Wish You Were Italian by Kristin Rae

Matilde reaches out and hugs me tight, smashing my face into her overflowing chest. “Come! I have prepared the room.”
    She leads us up a gazillion flights of narrow concrete steps to the very last landing. I collapse on my suitcase again and down the rest of my water. Chiara and Matilde snicker to each other, neither of them winded.
    “You will get used to it soon,” Chiara says, helping me stand.
    The air inside is only about ten degrees cooler, but it’s something. The living room consists of a cushy blue couch, severalchairs, a shockingly large flat-screen television on the wall, a compact spiral staircase leading up to a mystery door, a dining table, and a small kitchenette.
    Matilde leads us into one of the apartment’s two bedrooms, obviously belonging to Bruno and Luca. Bunk beds are stacked in the corner and the walls are covered in soccer posters.
    “You can have the bottom bed, Pippa,” Chiara says. “You seem to have a problem with steps.”
    I snatch a pillow and whip it at her, but she ducks in time, the pillow knocking over a stack of sports magazines.
    “Girls same as boys.” Matilde laughs as she turns back to the living area.
    We pull fresh clothes out of our luggage and Chiara heads to the bathroom—the only one in the apartment—closing the door behind her and leaving me to change. I shed my shirt and freshen my deodorant, then fan my skin trying to cool off. I feel wet everywhere. I can still hear Chiara shuffling around in the bathroom, so I quickly change my shorts into ones that are more breathable, and then decide to sprinkle some baby powder down my bra.
    Just as a little cloud of powder hits my chest, a voice that is neither Chiara’s nor her aunt’s announces its presence in the now open doorway.
    “You are the American girl who is taking my bed.”

Chapter Fifteen
    As I scramble for my shirt to cover my chest—thank God I’d decided against changing bras—I grumble, “Don’t you knock?”
    He crosses his arms and rests against the door frame. “It is my room.”
    My heart pounds in my ears. I should yell, kick him out, slam the door, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Russet skin, solid jaw line, caramel eyes, perfectly messy black hair. Shoulders and arm muscles stretching his baby-blue shirt tight. Is this Bruno or Luca?
    I adjust the shirt hiding me, equal parts embarrassed and flattered that someone so hot is checking me out. He brushes a hand over the tips of his hair before resting it up high on the doorjamb. I’m not sure I can feel my legs. I can’t believe I’m sharing an apartment with him for the whole summer.
    Chiara pushes past him into the room and stops, first looking me over, then frowning at him. “You did not knock?”
    He smirks. “It is my room.”
    Chiara spouts off in Italian, waving her hands around, and soon they’re pretty much yelling at each other. Then they erupt into laughter and he shoves her shoulder before pulling her in for a hug.
    “Bruno, this is my friend Pippa. Pippa, my cousin Bruno.”
    Bruno. The in-with-the-wrong-crowd Bruno. Divinely and supernaturally gorgeous Bruno.
    And he just winked at me. Not good.
    He closes the distance between us in two long strides of his tight white pants and says “ Piacere! ”—which I remember from my phrase book means “pleased to meet you”—before taking ahold of my shoulders and kissing each of my cheeks. His lips are on my cheeks.
    I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and want to die. It’s physically impossible for a face to be any redder.
    I try to say “ Piacere! ” back but only a squeaky noise escapes my lips. I raise my shirt just enough to hide behind and fake a coughing fit, waving with the other hand for him to leave the room. He laughs and mutters something in Italian as he walks off. Chiara closes the door.
    Way to make a great first impression on the sexy Italian.
    “What did you say to him?” I ask when I’ve recovered the ability to speak.
    “I told him that