22. EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
MATTEO
1 YEAR LATER
“BUONGIORNO!” KATIE AND I chorus, warmly greeting the travelers inside our beloved four-wheeled disaster. The old girl got some upgrades—expensive tires, fresh paint, new seats—but that mysterious smell? It’s either still haunting us or Lorenzo’s prosciutto farts have gotten worse.
“Before we begin our adventure today,” I announce, catching Katie’s eye with a playful wink, “we need your help getting this chariot of dreams moving.”
My gorgeous girlfriend is effortlessly commanding attention in her way-too-adorable sundress that’s making my blood run hot. Her blonde hair bounces with each little gesture, and her smile owns me. Then, because she’s a menace, she throws me a flirty over-the-shoulder look that has my heartbeat thumping… below the belt.
Katie smirks, then takes the mic. “Everyone ready? Guida l’autobus, Lorenzo!”
They respond with a chorus of mangled Italian sounds and syllables. It’s not pretty, but it does the job. Lorenzo, reigning champion of minimal cues, grunts and adjusts his signature newsboy cap before stomping on the gas. The bus lurches forward, sounding like a dragon gargling rocks.
We’ve come to appreciate her noises as the old girl’s way of saying, “Buckle up, bambinos, this nonna’s ready to party!”
Katie leans into me, her strawberry scent mixing with our ride’s eternal eau de mysterious, and whispers, “Tu me vuelves loca, Semental Italiano .”
You drive me wild, Italian Stallion.
Even with her terrible accent, my cock pulses at her phrase.
“Still Spanish, mi amore.” I slide my hand to her hip, hidden from our audience.
“Oh is it?” She grins wickedly. “I didn’t know.”
Thing is. She’s fluent in Italian now. Like, could sit down with the Pope and swap ravioli recipes fluent. She tackled it the way she does everything—with laser focus and enough enthusiasm to make the rest of us look lazy. And her absolute refusal to behave does things to me I can’t begin to explain. I’m a goner for her. Completely and irrevocably hers.
Now we are studying French and Spanish together, expanding Monti Tours to welcome more international travelers. But my new favorite hobby is hearing her practice dirty talk in multiple languages. When she purrs those filthy phrases, I swear, I’m putty in her hands. My appreciation for linguistics has reached a whole nother level.
She kisses my jaw before speaking into the mic. “Everyone, check the pocket in front of your seats! You’ll find our welcome packages along with a collapsible water bottle, local treats, and mineral sunscreen—because barbecue-chicken-skin-glow vibes are not the photos we’re looking for in Verona.”
This is my Katie—always thinking three steps ahead. She’s revolutionized my touring company with these thoughtful touches. When we decided to manage the business together, she was true to her word about “making it up” as we went along. But once we agreed on a direction—Madonna santa—did she run with it.
I’ll never forget the night she burst into our bedroom, wearing nothing but one of my shirts—hair wild, eyes blazing, and sexy determination that had my whole body at attention. She found the solution to reviving Monti Tours—premium pricing.
Unlike Italy Express with their cookie-cutter tours, we now offer a unique experience. Travelers submit their Wish Cards before booking, detailing their travel aspirations in Italy. Katie, spreadsheet sorceress that she is, calculates the exact cost to make that wish come true, right down to the last cannoli. Then the client decides if their heart’s desire is worth the premium price tag.
Not a single complaint. In fact, we have repeat customers booking trip after trip because each vacation is completely different. My Katie didn’t just save my company—she reinvented it as something unforgettable.
The seniors-only tours will always be our most beloved. There’s a special charm in watching retirees embrace life with the enthusiasm of college kids on spring break—minus the body shots and terrible decisions. Well… minus the terrible decisions anyway.
This particular group holds an extra special place in our hearts. Several faces from that first chaotic tour where Katie and I met are back, proving that even mysterious bus smells can’t keep a good tourist down.
Katie pulls out today’s Wish Card, handing it to me with a genuine smile. “Matteo, please share what wish we’re making come true today.”
“Signore e signori,” I project with a theatrical flourish, “today we journey to fair Verona, where our dear friend Chester wishes to pay homage to the famous statue of Juliet.”
“By ‘homage’ he means cop a feel of those bronze knockers!” Chester yells from his seat, waggling his eyebrows. Today’s funny shirt reads, Still Got the Moves, Just Need a Little WD-40.
