Wish You Were Italian

by Kristin Rae

I snatch the book from him and scan the list of my goals. “Why did you do that?”

  He brings my face closer with a finger under my chin, diverting my attention to him, and gives me a swift but tender kiss.

  “Because lucky for you,” he says, lips still brushing against mine, “I was born in Rome.”

  I gasp and part my lips to respond, but he covers my mouth with his and slips his hands around my bare back. As I glide my hands into his thick hair, he pulls me up until I’m straddling his lap. He leans forward, holding me tight against him, and we crash into the pool, our lips never pulling apart.

  Goals update:

  Don’t get arrested

  Don’t make a fool out of myself in public-FAILED

  Get my picture taken at the Colosseum

  Find random souvenir for Morgan

  Get a makeover

  See Pompeii

  Swim in the Mediterranean Sea

  Have a conversation with someone in only Italian-FAILED

  Eat a whole pizza in one sitting

  Fall in love with an Italian-FAILED

  Thank You:

  God, for filling my life with a variety of loving people and for this unshakable desire to create.

  Josh, for your love, patience, support, and for dealing with my many whims. I love you more every day. Mom, for always encouraging my artsy side and all those trips to the library. Dad, for setting such a great example of hard work and generosity. To both parents for the insane amount of love and confidence. Grandma Rosie, for your eagerness to read more of my pages. You’ll never know just how much your excitement kept me going. My husband’s incredible family, Bill, Cindy, Jon, and Kelly, for welcoming and loving me. I couldn’t have dreamed up a better family to marry into. Seth and Angela, for traveling to Italy with us on the adventure that inspired so much of this book. We can make it through anything after sharing a room with four twin beds crammed together.

  Marietta Zacker, my amazing agent, for picking me out of the slush. Your enthusiasm for Pippa and your faith in me mean the world. I’m so thankful for you and all that you do!

  My editor, Caroline Abbey, for taking a chance on me. Thank you for every heart and smiley face alongside your spot-on suggestions. I will never stop telling you how awesome you are!

  The wonderful team at Bloomsbury. I’m thrilled to be part of this new line, If Only!

  Katie M. Stout, for the countless hours of brainstorming, critiques, friendship, and squees. SU SU! Kristi Chestnutt, who can talk anyone off the ledge, you are an invaluable critique partner, encourager, and friend. Get out! Amy Sonnichsen, for the inspiration, direction, and friendship. Mari Ferrer, for our brainstorming/writing cupcake outings. Joy Preble, for all the writing dates, advice, and encouragement. Maria Cari Soto, for your beta reading expertise and our bookstore/movie escapades. Kim Franklin, for the fangirl rainbows!

  So many others have influenced where I am at this exact moment in my writing life: Lindsay Arrant, Tanner Jones (*waves to Holly*), Amy Rose Thomas, Heather Dettmers, Sarah Ahiers, Colene Murphy, Abby Minard, Deana Barnhart, J. R. Johansson, Karen Akins, Kiki Hamilton, Amy Fellner Dominy, Lydia Kang, and my debut buddies in the Class of 2k14 (*waves to Lauren Magaziner*).

  My muses: Mindy Gledhill, for your perfect album, Anchor. I like to think your music is in Pippa’s head while she travels throughout Italy, as it was always in mine when I was writing her. Darren Criss, for your voice and your crazy curly hair. Michael Giacchino, for composing such moving and inspirational film scores. Switchfoot, my favorite band of all time, whose music has been there for me no matter the circumstance. “Love is the movement.”

  A Note on the Author

  Kristin Rae was born and raised in Texas, though her accent would suggest otherwise. She started writing her first novel during her graduation ceremony from Texas A&M and realized too late she may have studied the wrong thing. A former figure-skating coach, LEGO merchandiser, and photographer, she’s now happy to create stories while pretending to ignore the carton of gelato in the freezer. Kristin lives in Houston with her husband and their two boxers.

  www.kristinrae.com

  By the Same Author

  The line

  Wish You Were Italian

  by Kristin Rae

  Fool Me Twice

  by Mandy Hubbard

  Not in the Script

  by Amy Finnegan

  (coming soon)

  WANT MORE OF WHAT YOU CAN’T HAVE?

