21. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
KATIE
Group Chat : CPK FOREVER
Petra: WTF! Your mom’s having a social media MELTDOWN. Why is she posting that you’re getting married in Rome? And now you’re not? What the hell?
Cam: Should we be worried about all her “God’s plan” and “Everything happens for a reason” posts?
Petra: Seriously, Katie. Answer or I’m calling the embassy.
Cam: We’re here. Whatever you need. Even if it’s drinking wine through FaceTime.
Me: Everything’s fucked. I’m so fucked. My heart is… fucked.
Petra: Who should I murder? Dinosaur Boy or Italian Stallion? Or both? I’m flexible.
Me: Save your rage. They’re not worth the jail time.
Cam: When are you coming home?
Me: First flight out. And when I get back, I’m burning my passport.
ITALY CAN BITE ME. I’m so done with this whole damn country.
The sun is fucking irritating, poking through the hotel curtains like a nosy neighbor with nothing better to do. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks 12:00 over and over, acting like it doesn’t know the time—which is appropriate since I’ve lost track of it too. I shut off my phone about three emotional breakdowns ago, hoping for a message from Matteo that never came.
I burrow deeper under my pillow fortress, but the sounds of Rome invade anyway. I can hear the hum of Vespas zipping down streets, the chatter of tourists, and the low, rhythmic tolling of church bells that somehow sound judgmental. It’s as if the chimes are saying, “Quit being so dramatic, American!”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t help. The memories linger: the rough stones of that alley wall against my back, Matteo’s hands cradling my face—that kiss was like he was trying to pour his entire soul into me.
“Ti amo, mi amore.”
I love you, my love.
And then he walked away.
I stood there like a statue, watching him leave. Why didn’t I yell, chase, beg—do something? Every cell in my body wanted to go after him, to hold him, to force him to see that his struggles don’t make him less worthy of love. But I couldn’t move, not as the bitter truth pierced my hopeless heart.
He doesn’t want me in his life.
He’d rather run than love me.
And then there was Jared.
After Matteo disappeared, Jared and I finally talked. Not the kind of fake, surface-level talk we’d perfected during our relationship, but the real kind that should have happened long before.
He apologized for the ambush proposal, admitting my mother’s powers of persuasion rivaled only my own. I admitted that my obsession with planning and control isn’t just about keeping things in check; it’s my go-to coping mechanism for dealing with anxiety. And he owned up to being a lazy partner who’d gotten way too comfortable letting me sort his world into neat little boxes.
I returned his ring, wished him a lifetime of fossil-hunting happiness, and that was that.
My mother, predictably, went nuclear.
“You’re making a huge mistake, Katherine!” She hyperventilated. “Marriage is the goal of life. Security! Stability! How could you throw all that away for a silly fling with some tour guide?”
For once, I didn’t whip out a bullet-pointed argument to defend my life choices. I just looked at her and said, “Marriage is not the goal of my life, Mom. I am the goal of my life.”
And then something miraculous happened.
My brother, David “The Favorite Child” Crawford, defended me. “Katie doesn’t need someone else to validate her worth, Mom,” he declared, becoming the protective big brother I’d forever wished for. “She’s fully capable and destined for greatness. And anyone who can’t see how special she is? They don’t belong in her orbit.”
My mom didn’t say another word. Even Dad took my side and muttered something about how Jared’s tie collection was “concerning.”
In that moment, I opened my brain’s binder to the section labeled How to Be Perfect and dismissed it as total crap. I’d spent years feeling the need to systematically prove that I was enough. But now?
Poof.
Gone.
I ripped it out, shredded it, and tossed it in the trash—tabs, dividers, and all.
That was yesterday, but it seems like a lifetime ago. Today my family is wandering the streets of Rome, probably haggling over overpriced leather bags and taking selfies with random statues. And me? I’m… multitasking: turning hotel bedding into a first-class cocoon of sadness, debating which expensive room-service meal pairs best with misery, and googling how fast I can book a one-way ticket home.
Then a knock at the door.
Aunt Deb charges into the hotel suite like a champagne cork at a celebration.