The bus passengers cackle with laughter.
“Mrs. Thomas and I are excited about our first bronze three-way. It’s a ménage à trois where no one can complain about cold hands.”
“Chester!” Mrs. Thomas swats his arm, but her blush says she’s not really objecting.
Katie grabs the mic, eyes dancing. “Speaking of familiar faces, we are thrilled to welcome Mrs. Thomas again.”
“Well, it was either sit at home watching soap operas or come hang out with you crazy people!” she shouts, her fingers intertwined with Chester’s.
Their first trip brought them together, and now? They’re inseparable.
I’m holding back the most exciting part of Chester’s wish. Despite his jokester reputation, he’s unironically planned a heartfelt, over-the-top proposal. I proofread his speech and it brought me to tears, especially the ending: “Forever starts here, with you and me.” Mrs. Thomas has no clue how romantic this man is under all that silliness.
Seeing them reminds me of the first time I held Katie’s hand in Verona—on our first real date, when my fingers linked with hers and the whole world shifted into place. And now having her hand in mine feels like coming home.
Truth is, I wanted to call her mine after the experience on Lake Como. No, not that experience, not when my balls turned into frosticles. The turning point for me was when I snapped that first picture of her, and she embraced it. I felt like I earned a piece of Katie’s trust, and I had to protect it. That day, something changed in me—a fierce desire to keep her heart safe.
And Katie stuck to her guns about taking things slow—which nearly killed me, by the way. But when she finally called me her boyfriend? Cristo, I almost combusted from pure fucking joy.
Turns out commitment is not an issue for me—I’d marry her tomorrow. But Katie is in no hurry for rings and white dresses. I get it. She’s too busy living in our perfectly imperfect bubble of happiness.
Though sometimes my caveman brain needs just a bit of reassurance. Which is why, one day, my girlfriend did the most spontaneous thing ever—walked into a tattoo parlor and had my name inked inside a heart on her hip. Only I’m allowed to see it. Well, and occasionally half of Italy when she’s rocking that dental floss bikini or we’re running naked on the beach (which happens way more often than my Catholic guilt is comfortable with).
My girl was adamant I ink her name on me too. I suggested my forehead ( go big or go home, right?) She countered with my dick. “That’ll ensure,” she purred, “everyone will know exactly who owns the real you.”
We agreed to put her name over my heart where it belongs.
“And I spot some more troublemakers,” Katie announces into the PA system. “Please welcome back our favorite fashion duo, the Dawson sisters!”
Margaret preens, silver curls bouncing with every gleeful tilt of her head. “We are here to raid Italy’s hidden fashion treasures for our growing empire. Or as the kids call it, our ‘online store.’”
“Turns out the internet shares the same impeccable taste as two stylish old broads,” Agnes says. “Isn’t that right, sister dear?”
“Where budget meets boujee!” Agnes says, whipping out Pennies For Prada business cards like confetti. “Italy’s closet rejects are Gen Z’s next obsession.”
These women inspire the hell out of me. Their first tour lit a fire under them to start a whole new career. Their Wish Cards are no longer to find trinkets; now they’re all about unearthing secret fashion shops tourists never see. And watching them dive headfirst into their dream, proving it’s never too late to be bold and badass. It’s a front-row seat to the best kind of magic.
KATHUNK!
Our vehicle hits a pothole that could swallow the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
“Mama mia! Hold on!” Lorenzo barks. An actual full sentence? The apocalypse must be near.
Suddenly everyone’s bouncing and jerking like we’re riding a mechanical bull through an earthquake. I grab Katie, yanking her against my chest as purses and water bottles go flying. Her soft curves mold against me, and even potential death by potholes can’t stop my body from soaking her in.
I assume we’ve driven through the worst of it because our driver gives us a thumbs up.
“These ancient Roman roads could use some modern love,” I say to our travelers.
Katie starts collecting scattered belongings, bending over to show me a playful peak of her cotton panties, and my mouth goes dry.
“Shit!” Katie shouts. She jerks up as if stung by something. “Really, Aunt Deb?”
Bzzzzzzzzzz!
Katie hands the vibrating lipstick-shaped device to her aunt.