  Read on for a glimpse at another romance filled with

  gorgeous cowboys, a touch of amnesia, and

  an epic revenge plot against an ex-boyfriend!

  “I pledge allegiance, to the flag …”

  I stiffen, my grip on the pitchfork, tightening so hard the wood bites into the still-developing calluses on my palms. The voice behind me is the very one I’ve waited to hear for the last week.… But he’s mocking me.

  I slice a glare in Landon’s direction. He’s standing in the entry to the empty stall, his lanky, all-too-muscular body a silhouette against the fluorescent fixture hanging behind him. The dust kicked up by my work swirls in the light hugging his body.

  I wish I could make out his expression, to figure out if it’s the same sneer he gave me that first day back at school last fall. When he broke my heart.

  I smirk, saying, “Ha, ha, ha. You must think you’re super clever.”

  “Actually, I do.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You really wound my ego.”

  I roll my eyes. “‘No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.’”

  He drops his hand back to his side. “Are you quoting Hell-raiser?”

  I blink. “Um, no?” I turn back to the pitchfork, hoping he buys it, and toss another scoop into the overflowing wheelbarrow. I should have emptied it already, but this is the last stall.

  “Since when do you like classic horror movies?” His voice has that old familiar drawl to it, that same twang I loved when he whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. His family is from Texas. They moved to Washington State six years ago, but he’s never let go of the accent.

  “Since when do you care what I like?” I scoop at a pile of manure near his toes, daring him to stand still as it slides dangerously close to his battered Justin cowboy boots. He doesn’t move. “I mean, I was just getting used to the silent treatment.”

  “Meh, I got bored,” he says.

  Bored. I scowl. “I’m sure there’s a real flag somewhere in desperate need of your allegiance.”

  I scoop up another forkful of soiled bedding. Maybe he thought he’d get away with just waltzing up, that I’d somehow forget what he did, like I’d fall at his feet at the first sign of his interest.

  When I look up at him again, he hasn’t budged, he’s just chewing on his lip. He licks his lip, and for a second I forget I’m staring, thinking about how it felt when we’d kissed, when he’d traced his tongue across my lips. When he grins, I realize he’s caught me.

  Ugh. I should not be thinking of how good he is at kissing. Actually, scratch that. I should be thinking of how good he is at kissing other girls. That made it pretty easy to stay angry. Like he did in the halls the first day of school last fall. I wore this adorable Zac Brown Band T-shirt because he said they were his favorite band, and I was practically bursting with excitement to see him after a few days apart … and then I saw him, but it didn’t go the way I’d pictured.

  He was leaning in to kiss her, while I stood there dumbfounded. He knew exactly what he was doing because midway through their steamy makeout session, he saw me staring, a strange gleam in his eyes as he watched the way I unraveled. It was like he enjoyed watching me shatter, just like little boys love burning ants with magnifying glasses.

  And it sucks to be the ant. I am so over being the ant.

  “Nah, you’re a little more … lively.”

  I snort, shaking my head. Lively. Yeah, I could show him lively.

  “What?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against t
he doorway. The effort makes his muscles bulge. He probably practices the move in his mirror in the hopes of using it to ensnare his next summer fling.

  I toss the pitchfork onto the heaping wheelbarrow. “Just leave me alone, okay?” I grab the cart’s handle and yank.

  But he doesn’t move, and I back right up into him, our bodies colliding. Instead of stepping aside, he grabs my elbows to keep me from knocking him completely over, and then actually removes me from the stall and slides me into the aisle, like I’m a kitten that’s run into his path.

  Then he turns and easily pulls the overladen cart over the bump, onto the smooth cement of the aisle. The stall door screeches as he rolls it shut.

  “I still have to put pellets in there,” I start.

  “I’ll get it.”

  I stare at him, unwilling to believe he’d volunteer to take on even a tiny portion of my workload without wanting something in return. “Well, you just go zero to sixty in about five seconds, don’t you?”