“Up and at ’em darling! Your fairy godmother has arrived, armed with glitter, charm, and just enough fabulousness to banish this tragic little pity party!” She takes a dramatic sniff and recoils. “Sweet Mary and Joseph, it stinks like heartbreak and stale pasta in here.”
She pulls back the curtains and opens the windows. Rome floods in—the sounds and smells of coffee and chaos and other people’s lives.
“You’re disrupting my den of despair,” I mumble into my mattress.
She perches on my bed, her bangles clinking. “Now darling, you really must understand why I gave away my walking tour spot to your dinosaur-obsessed ex.”
I emerge from my pillow fortress, my messy bun channeling Medusa’s worst hair day. “Fine. Why did you do it?”
Her perfectly lined eyes soften. “I’ve known you since you were categorizing your baby blocks like a tiny CEO in training. Your brain’s always been a powerhouse of problem-solving, but I could tell you needed more time.”
“Yeah, well, fat lot of good that did. Jared found out anyway, and Matteo still left.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Give up? Accept defeat? Start a cat sanctuary?”
She laughs so loud they can hear it in the tunnels under the Colosseum. “Oh darling, that’s the biggest load of bull I’ve heard since your mother argued that sensible shoes were sexy. You’ve never given up on anything you truly wanted. It’s the thing about you I admire most. Took me decades to become that kind of woman—but you, my dear, were born ready to chase your dreams and make them real.”
“Wow… thank you,” I say, caught between surprise and pride. Then a question that’s been nagging at me bursts out. “Why did you turn down Howie’s proposal? Was it because you don’t love him?”
“No, it’s because I do love him.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Has your mother ever told you about the time I almost got married when I was young?”
“Mom pretty much sticks to the message ‘Aunt Deb, the Cautionary Tale of Braless Spinsterhood.’”
“Ha! Well, your rigid grandparents wrote that particular script.” A hint of melancholy flickers across her face, at odds with her luminous demeanor. “His name was Roger. We met at Berkeley—he was dynamic, passionate—leading protests against the Vietnam War. The type of man who could start a revolution with just his smile. Which he did—in my pants.”
“Aunt Deb!”
“Oh please, as if you and your Italian Stallion weren’t testing the structural integrity of every surface in Italy.” She smooths her dress, but I catch the slight shake in her hands. “Anyway, it was the Make Love, Not War era, darling, and let me tell you—we took that slogan as a personal challenge. I learned positions that made The Kama Sutra look like a children’s book.”
She waves away my scandalized expression.
“ We got engaged—had it all planned—a Golden Gate Park wedding filled with love, flowers, and just the right amount of rebellion to keep it interesting. But then your grandparents…” She hesitates, her features tightening. “Religious, old-fashioned, and about as flexible as a brick wall. They saw my young groom as a threat to everything they stood for. They made it clear: break up with the radical or lose my family.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It was the sixties, Katie-kins. If you married the wrong person, or God forbid, didn’t marry at all, people assumed you were defective or in a cult.”
She dips her hand into her purse, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and reveals a worn-out set of dog tags. The same ones I saw during my Great Condom Heist at the nude beach.
“I was young and scared, so I chose my family,” she says softly, as if reliving every moment. “Then he got drafted and I knew—God, I knew—I’d screwed up.” She pauses, swallowing hard. “I wrote to him, begged him to believe I was sorry, that I’d been wrong. Told him I’d drop everything and everyone so we could build a life together, far away from anyone who disapproved.”
“What did he say?”
“I’ll never know. The letter came back marked Deceased .” She grips the tags as though they’re the only thing keeping her from unraveling. “He died believing I chose fear over him. That I wasn’t strong enough to risk it all for us.”
Tears—ones I thought I’d exhausted—form again.
“I see the same fear in Matteo,” she adds softly. “That terror of losing what you love. But sweetie, sometimes the biggest risk is not taking one at all.”
“He’s made it pretty clear he wants nothing to do with me. His company’s bankrupt and he’s…” I choke back a wave of emotion. “He’s broken.”