“Darling, it’s like American Express—never leave home without it,” Deb says proudly. “And Katie-kins, you should include those in your welcome bags! What do you think, my Southern stud? Should we fund that particular business expansion?”
“Of course, sweet tea. Who doesn’t enjoy a little pickle tickle between excursions?” Howie drawls.
These two haven’t slowed down since their wedding. Their yearlong honeymoon makes Fifty Shades look like a Nicholas Sparks novel.
“Everyone,” Katie says boastfully, “please meet Deborah and Howie Dixon. They’re not just valued guests; they’re also the primary investors in Monti Tours.”
“Without whom none of this would be possible,” I add. “Let’s give them a round of applause!”
The whole bus cheers. Howie grins ear to ear while Deb basks in the attention—a cat on a sun-warmed windowsill. Katie’s brilliant idea to seek private financing saved us from those stuffy banks who tried poo-pooing our dream. With Howie’s billions backing us, we’re not just surviving—we’re fucking crushing it.
“How about you invest some of those Dixon dollars in a bus that doesn’t smell as if a skunk and a dumpster had a baby?” Chester shouts from the back.
“Sorry, amico.“ I caress our battle-scarred dashboard. “This old girl, she’s family.”
Katie snatches the mic from my hand. “Time to get this party started!”
I hit the music button, and the opening drums of “Pour Some Sugar On Me” blast through our freshly upgraded speakers. The disco ball— yes, I kept that promise —sends rainbow lights spinning across the bus interior like a kaleidoscope, turning our rolling disaster into a legitimate party venue. She may still smell, but dammit now she’s got style.
And then my bellissima, brilliant, slightly unhinged girlfriend launches into her signature K-Tease performance. Her hips start doing this thing that should honestly require a permit. The seniors lean forward like they’re watching the Second Coming, except instead of Jesus, it’s Katie Crawford bringing sexy back one questionable dance move at a time.
“Work it!” Aunt Deb shouts. “Remember what I taught you—swing those hips like you’re trying to hypnotize a cobra.”
Katie attempts a sultry shimmy but looks more like she’s being attacked by bees. God, I love this woman.
Just when I think I can’t possibly love her more, she proves me wrong.
The feather boa becomes a dangerous weapon as she twirls it overhead, nearly taking out Mrs. Thomas’s latest perm. But nobody cares because witnessing Katie Crawford doing the K-Tease is like watching a beautiful disaster in slow motion—you can’t look away.
“That’s it, baby girl.” My auntie jumps up, proud choreographer of this beautiful chaos. “Show them my signature moves. Thrust those hips with a little more oomph —that’s how I snagged my Howie!”
Deborah distributes feather boas to our cheering crowd as though she’s Oprah. “You get a boa! And you get a boa! Everyone gets a boa!”
The seniors are living their best lives, waving their new accessories like victory flags.
Katie and Deb sync up their moves, and the guests go wild, absolutely loving it (I’m pretty sure the original choreography had much less seat grinding). Or maybe it did. This is Aunt Deb we’re talking about.
SCREECH!
Our tour vehicle swerves sharply—Lorenzo’s too busy watching the show in his mirror to notice we are drifting into oncoming traffic.
“Eyes on the road!” I shout.
His response? Mining for nose gold like he’s hoping to strike it rich.
Some things never change.
“Su- ZANNE !“ Deb sashays over to where Katie’s mom sits ramrod straight. “Show these youngsters where Katie got her irresistible moves.”
Katie’s mother shakes her head, lips pursed like fun is an infectious disease. “Deborah, really. I don’t think—”
“Come on, Mom,” Katie calls out. “Remember what we talked about? Being more spontaneous?”
Then it happens. Suzanne Crawford, queen of country-club brunches and perfectly coordinated tennis outfits, stands up. She adjusts her silk blouse, takes a deep breath like she’s about to dive into shark-infested waters, and starts… moving.
“That’s it, Suzy Q!” Deb whoops. “Show Katie how to twerk it.”
David Senior claps along, beaming at his wife and daughter like the lucky man he is. The passengers on the bus lose their shit as three Crawford women attempt to make Def Leppard proud.
I still remember the Great Italian Standoff, as we now call it. When Katie told her mom she was staying in Italy, Suzanne went through all five stages of grief in about thirty seconds. There were tears, accusations about throwing away her future, and at least three keynote speeches about the benefits of living in Los Angeles.
