ITALIAN LOVE

“Fuuuck!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, kicking the flat tire as hard as I could, only to immediately regret it when a sharp jolt of pain shot through my foot. I groaned, clutching my toes, as frustration bubbled over like a pot boiling too long.

The ridiculousness of the situation nearly made me laugh—but only nearly. Here I was, stranded in the middle of nowhere, sweating buckets, and shouting at an old, decrepit, bright yellow Beetle as if it could magically fix itself.

Behind me, the sea stretched endlessly, a vast shimmering expanse of blue mocking my misery. In front of me, the rugged, sun-baked mountains loomed like silent judges to my ineptitude. Cars zipped past without a single glance in my direction, leaving a trail of dust. The sun was relentless, blazing down from a cloudless sky. Not even a whisper of a breeze offered relief.

My tank top clung to me like a second skin, damp with sweat, and I had long since discarded my shorts, leaving me standing in just my panties. Yes, panties. Not the pinnacle of dignity, I know, but at this point, modesty was the least of my worries.

I muttered curses under my breath as I marched to the trunk, wrenching it open to retrieve the tools. My dad’s voice echoed in my memory, reminding me of those long afternoons spent under the hood of his car. ”It’s important to know the basics,” he’d said. Sure, Dad. Basics. Let’s hope I remembered anything at all.

I pulled out a pile of metal objects I barely recognized and spread them out on the ground. They looked more like torture devices than tools. For a moment, I just stared, trying to summon some mechanical instinct that was clearly buried deep—very deep. “Okay,” I muttered. “It can’t be that hard.”

I dropped to the ground and grabbed a wrench. Or was it a jack? Who cares? I started unscrewing bolts with a kind of determined fury, convincing myself that I was making progress. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I wiped it away with the back of my hand, smudging grease across my face.

I was just starting to feel a glimmer of pride when I felt it—a slithering, feathery touch against my leg. I froze. My heart stopped.

No. No. No.

I looked down, and there it was: a massive, writhing snake, its head uncomfortably large, its forked tongue flickering in and out as if to taunt me.

“Holy shit!” I shrieked, launching myself backward and landing flat on my ass. My tools scattered around me as I scrambled away from the beast, my heart hammering in my chest. It hissed, its glistening scales catching the sunlight. My throat closed in sheer terror as it started to slither closer. Before I knew it, I was on top of the car, clutching the roof like it was my last lifeline.

“Stay back, you slimy monster!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Don’t even think about it!” My breath came in short, panicked gasps, and I clutched my chest, trying to calm down. If anyone saw me now—half-naked, perched on a car like a lunatic—they’d probably call the cops. Or worse, an ambulance.

“Signora?”

The voice startled me so badly that I nearly toppled backward. My arms flailed wildly, and I let out a strangled scream. But instead of hitting the ground, I landed in a pair of strong, warm arms that felt like they belonged in a romance novel rather than my disastrous life.

“Oh,” I gasped, my hands instinctively pressing against a solid chest. My eyes took a moment to adjust to the glaring sunlight, but when they did, the breath left my lungs in a rush.

The man holding me looked like he’d been sculpted by the gods themselves. His disheveled, wet hair clung to his forehead, and droplets of water glistened on his tanned skin, tracing the sharp lines of his muscles. His eyes—emerald green and startlingly intense—locked onto mine, and his lips, full and tempting, quirked into an amused smile. Tattoos snaked down his shoulders and arms, adding an edge to his otherwise angelic face.

“Non sono signora,” I said, my voice steady but tinged with annoyance, mimicking his earlier tone. His lips quirked up in amusement, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

I shifted under his intense gaze, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that I was still perched half-naked on top of my car. His Italian had been smooth and effortless, but so was mine. I wasn’t some helpless tourist fumbling for words. No, I could hold my own—at least with the language, if not with the unnerving heat radiating off him. Focus, Leta. Focus.

He raised my left hand gently, the sunlight catching on my engagement ring—the one I had been too distracted to throw into the sea yet. He didn’t say anything, just arched a brow as if waiting for an explanation.

I tugged the ring off with a sharp, determined motion and gave him a thin smile. “Solo una signorina.” And with that, I hurled the ring over the edge toward the sparkling waves below. Why shouldn’t it end where it began?