“Oh, you young people and your dramatic self-sabotage! You think love ever happens in the right conditions? It’s about weathering the storms together. Preferably naked.”
“Of course you make it about sex.”
“What? Sex is an excellent cardio and emotional workout.” She takes her hands in mine. “Now answer me this—does your heart sing for him? Do you want to spend every moment with him?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “And yes.”
“Even when he’s being an idiot.”
“Especially when he’s being an idiot.”
“Then that’s your starting point. Build from there.”
“I could say the same for you and Howie.”
She arches one perfect eyebrow. “This is about you right now. Besides, there’s only room for one wise auntie who dispenses life-changing wisdom.”
I hurl myself at her in a smothering hug. “Thank you for bringing me on this trip, Aunt Deb. For teaching me that sometimes the best plans are no plans at all.”
“Oh darling, I’m just thrilled I got to witness your sexual awakening! Though I recommend being a bit more discrete in wine cellars. They can be quite the echo chambers.”
I nearly fall off the bed. “You heard that?!”
“Heard it? We were all slow clapping and cheering you on. Now tell me—was he the dynamo in the sheets I suspected? Because those hands…” She fans herself dramatically.
Heat floods my face. “Oh my God, I didn’t know you could have that many orgasms!”
“I knew it! I want all the delicious details later, but right now you need to go. Tell that beautiful man you love him—bankrupt company and all.”
“He knows I do. I’ve told him a million times.”
“Then make it a million and one.” All the theatricality drops from her voice. “Trust me, sweetie. You don’t want to live with the regret I have. Pain like this…” She tenderly places Roger’s tags back in her purse. “It stays with you forever.”
She stands and all her jewelry jangles.
“Wait—stay and help me get all dolled up?”
“Oh darling, I would, but Howie and I have a couples massage before the ceremony.”
“Ceremony?”
“What kind of love guru would I be if I didn’t follow my own amazing advice?”
With the timing of a soap opera diva, she reaches into her purse and pulls out the massive sapphire engagement ring—it’s even bigger up close—and slides it onto her finger with a flourish.
“Well, since you called off your wedding, I thought—why waste the opportunity of having the whole family here in Rome?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Someone should get married.”
She throws me a wink straight out of a Vegas showgirl’s playbook. “Ceremony’s at six. Shoes optional, orgasms mandatory!”
And then she’s gone, her voice trailing into the hallway: “Coming, sugarplum! Mama’s got plans for that massage table!”
From the hallway, I hear Howie’s warm drawl. “Whatever you want, sweet tea.”
I stare at the door, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. Because while I’ve been wallowing in my own romantic tragedy, my aunt—the woman who’s spent fifty years running from love—just showed me what courage looks like.
It doesn’t look like perfection. It doesn’t look like guarantees or neatly tied-up endings. It looks like rolling the dice, closing your eyes, and betting everything you’ve got on love.
I throw off the covers and sit up so fast the room spins.
I blink, see my binder on the nightstand, and snatch it up. My pen’s at the ready to make a list until my gaze lands on it…
The Wish Card.
It’s still blank, tucked into the clear sleeve as though it has been waiting for this moment.
I slide it out, holding the little rectangle of possibility in my hand. My fingers brush the smooth surface, and a wave of clarity sweeps over me.
This is it.
I don’t need a plan.
I just need one wish.
And I know exactly what it is.
***
I’m clean. I’m dressed. I’m caffeinated.
In under an hour I transformed myself from heartbroken tourist to professional powerhouse. My hair’s blown out, my red lipstick’s applied, and I’m rocking my most confident sundress—the one that screams “I’m here to conquer the world and your heart (and maybe your bed too) .”
Since Matteo is treating my texts as if they’re coated in radioactive man-repellant, I decided to show him what happens when you ghost a woman whose idea of foreplay is problem-solving. So I’ve shown up at his workplace unannounced, like any self-respecting stalker (I mean, determined woman) .
Natural light floods the Italy Express corporate office—all gleaming glass and polished marble with red accents. Above the reception desk is a large, mounted TV screen that displays overly smiley tourists riding on Segways. The air-conditioning hits me like a polar bear’s breath, and I swear my nipples could cut glass.
