly. In the heart.
“Well, yes, that was my plan but—”
I stop. No.
No more lies.
No more dodging.
I have to tell the truth.
I have to say it out loud.
“That was before I fell in love with—”
“Italy,” Matteo cuts in smoothly, his smile never reaching his eyes. “Katie fell in love with Italy. Like everyone does. You will too, I’m sure.”
He gives me a pointed look, daring me to contradict him. I’m too stunned to speak. The words are right there, but my tongue’s on strike.
“And what a delight it has been! But alas, today is our last adventure together on this tour. I must round up our wonderful group. Arrivederci!” He turns to leave, adding over his shoulder, “Again, congratulazioni to you both. Katie, please leave a five-star review, per favore.”
And with that, he walks away. Like I’m nothing. As if we’re nothing. My chest aches, and it’s not just from holding my breath.
Matteo reaches the center of the room and claps his hands. “Buongiorno! I have fantastico news about Stan. He is doing much better but still recovering. Therefore, he and Rose will not be with us today.”
There’s a collective sigh of relief from the seniors, but Matteo doesn’t spare me a second glance as he continues. “And it appears that Katie and Deborah have made other plans today. But for the rest of you, we will meet in the lobby for our walking tour of Rome.”
Is this how it ends? Matteo Monti tossing me aside like another tourist he sweet-talked into bed, then dismissed by checkout time? Everything we’ve shared so easily forgotten? Am I just one more forgettable stop for the tour guide and his love-‘em-and-leave-’em itinerary?
My chest constricts; the ache spreading through me is a slow poison. No. This isn’t us. Not after the way he kissed me, the way “mi amore” fell from his lips like a love spell. I can’t reconcile that man with the one ignoring me now.
This can’t be the end. I won’t let it be.
“I’m still coming!” I shout. Heads swivel in my direction, and I can feel every pair of eyes in the room on me.
Jared frowns, his brow furrowing in that familiar, condescending way that used to make me feel small. “Katie, I thought we’d spend the day together.”
“Katie, sweetheart,” my mom chimes in. “We have to work on wedding details. So much to plan!”
I shake my head, my voice firm. “I already mapped today out in my binder. And you know how I am about my schedules.”
Jared’s hand finds mine. “Of course. I know you like to stick to your plans.”
“I’m sorry,” Matteo interjects, “but we don’t have room for everyone in your group to join us.”
“That’s fine,” Aunt Deb pipes up with unholy glee. “Jared can take my place.”
The look I shoot her could incinerate her designer sunglasses, but she just wiggles her fingers as if she’s conducting an orchestra of chaos.
“I’ll hang back and help Suzanne with the wedding plans,” she adds with faux innocence. “I’ve seen Rome plenty of times.”
The room closes in. My brain, usually a well-oiled machine of backup plans and emergency protocols, is out of order. My heart pounds so hard I hear it in my ears.
Jared turns to Matteo, completely oblivious to the tension radiating off both of us. “Thanks, man,” he says, clapping Matteo on the shoulder like they’re old frat buddies. “Appreciate you making room for me to be with my girl.”
“I aim to please,” he says, his tone razor-sharp.
“Oh, he’s very accommodating,” Deb adds with a wicked grin. “Isn’t he, Katie?” Then she winks at me again, completely unbothered by the fact that she’s actively lighting my life on fire.
“Well,” Jared says, turning to me with that smug, self-assured smile—once swoon-worthy, now rage inducing. “Guess it’s settled. Ready for our big day in Rome, Katiebug?”
Katiebug. God, I hate that nickname. I used to think it was sweet, but now it’s a leash, like he’s trying to pull me back into a version of myself I’ve outgrown.
I force a smile, my brain still frantically searching for an escape hatch. “Actually, Jared—”
“Wonderful!” Mom says. “Deborah, you and I will start brainstorming wedding venues, and the lovebirds can enjoy their day together. Isn’t this just perfect ?”
“Perfect,” I echo, my voice dripping with sarcasm that goes entirely unnoticed by my mother.
Jared beams at me, and I feel Matteo’s gaze on me again, heavy and unreadable. I glance at him, desperate for a signal or subtle clue to know what he’s thinking. But his face is a mask, his eyes distant.
“One hour till go time!” Matteo calls out, already turning away.
I watch him stride toward the door. “Oh!” I slap my hand against my chest. “My pen! Jared, I forgot my traveling pen upstairs.”
“We can get you another one in the lobby,” he offers, as if I’m some kind of pen harlot who’ll write with just anything.
“No, you don’t understand. This is my special pen. My lucky pen. The one I’ve been using the whole trip.” I say, already backing away. “With the perfect grip and the .38-millimeter point that makes my lists look like calligraphy done by angels. I can’t have a notebook filled with mismatched ink styles and color discrepancies. Be right back!”
I sprint out of the breakfast room like my cardigan’s on fire, catching sight of Matteo’s broad shoulders disappearing down the carpeted corridor. Without thinking—which is becoming an alarmingly frequent occurrence—I grab his arm and shove him into the nearest bathroom, locking the door.
“Katie, what—”
“I had no idea they were coming.”
“You’re lucky,” he cuts in, voice flat. “To have family who loves you so much.”