But sometimes distance brings people closer. Now Suzanne FaceTimes us so often that I know her tennis schedule by heart. Her Pinterest board description reads: “My daughter lives in Tuscany and yours doesn’t,” which makes her country-club friends green with envy.
This Christmas, I’m flying to Los Angeles with Katie—my first real holiday since losing my parents. She’s already got a five-page checklist of magical holiday moments we must experience together. Yesterday she ordered us matching Christmas sweaters, complete with light-up reindeer noses. Embarrassing? Yes. But I’d wear a musical sweater every day of my life to be part of this new family.
Katie attempts another spin, the boa creating a feathery tornado around her. Her jazz hands could guide planes safely to landing, and Cristo, I’ve never seen anything sexier.
I catch her eye and mouth, “I love you.”
Her face lights up as she mouths back, “I love you too.”
Speaking of love stories that last a lifetime, we’re short a couple of familiar friends this tour. Stan and Rose are off being international jet-setters. Last month, they were in Japan—I saw pictures of them at Lake Kawaguchiko with their grandkids. Another lake checked off his bucket list.
The familiar skyline of Verona appears on the horizon, and my stomach growls. That little pizzeria where I took Katie on our first official date is calling my name. The same one where she lectured me for forty-five minutes about the superior qualities of California Pizza Kitchen and had to eat her words (and half my pizza).
For her twenty-sixth birthday, Katie’s besties—Petra and Cam—outdid themselves. They shipped frozen CPK pizzas across the Atlantic (and probably lived on ramen noodles for six months to afford the shipping). But watching Katie bounce in her seat as she forced me to try BBQ chicken pizza? I would’ve paid double.
Look, I’ll never admit this out loud, but it wasn’t terrible. Don’t get me wrong—Italian pizza is still superiore in every way, but I finally understand why Katie and her friends love CPK. The pizza isn’t just food—it’s the cornerstone of their best moments together.
I haven’t met the infamous Petra and Cam in person yet, but I feel I already know them. Katie’s weekly FaceTime sessions are like watching a reality show where three best friends try to coordinate time zones and life crises across continents.
Here in Italy though, Katie’s officially found her new BFF. She and Caterina are practically glued together—or more accurately glued to their phones since they text as often as they breathe. Most of our free time is spent at the vineyard, where Katie’s revolutionized their inventory system with something she calls “emotional wine categorization.”
Little Luca, Caterina and Enrico’s baby boy, owns every heart in a fifty-mile radius. That kid’s inherited his papa’s charm and his mama’s sass—he’s going to be a holy terror when he starts walking. Katie adores him but has made it crystal clear that she is in no rush for our own bambinos. She loves our life exactly as it is. And so do I… for now.
Those quality control inspections of the wine cellar are a regular thing for us. And mysteriously, we always finish with way less clothing than when we began. If those barrels could talk… let’s just say some escapades are best kept in the basement. Our naughty little secret.
I can’t tear my eyes away from Katie as she shimmies down the aisle—she’s changed me, changed us, so much so, that every time I think I’ve hit peak happiness, she finds a way to raise the bar. I reach for Mamma’s old Nikon—now the keeper of our most precious memories.
Through the lens, I wait to capture Katie’s silly dance moves for what they are.
Charming. Playful. Sexy as hell. CLICK .
Others join in. The Dawson sisters attempt (and fail) the Electric Slide. CLICK .
Chester flaunts his “signature move” which is… enthusiastic knee wobbling I guess. CLICK .
Mamma, Papa, you’d be crying with laughter right now.
They would have absolutely adored Katie. I know it.
They also would love how we spend our days exploring and sharing the hidden corners of Italy. But the real marvel? It’s in those quiet moments between adventures. How she curls into me at night, her strawberry scent fusing with whatever pasta feast we demolished for dinner.
The passion between us burns hotter than a Vegas summer, but now it’s got layers, like a good tiramisu. I crave her like a drug—from her excited chattering about new tour ideas to that laugh that’s pure charm. Hell, even when she teases me for walking into a wall when her ass is distracting. And those little sighs she makes—biting into the perfect carbonara or seeing our tourists fall head over heels for Italy. She’s a damn masterpiece, and I’m hooked.