Personal memo: This thin sundress was not the power move I thought it was.
The receptionist—razor-sharp bob, perfectly manicured nails—wears a matter-of-fact smirk and is a corporate clone if I ever saw one. “ Buongiorno, signorina . Do you have an appointment?”
“No.” I flash my most dazzling smile. “But I have an urgent matter to discuss with Antonio.”
“Antonio is very busy.”
“He’ll want to see me.” I lean in as though I’m about to share government secrets. “It’s about a serious legal issue with his number one tour guide.”
Five minutes later, I’m face-to-face with Antonio himself. His overly styled helmet of hair and starch-laden red polo shirt tells me this is a guy who thinks looking slick equals being respected. He recognizes me as he says, “Ah, another one of Matteo’s broken hearts.”
The words hit like a slap, but I keep my composure. “Actually, I didn’t get to finish my tour yesterday, and I really want to see more of Italy.”
He snorts. “You look like a woman who wants to wring Matteo’s neck.”
Well, he’s not entirely wrong about the neck-wringing part.
“I need to join Matteo’s tour. Today.”
“We don’t do last-minute additions. Company policy.”
Time to pull out the big guns. “Listen, I’d hate to have to leave a scathing review about how Italy Express isn’t accommodating to its customers—especially one who works with high-profile clients.”
His eyebrow does this thing that would make The Rock jealous. “High-profile clients?”
“Yes.” I keep my voice steady, channeling my inner con artist. “Prominent celebrities.”
“Which celebrities?”
My mind races. I don’t technically know Reece Dare—social media’s favorite prankster turned energy-drink mogul—but Cam practically lives in his back pocket as his videographer. And these are desperate times…
“Reece Dare, for one.” I drop the name as if it’s no big deal, even though my internal voice is screeching “Liar, Liar, sundress on fire!”
Antonio’s eyes light. “Reece Dare? The YouTuber?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then I’ll prove it,” I tell Antonio, hitting FaceTime and praying Cam answers.
The screen rings once. Twice. “Pick up, Cam. Pick up,” I mutter under my breath, my heart doing nervous backflips.
Finally her face appears, sunshine bright as usual. “ ?Hola , Katie! What’s up girlie?”
I want to blurt out how stunning she looks. My utility-belt-wearing, scrunchie-collecting friend has gone full island goddess. She’s rocking a strapless dress that definitely wasn’t bought with camera gear in mind. Her usual practical ponytail has been replaced with soft waves, complete with a flower tucked behind her ear.
Nope. Must turn on the professionalism. “Camila Morales, thank you for taking my call.”
Her eyes do this little dance of confusion, but she matches my tone. “Of course, Miss Crawford. How can I help you?”
I angle my phone so Antonio has a clear view. “I’m here with Antonio from Italy Express. Can you please confirm that Reece Dare and I are working together on an upcoming event?”
Cam’s expression doesn’t falter, but her eyes are screaming Girl, what mess are you dragging me into? “Absolutely. I’m with Mr. Dare right now. Let me grab him.”
She turns the phone, and there he is—Reece Dare himself, in all his sun-kissed, slightly sweaty splendor, radiating dark-haired surfer Ken Doll energy—sculpted six-pack abs on full display.
“Reece,” Cam says. “Can you confirm your upcoming meeting with Katie Crawford for the launch of your new energy drink?”
His confused puppy eyes would be adorable if my entire plan didn’t hinge on his acting skills. “Oh, uh… yeah. Yes. Miss Crawford! Good to talk to you… again?”
Crap. That totally came out as a question. Hopefully, Antonio doesn’t notice.
Instead, he practically levitates out of his leather chair. “Reece Dare! I love your videos. The one with the ostrich race? Genius!”
“Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“If you’re ever in Italy, we’d love to host you for a private, complimentary tour of the country.”
“You know what? I might take you up on that. This Hawaii trip has been… mind-blowing.”
Reece’s eyes rake over Cam with the kind of fire that could set off sprinklers. I can feel the heat radiating through the screen before he says, “Nice talking to you, Miss Crawford.”