The hotel bathroom’s fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, making Matteo resemble a brooding Italian statue. A very sexy, very stubborn statue who’s currently giving me his best I’m a tough guy who doesn’t have feelings face.
“Nuh-uh. Don’t make this about them.” My palm connects with his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath my touch. “This is about you running away from us.”
“There is no us.”
“Stop saying that.” My voice catches on the lump in my throat. “Yes, there is.”
“No, bella.” The muscle in his jaw ticks—his tell when he’s lying. “That is just the glow of vacation. Jared is real. He is the kind of man you want.”
Every cell in my body rebels against his words. “No, he’s not. And we’re not talking about Jared or anything about that shitshow that just happened out there. We’re talking about us.”
“Again, bella.” His voice is sandpaper. “There is no us .”
I step closer, my hand finding his cheek. His stubble scratches my palm as he instinctively leans into my touch. “Last night you called me mi amore .”
For one blazing moment, his mask slips. Then he jerks away, leaving my hand burning in empty air.
“You misunderstood. I did not say mi amore .” His laugh sounds like breaking glass. “You don’t speak Italian, bella. I said mi attrai . It means you attract me . It’s just flirting, keeping things romantic. That’s all.”
“Wow, good to know that gaslighting is just as popular in Italy.” My nails dig crescents into my palms. “So we’re rewriting history now? Next, you’ll tell me all those orgasms were just part of the standard tour package.”
“You can’t force this to be something it’s not. You can’t control everything, bellissima.”
“And you can’t pretend what’s between us doesn’t exist. You don’t get to control how I feel about you.”
“Life doesn’t always work out giving you everything you want.” He sighs, and something dark and wounded flashes in his eyes, a glimpse of the real pain he’s hiding.
“You don’t want to tell me what’s really bothering you, fine.” I soften my voice. “I know something happened. I figured out that much from Lorenzo. Let me in, Matteo. Let me help.”
“Nothing’s broken except this fantasy you’ve built.” His jaw clenches. "You’re the forever kind of girl. I’m the right-now kind of guy. I told you that from day one.”
“That’s bullshit. I’m not asking for marriage. I’m asking for you to be honest.”
“You want honesty?” His eyes burn into mine. “It was just sex. Amazing sex. You were fun.”
The words are bullets to my chest. “Is that really all I was? Just another tourist to fuck?”
“You wanted to feel desired.” His voice could shred steel. “Mission accomplished. Vacation over.”
“Not yet it isn’t.”
His hands fist at his sides. “Let’s end this cleanly.”
“No.” I step closer, watching his control fracture.
“I don’t want you.”
Another step. “Your body betrays you.”
“Katie—” My name sounds wrecked on his lips.
I press closer, until there’s nothing between us but lies and want. His eyes drop to my mouth, hunger blazing in their depths.
“You want to kiss me right now.”
“No.” But his voice shakes.
I brush my lips against his jaw. “Yes, you do.”
“Principessa—” It comes out like a plea.
“No.” I silence him. “You want to play this the hard way, not tell me what’s going on? Fine. I’m not going to make it easy for you to walk away from me.” I take a step back. “Let me explain something about relationships since you’ve spent your entire adult life dodging them. Couples fight. They work out their problems. And then they kiss and make up.”
My hand finds the door handle, but I pause, turning back to deliver one final blow. “And by the end of the day, you’re going to tell me what’s wrong, kiss me, and admit that you love me.”
His head jerks up, his brow furrowing, and for a fleeting moment, his expression wavers. Hope? Guilt? Panic. Maybe all three? I don’t wait to find out. If I stay one second longer, I’ll do something reckless.
I yank the door open and storm out—my flats are tiny war drums slapping against the polished tile.
But the satisfaction of my dramatic exit is short-lived. As I strut down the hallway, I realize I have no plan. I’m basically a ten-year-old who just declared she’s running away from home but forgot to pack snacks.
The air smells like Italian coffee and pastries, and for a second I consider abandoning my plan to win Matteo back and simply bury my feelings in cannoli. But no. I can’t do that. I’m a woman with a mission. A very vague, half-baked mission, but a mission nonetheless.
What the hell are you doing, Katie?
Chasing after a man who told me I’m nothing but a vacation fling? Who basically stamped No Refunds on his heart and expects me to just accept it?
But then I remember how he looked at me last night. I was the center of his universe. I was his.
And damn it, I am his. He just won’t admit it yet.
This whole morning has been a three-ring circus of emotions, and I’m done being the silent clown. My mom, Jared, Matteo—they’ve all decided what’s best for me. But newsflash: It’s my life. My decisions. My mess to make.
Ugh. Jared.
Who flies to another continent, ambushes their ex with a proposal, and expects a standing ovation? Please. Maybe if after six years he’d ever managed to find my clitoris I’d feel a tiny bit bad about using him to make Matteo jealous. But he didn’t, so I don’t.
These men think they can tell me how to feel? How to love? The only difference is, one of them makes my pulse throb in all the right places (hint, it’s not the one with the dinosaur tie collection).
Operation Win Back the Italian Stallion is officially in motion. Because if there’s one thing Matteo Monti needs to learn, it’s that Katie “Control Freak” Crawford doesn’t give up.
Not on love.
Not on mind-blowing orgasms.
And definitely not on him.