  He flashes me a wolfish smile, the one that makes him seem half-dangerous, half-sexy. But now I know what really lurks beneath all those muscles and cowboy swagger, and his smile is no longer so attractive.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, tipping the rim of his cowboy hat back far enough that I can see into his intense brown eyes. He’s … irritated.

  Good.

  I narrow my own eyes and match his look. “The silent treatment, to mockery, to doing me favors,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Before you turned on the roller coaster, you could have at least warned me to keep my hands and feet in the car at all times.”

  He huffs. “Can’t a guy do a girl a favor?”

  “No.” I laugh, and not in a pretty way. “Not you, anyway.”

  Dang. I had wanted to be aloof. Unaffected. I’m screwing it up.

  He shrugs, totally unbothered by my visceral response. “Fine then. Do it yourself,” he says. But he doesn’t move out of my way or open the stall door either. Instead, his eyes sweep over my now-dirty polo shirt, down my legs, and then back up again before he smirks. “What’s with the getup?”

  I grit my teeth and check out my outfit. I’m in my Serenity Ranch polo, as required, along with my jean shorts, but I have lime-green leggings underneath, and my cowboy boots don’t match any of my clothes—they’re powder blue. It’s like my outfit is a mullet—business on the top, party on the bottom.

  “Can’t wear plain old shorts in a saddle, you know that,” I say, like he’s being stupid. “It pinches.”

  “Right. And regular jeans would just be too …”

  “Boring?” I say, throwing his words back at him.

  “Uh-huh, and being a freak show—”

  My anger explodes. “What do you want, Landon? Hurting me last year wasn’t enough and now you’ve gotta waltz in here and insult me?”

  Crap. I wasn’t planning to admit how much he hurt me. I’m ruining all of this. Bailey’s going to laugh me out of our cabin later.

  In response, he crosses his arms and waits as if he was the one to ask the question and he’s expecting an answer, but I have nothing else to say. And then he just shrugs and walks away, whistling an all-too-familiar tune.

  Oh say can you seeeeeeee.

  Ugh.

  NOTHING IS MORE OFF LIMITS THAN

  YOUR BEST FRIEND’S CRUSH . . .

  ESPECIALLY IF HE’S YOUR NEW COSTAR!

  Read on for a glimpse at another romance filled with

  paparazzi, on-set drama, and a delicious love triangle.

  EMMA

  “Celebrity Seeker claims that I’m dating Troy again,” I say as I skim the pages of the gossip magazine. Tabloids are scattered like fall leaves all over Rachel’s bedroom, and I want to rake them up and stuff them into trash bags. “How stupid do they think I am?”

  I haven’t talked to Troy since he shattered my car window three months ago. Rachel doesn’t know anything about that, though. No one does, and I have to keep it that way.

  “I’d feel bad for you, Emma, but some of us don’t have any guys to ignore.” Rachel has her back to me, admiring the collection of men who cover her otherwise lavender walls. Most of the space is taken up by carefully cut out magazine pages featuring a male model she calls The Bod. “And worse, the only guy I’m dying to date doesn’t know I exist. Literally.”

  “I doubt he’s worth dying for,” I say. “If a boy looks like he belongs in a museum, there’s a pretty good chance his head is solid marble.”

  Rachel huffs at me, offended, as if she actually knows him. Or even his name.

  I leave her bouncy desk chair—great for girls with energy to burn—to study a close-up of The Bod’s face. “At the very least,” I go on with a teasing tone, “those puffy lips are airbrushed.”

  Chancing a peek at Rachel, I find her bright-green eyes narrowed at me. “You know,” she says, “for someone who’s on People magazine’s Most Beautiful Young Celebrities list, you’re awfully critical of beautiful people.”

  I suppose being my best friend for over a decade gives her the right to call me out on things like this. And Rachel is all about straight talk and honesty, which is usually a good thing.

  My life doesn’t always feel genuine, even when cameras aren’t rolling.