Oh. My. God. That look. Coming from a man Cam refers to as Prickwad Douchewaffle. Why is he suddenly giving her ruin-me-in-a-rainforest energy?
Cam’s face pops back into view, a flush spreading across her cheeks. Is she getting lei’d in paradise? “Thank you for calling.”
“Yes, and I hope your trip is… satisfying.” I try to keep the spill the tea out of my voice.
“LOTS to catch you up on later,” she says with a smirk that promises scandalous details. “I suggest you watch tomorrow’s video. Hasta luego ,“ she says before hanging up.
I study Antonio, who’s still basking in the afterglow of his brush with YouTube fame.
“All right,” he sighs, defeated but trying not to show it. “I’ll add you to Matteo’s tour. But promise me you’ll get Reece Dare to come to Italy. It would be a dream come true.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say, tucking away both my phone and my guilt about lying.
Antonio hands me a clipboard full of forms, which I sign without reading. My mind is already racing ahead.
I’m coming for you, Matteo Monti.
***
The Colosseum teems with energy and excitement, but all I can focus on is my pounding heart and sweaty palms. Tour groups swarm every corner, snapping selfies, their voices blending into a chaotic hum of languages I don’t recognize. The air smells of sunscreen, sweat, and overpriced gelato. Next to me, a group of teens are losing it over the bad Wi-Fi situation. Tragic. I mean, how will they share their $10 coffees with the world?
But none of that matters.
Because there he is. Matteo Monti. Red flag in hand, looking like a grumpy Italian snack in his red polo shirt. His khakis are pressed within an inch of their life (who hurt you, khakis?) , and his artfully messed-up hair has my fingers itching to mess it up more. That scowl on his face? It shouldn’t make my lady bits tingle, but here we are .
I weave through the crowd like I’m playing human Frogger , dodging selfie sticks and overstuffed backpacks until I’m close enough to hear him. His voice carries over the headset receivers, low and gravelly, but there’s no passion. He’s listing off facts the same way he’d read the ingredients on the back of a cereal box.
“Built in 70 AD. Originally named the Flavian Amphitheater. Could seat up to fifty thousand spectators…”
Oh hell no. This is not my Matteo.
“Excuse me,” I shout loudly. “But I didn’t get my headphones.”
Matteo’s head snaps up, his dark eyes locking onto mine. His face flickers, for just a split second (is that surprise? A hint of relief?) , but then his scowl returns with a vengeance.
“Katie. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for the tour. Obviously.”
“You’re not part of this tour.”
“Oh, but I am.” I grin, pulling my secret weapon out of my bag: the red shirt. “Ta-da! Official member of the Italy Express Red Shirt Brigade. Or should I say brigata ? That’s Italian for brigade, right? No? Still Spanish?”
“Bella. I don’t have time for this.”
“Oh, you’ve got time.” I step closer, making sure his group is watching—because what’s a public rejection without an audience? “I have no headphones. How can I possibly hear all the riveting information about gladiators and lions? I have questions. About their dietary habits. Their workout schedules. Their skincare routines.”
He narrows his eyes. “This isn’t the time or place.”
“Then when, Matteo?” I challenge. “Because I’ve been texting you, calling you, trying to do this the easy way, but all I’ve gotten is silence. You’ve left me no choice but to join your lovely tour. I even brought snacks for everyone. But if you choose the hard way…”
The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s fighting a smirk. “Why can’t you just take no for an answer?”
“Not my style,” I shoot back, tilting my head. “You know that.”
He looks at me sternly and exhales, as if to say I’m not playing your game , and sharply turns back to his group. “We have five more minutes for pictures,” he announces, “and then we’ll visit the gift shop, where they’re offering a discount on ‘I Survived the Colosseum’ mugs.”
“So you’re choosing the hard way. Fine, but remember, you asked for this. I just wanted to talk.”
A flicker of concern crosses his stupidly handsome face. Good. He should be worried. Because the hard way? It’s a public spectacle that’ll probably get me banned from Italy forever and earn me my own special exhibit in the Embarrassing American Tourist Hall of Fame.
