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‘Samantha?’ he asked, stretching out his hand for me to shake. ‘Benvenuta. Welcome to the Love Hotel, Italia.’

I blinked, then blinked again.

Holy macaroni.

Standing in front of me was the fittest guy I’d ever seen. He was about six foot three, with short, slightly wavy black hair, deep olive skin, a neatly trimmed beard, light brown eyes, framed by long lashes, gorgeous thick eyebrows, full lips and a body that looked like it’d been carved by angels.

He was the spitting image of that actor Michele Morrone in those steamy365 Daysfilms.

As I thought about how many times I’d got myself off whilst watching those films, my cheeks flamed.

‘Samantha?’ Mr Smokeshow repeated and I almost melted into a puddle as I listened to how he pronounced my name in his divine Italian accent.

It was only then that I remembered that he’d said something.

‘Shit. Sorry. I was miles away. I’m Samantha,’ I replied, my eyes still transfixed on the Italian stallion in front of me. Then I realised that he already knew my name because he’d said it. Twice. ‘Doh! You just said that! Bloody jet lag.’

Jeez Louise.

What the hell was wrong with me? The flight to Bari was less than three hours and Italy was a miniscule one hour ahead, so I was hardly suffering from sodding jet lag.

‘Jet lag?’ Mr McHottie Hot Stuff laughed. ‘You came from London, no? The flight time is normally around two hours and fifty minutes.’

Okay, smart arse.

I knew what I’d said was dumb, but he didn’t have to point it out.

‘Yeah, obviously it wasn’t the jet lag.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘It was probably all the wine I had on the plane.’

All the wine?

Nice, one Sammie.

‘I just had one bottle,’ I said, attempting to clarify what I meant. ‘Not a whole proper big bottle, obvs. I’m not an alcoholic. Not that I’m judging alcoholics. I know it’s a disease. I just meant that I’m not one. Because I only had one teeny weeny bottle of wine. Actually, it was more like half a bottle because to be honest, it tasted like vinegar. Not that I’m insulting Italian wine. I’m not even sure if it was Italian. It probably wasn’t. Then again it was a flight to Italy so maybe it was, but it could’ve been out of date or something.’

Oh. Dear. God.

I should’ve just called it quits with the stupid jet lag comment. Now not only would he think I was one of those stereotypical Brits who got pissed on planes, he’d also think I was insulting his country.

‘I see. So you like to drink…’ He raised a judgemental eyebrow. ‘But not Italian wine, because it tastes like vinegar.’

‘No, I didn’t say that! I saidthatparticular wine tasted like vinegar, notallItalian wine.’

What was his problem? I even said I wasn’t even sure if it was Italian wine, so why was he trying to make out like I was dissing his country?

What was it with these good-looking guys? Why did they always have to be such dicks?

He was supposed to be welcoming me to the hotel, not judging me. Okay, yeah, I admit that everything that’d come out of my mouth so far was a pile of crap, but still.

‘Has anyone told you that you look like?—’

‘Sì,’ he jumped in quickly, then rolled his eyes and sighed like I was the millionth person to mention it.

I was going to tell him that he looked like that hot actor to lighten the mood and try to steer this conversation out of the disaster zone, but now I’d changed my mind…

‘Oh,’ I said casually, ‘so I’m not the only one who thinks you look like Mr Bean?’ The corner of my mouth twitched.

‘Mr Bean?’ His face dropped, creased with confusion, then contorted in a million different directions.