  Whenever I return to my hometown in Fayetteville, Arkansas, I expect the world to somehow seem real again, but work still has a way of taking over. Today especially, because a full five minutes hasn’t passed without me checking my e-mail. The final details for the new TV series I’m starting next month are being sent out today, including the casting choices.

  The scent of coconut-and-lime body spray wafts toward me. Rachel snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Are you even listening?”

  Yes and no. She’s been going on about the endless charms of her paperweight soul mate. “All I’m saying is that guys who look like The Bod are usually the most overrated gimmicks on the planet,” I tell her. “And crappy boyfriend material. Trust me.”

  I hear a screen door squeak open, and a canary-like chirp belonging to Rachel’s mom instantly echoes in the house. Trina enters the room and says, “Oh, Emma honey, have we got a big surprise!”

  For as long as I can remember, Trina has dressed like she’s forty-going-on-sixteen. At the moment she’s in black skinny jeans and a plum tee with a glittery fleur-de-lis stretched way too tight over her five-thousand-dollar chest. Trina’s curly platinum hair matches her daughter’s, but everything about Rachel’s beauty is perfectly natural.

  “You’re just gonna die!” Trina adds.

  My mother is right behind Trina and shoots her a please stop look, but I seem to be the only one who notices. Typical for her, Mom is wearing a white button-down shirt and gray tweed slacks, looking like she walked out of a Neiman Marcus window display. She wouldn’t be caught dead in Trina’s leopard print stilettos. But despite being polar opposites, they’ve been going out for regular lunches since Rachel and I first met in a community acting class.

  I sometimes wonder if Mom only does it to stay on the good side of a careless gossip who might be too close to me. Or maybe Mom just wants to keep up on what’s really going on in my personal life. She likely gets more from Trina, via Rachel, than she does from me.

  Trina is still grinning so widely that every tooth in her mouth is showing, but my mom’s smile seems fake, and her lashes are batting way too fast to be simple blinks. “I just heard from the studio,” she says.

  I only stare at her for a second. “But … why wasn’t I on the e-mail list?”

  “I’ll forward you a copy, Emma. I always do.”

  That’s not the point, and she knows it. I had asked her to tell the studio to put me on the direct list, and she obviously didn’t. Like a lot of parents in this business, my mom became my manager when I landed my first big job, so everything goes through her. But now that I’m finally an official adult, I can hire a new management team if I want to, a team who would at least agree that I s
hould know-before the rest of the world—what’s going on in my career. Like me, Mom must realize this isn’t working anymore, but she hasn’t even mentioned the possibility of a new manager, like it isn’t something I’d consider anyway.

  As if she could never imagine me making a mature decision without her.

  Mom tacks on a sigh. “We should head home so we can discuss this casting.”

  “I want to stay. Just tell me what the e-mail says.”

  “I’m dying to know too,” Rachel adds. “We’ve been waiting all day.”

  Trina whispers something to Rachel, then Rachel looks at me with her mouth half open, her eyes bulging. “Holy crap, Emma! You’re gonna FREAK!”

  Perfect. Now even Rachel knows before I do.

  “Can we borrow this room for a minute?” I ask.

  Trina and Rachel appear disappointed by the request but finally step into the hallway, whispering again. My mom shuts the bedroom door and pulls out her phone. “I had hoped we were past this nonsense,” she mutters, “but you won’t believe who’s playing—”

  I snatch the phone from her hand, open the e-mail from the studio, and read out loud. “Executive Producer Steve McGregor will launch the production of Coyote Hills in Tucson, Arizona, the second week of July … table read … camera tests … I’ll go back to that later … Okay, here it is: one male lead is still in negotiations.” Ugh. This is practically code for casting problems. “The remaining cast is as follows: Eden will be played by Emma Taylor. The role of Kassidy will be played by Kimmi Weston.” I have no idea who Kimmi is, so I glance at my mom before going on. She’s never heard of her either. “And the role of Bryce will be played by Brett Crawford.”

  I drop the phone.

  I want to stomp on it. Scream at it!

  Or possibly hug it and jump up and down.

  I’m not sure which yet.

  “You see?” Mom says. “This is why I wanted to tell you privately.”