I step into the middle of the Colosseum’s dusty floor and the crowd takes notice. I pull my portable speaker out of my purse and set it down, ready to drop the beat like it’s the party of the century. My fingers fumble with my phone as I scroll through playlists.
“All right, Katie,” I mutter to myself as I pull on the red shirt and adjust the feather boa I definitely didn’t steal from Aunt Deb’s luggage. “Time to channel your inner exotic dancer.”
I hit Play .
The opening drumbeat of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” by Def Leppard ricochets off the large stone walls like a call to arms. Every confused tourist within earshot freezes mid-selfie and swivels in my direction.
No turning back now.
This is it.
Showtime.
On the front of my shirt, in hastily scribbled Sharpie letters, is the word K-Tease .
I strike my first pose, legs wide, boa trailing behind me like a sequined comet, and start gyrating my hips as if I’m spinning an imaginary hula hoop. The amphitheater echoes with the unmistakable sound of ’80s glam metal—and suddenly, I’m eleven years old again in Mrs. Garrett’s fifth-grade talent show, mortifying myself in front of my classmates.
Except this time there’s no Mrs. Garrett to hold me back. And no talent show trophy to win. Just Matteo Monti, standing somewhere behind me, ready to either murder me or finally, finally talk to me.
My hips jerk left, then right, then freeze somewhere in between. It’s not so much grapevine as a full-blown “get this spider off me” dance. Phones are popping up, recording my chaos, so I throw in a symbolic shoulder shimmy that says, “You’re welcome, world.”
Despite the music blaring, the Colosseum fills with the sound of people choking on their laughter.
But Spontaneous Katie doesn’t care about dignity anymore. She bends her knees, throws her arms up, and attempts a spin that nearly takes out a family of four standing too close.
I drop to the ground— yes, the ground —and do what can only be described as the world’s most uncoordinated body roll. I’m like a fish flopping on the deck of a boat. The boa gets caught in my hair, but I push through because Aunt Deb taught me: never break character, darling.
“Sweet baby Jesus, what am I looking at?” someone mutters in the crowd. It’s a valid question.
I spring back to my feet—or try to. It takes two attempts and I flash everyone my cotton panties in the process. The boa, now more of a sad feather duster, gets tangled in my hair as I attempt to twirl it over my head like a lasso. It whips back and smacks me in the face, leaving me spitting out feathers.
Then I spot him.
Matteo.
He’s standing a few feet away with the most bewildered expression I’ve ever seen.
I throw my arms wide, channeling all the false confidence I have, and shout over the music, “Are you not entertained?!”
“Katie,” he snaps. “What. The. Hell.”
“Just living my best life!” I attempt a high kick that barely clears my knee. “But I’ll stop if you talk to me.”
“No.”
“Then buckle up, Monti. This routine’s on repeat until my phone battery runs out. Which means every three minutes you’ll see my finale which involves”—I pause for dramatic effect—“jazz hands.”
His face twitches. “Jazz hands?”
“Never underestimate the power of jazz hands, Matteo.” I fling the boa over my shoulder and attempt another high kick. “Did you know I can do the worm? I mean, I can’t, but I’m willing to try. Right here. On this sacred, once-respected ground. In front of all these nice people with cameras.”
The crowd’s totally on board now. A group of college guys begins chanting “K-Tease! K-Tease!”
Matteo steps closer—he’s either going to strangle or kiss me. “I’m at work. Besides, you’re going to get us both arrested.”
“Fine by me. You’ll be forced to talk in jail.” I twirl again, my movements so stiff and jerky I look like a malfunctioning robot. “Your choice, Italian Stallion. I can do this all day.”
He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re insane.”
“Says the man who won’t stop me,” I say, attempting a seductive shimmy; but I’m guessing it looks more like I’m being electrocuted in slow motion.
Matteo steps into my personal space, his eyes burning into mine. “Fine. You win. I’ll talk to you. But for the love of God, turn off that music before the Colosseum bans Italy Express forever.”