The stranger raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my theatrics. “I don’t know if I’d be happy if my finanzata threw her ring away like that,” he teased, his lips curling into a grin. Before I could retort, he lifted me onto the hood of the car, his hands firm but surprisingly gentle.

“And probably not even if she was walking along the road in just her panties.” His hands rested on the car’s hood, trapping me in place. Not that I was in any hurry to move.

I stared at him, part disbelief, part something else—something warmer that I refused to admit out loud. “You didn’t tell me your name,” I managed finally, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere safer.

He smirked. “Alessandro,” he said, his accent curling around the syllables in a way that made them sound almost musical.

“Leta,” I offered, feeling a little breathless under his gaze but trying to hold onto my composure.

“Leta,” he repeated, testing it out, his voice soft but teasing. “It suits you.”

“Where are you from, Alessandro?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral, though the way his name rolled off my tongue felt far too intimate for a roadside chat.

“My mother is english,” he said, his smile deepening as if he already knew how this revelation would throw me. “My father is Italian.”

English. My jaw dropped slightly as the realization hit. The first man I meet in Italy who manages to completely disarm me is not only english but devastatingly charming. What are the odds?

His eyes flickered with amusement as he watched me try to process it.

“You’re english?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. “What are the chances? So am I.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. “That makes this even more interesting, doesn’t it?”

I crossed my arms, feeling simultaneously flustered and intrigued. He chuckled, sensing my mix of emotions.

“I spend every summer here on the coast. If my work allowed it, I’d probably stay longer, but from June to the end of August, you’ll only ever find me here.” He winked, and I felt my face grow warm despite myself.

Before I could respond, I turned back to the car, realizing I needed to get my phone out of my bag. I opened the back door and leaned inside, bracing a knee against the seat as I rummaged around.

“You can go back to enjoying your vacation,” I said over my shoulder, trying not to sound too dismissive but eager to end this odd encounter before it unraveled any further.

There was no reply, just silence. When I turned around, I caught him staring, his eyes fixed not on my face but—

“Were you looking at my ass?” I snapped, standing upright and planting a hand on my hip. My other hand waved my phone in the air like a weapon.

He didn’t even try to deny it. Instead, his grin widened as he met my glare. “You have a very nice ass,” he said, the compliment rolling off his tongue as casually as if he’d commented on the weather.

I gaped at him, trying to summon a sharp retort, but all I managed was a weak, “I think you’re a little too confident.”

He folded his arms across his chest, still grinning, and let his gaze travel upward. “And now you’re blushing,” he added, his voice low and teasing.

“I’m not blushing,” I lied, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed me.

He stepped closer, the playful smirk replaced by something softer, more intense. His fingers brushed my forearm lightly, a touch that sent a shiver up my spine. “You’re blushing,” he repeated, his voice dropping even lower, “and I’d bet my yacht that you’re wet, too.”

My breath caught, and for a moment, all I could do was stare at him. This man was infuriating, impossible—and devastatingly, distractingly handsome.

“Oh my God.” I pressed a hand to my forehead. “Don’t you have an ounce of tact in you?”

His head fell back, and a deep, unabashed laugh escaped his lips.

“Okay, okay, I’ll back off a bit.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, the grin never leaving his face as he took a half-step back. “But I’d rather offer you a ride anywhere you need. I’ve got people here to take care of your car while we head to the port.”

He hadn’t even finished his sentence when a burly man appeared from the staircase that led to the beach. He was dressed sharply for someone stepping out of nowhere, wearing a crisp white shirt and light summer pants that flapped slightly in the faint breeze I hadn’t noticed until now.

“The port?” I blinked, my brain catching only that part of what Alessandro had said. Of course, the port. That’s what I’d latch onto while my car sat useless, and my sanity hung by a thread. Typical.

“Yes. I’m traveling on a yacht.” He stepped back even further, gesturing toward the horizon with a casual wave of his hand. My gaze followed, landing on a stunning yacht floating lazily in the distance. It gleamed against the sunlit sea, a picture of opulence and freedom, both of which felt comically out of reach for someone stranded in their underwear on the side of the road.