The music changes to a lively Italian folk song, and Katie claps along, a human espresso shot, jolting everyone awake with her boundless energy.
Suddenly she’s facing me, and her wide smile dares me to catch up to her enthusiasm. “Dance with me, tour guide, before I write you up for workplace negligence.”
“You can’t,” I say, setting down the camera and pulling her close. “I’m il capo , principessa. The boss.”
“Co-boss,” she says, smashing her breasts against me. “And your moves need serious evaluation.”
I take her hand, leading her in a dance that’s half waltz, half whatever-the-hell-we’re-making-up. We twirl along the narrow walkway, backed by the most spirited, off-time clappers on the planet.
We roll into Verona, and—merda—there she sits. The bright red, overpriced eyesore that is the Italy Express bus.
Antonio’s still operating his cookie-cutter operation, but karma’s a beautiful thing. These days their TripAdvisor page reads like a horror novel. The number one scathing review I love most: “Spent more time in souvenir shops than actual Italy. My authentic Italian experience was buying a Made in China Leaning Tower of Pisa key chain.”
The best part? Their disappointed customers keep finding us, begging for real adventures steeped in culture.
Katie catches me smirking. “Stop gloating and help me wrangle our dancing queens off this bus.”
“Just admiring the competition, amore. Or should I say, lack thereof?”
“Your ego is showing.”
“You love my big ego.”
“I tolerate your ego. I love the size of your big eggplant.”
I pull her into me and whisper, “I’m going to do filthy things to that dirty mouth of yours tonight.”
To hell with waiting. I cup Katie’s face in my hands and pour everything I’m feeling into this kiss—all the love, the gratitude, the pure joy of having this incredible woman in my life. Her lips are soft and eager against mine, and the little sigh she makes hits me like Italian sunshine.
Our passengers break into applause. “Now that’s amore !” Howie calls out. “Though you might want to save some of that fire for after the tour, Romeo.”
“Get it, baby girl!” Aunt Deb shouts.
Neither of us cares that we’ve got an audience of seniors who will absolutely turn this into today’s main discussion topic. Sorry, Juliet’s balcony—you’ve been demoted to second most-romantic sight in Verona.
My hands slide to Katie’s waist, memorizing this moment. Sometimes I hold her this tight because I still can’t believe she’s real.
I’ll admit, sometimes that fear still lingers. The fear that this— us —is too good to last. That one day I’ll wake up and this beautiful, maddening woman will be gone, leaving me with nothing but memories and the faint scent of strawberries.
But not today.
Today I’m just a man who found his home in a woman who carries emergency highlighters in her purse. Before Katie, I thought I was living. I wasn’t. I was existing, floating through life with no purpose beyond the next tour, the next fling, the next distraction. Now? Every day with her is an adventure.
When we finally come up for air, we’re both panting like we’ve climbed the stairs to the Colosseum. Twice. Her lipstick is smeared, her hair’s a mess, and Cristo, she’s never been more breathtaking.
“Well,” she says, her voice husky, “that was unexpected.”
I grin, running my thumb along her cheek. “Unexpected? I’ve been planning that kiss for at least thirty seconds.”
“Thirty whole seconds? Impressive. What’s next, color-coded schedules?”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
Her hands slide up to my chest, her smile softening. “Matteo,” she says, “I love you so much it actually hurts my brain.”
“Good,” I say, stroking her cheek. “I’m so hopelessly, completely, wildly in love with you.”
Her grin turns wicked. “Phew. Because after that tattoo, you’re officially stuck with me. I don’t know anyone else named Matteo.”
I laugh, leaning down to brush another kiss across her lips.
“All right, you horny teenagers!” Chester bellows. “Save some action for Juliet’s statue. Those bronze boobies aren’t going to fondle themselves.”
We step off the bus together, her hand warm in mine as Verona welcomes us like an old friend. Life with Katie isn’t predictable—it’s a constant surprise of sticky notes and stolen kisses, a mix of highlighted itineraries and spontaneous adventures. But watching her try to organize my chaos while creating her own? That’s the kind of perfect I never knew existed.
***
Find out what happens with Cam and Reece in their grumpy sunshine vacation romance: Hawaii Can Suck It Don't stop now! Keep flipping for a flirty, laugh-out-loud FREE Bonus Epilogue where Matteo's "perfect" proposal goes hilariously wrong!