I snatch up my phone, killing the music mid-guitar solo, panting and sweaty but triumphant. “Thank God. Without a microphone stand, I was going to have to do my big ending by grinding on you.”
That does it. Matteo laughs—a deep, sexy, throat-shaking laugh that makes my knees wobble. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.
“Ridiculously determined,” I say, grinning up at him.
He crosses his unfairly muscled arms across his chest, and I have to suck back my drool. Post-dance cardio plus bicep exposure is a dangerous combination.
“All right, principessa, what can you say that hasn’t already been said?”
I ignore his tone—because Matteo loves to pretend he’s unbothered while secretly having all the feelings—and whip out my binder. His eyes drop to it, and that mouth I want to kiss curls up. “Of course you brought that.”
“What can I say? A girl likes to be prepared.” I flip it open with a flourish, pulling out the Wish Card with nervous fingers. “I finally decided what I want for my wish.”
“That tour ended, Katie.”
“Just take it,” I insist, shoving it at his chest.
His jaw tightens as he reads, then softens as he speaks the words aloud: “I wish for Matteo Monti to love me.”
His gaze lifts to mine. A storm is brewing. “Katie, I already love you. You know that. That’s not the problem.”
“Yeah, I figured you would say that. I’ve made a plan to tackle your problems and show you how we can build a perfect future.”
I thrust my binder at him as if I’m serving legal papers. He takes it, his expression caught between skepticism and curiosity as he flips through the pages. One. Two. Three. His movements grow more frantic. “What is this?” His eyes dart to mine, confusion written all over that beautiful face. “These pages are blank.”
“Exactly,” I say, stepping closer. “I don’t want a perfect life anymore. I want the messy, unpredictable, slightly terrifying life with you. That’s the point. I don’t have a plan.”
“You… want to wing it?”
“Yes. Bring on the chaos. The unknown. We’ll figure it out together. Though maybe with a smidge better accounting practices.”
“Katie… I don’t know. I’ve never been in a relationship and—” He swallows hard. “I can’t let you down.”
I grab his hand and press it to my chest, directly over my hammering heart. “You don’t have to promise me forever,” I whisper. “I just need you to love me. The rest we’ll figure out one day at a time.”
His eyes lock onto mine, wide and vulnerable. “I don’t deserve you.”
“And I don’t deserve you,” I whisper back. “Yet somehow we found each other.”
Something shifts in his expression, like a dam breaking. His hands cup my face, and then his mouth is on mine, hot and desperate and perfect. His kiss is a fierce, unbridled force of feelings impossible to contain, a thunderous roar that sweeps me off my feet and steals my breath away.
When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against mine, his breath fans across my lips.
“But what if this goes horribly wrong?”
“What if it goes amazingly right?”
A smile tugs at his lips. “I guess if it does go wrong, we know who to blame.”
“Lorenzo,” we say together, chuckling.
“Are you sure you’re not Italian?” Matteo says with a smile. “Because your stubbornness rivals Caterina’s.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Oh, it was,” he says, then shifts his voice to a sinful rumble. “And I expect to see that stubborn fire in my bedroom tonight. After the tour.”
I raise an eyebrow, patting his chest. “Then you’d better get back to it, Italian Stallion.”
His palms settle against my cheeks, his eyes tender and warm. “Katie, you are the most captivating creature I’ve ever beheld. I will make it my mission to be worthy of your love.”
Before I can respond, he grabs my waist and lifts me off the ground, my legs instinctively wrapping around him. “And screw waiting,” he growls, his lips brushing my ear. Louder, he announces, “Attenzione! One hour till go time!”
He holds me tight as he leans over and scoops up my dance gear and purse.
“Where are we going?” I ask, breathless and giddy.
“I thought I’d show you my Leaning Tower of Pisa.”
“Oh really? Let me guess—it’s rock-solid?”
“Only for you, mi amore .”
“Say it again.”
“Mi amore.”
His lips meet mine, and in that moment, I know two things: (1) Matteo Monti is my soulmate, and (2) I’m either getting a call… or my she-devil of an aunt slipped her “travel companion” into my purse.
Bzzzzzzzzzz!