Page 11 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Wait. Let’s make this epic.” He lifts an eyebrow, intense and reckless. “Loser cooks the winner a full three-course meal in Italy.”

I don’t know the first thing about cooking. My mom was a microwaver and toast master and I’ve followed in her footsteps.

More to the point, I’ve got Italy all planned out, down to the hour.

I open my mouth, on the verge of renegotiating, when he says, “Are you all in?”

I’m all in aboutmy mom and Italy. That’s it. I can’t risk my trip with this senseless game. He’s getting me off track.

He sees my hesitation, and his smile wavers. “Lexington?”

The word almost breaks me. The way he says it feels like he sees past my public image, my filters, my confidence, and plans. But there’s no way he gets me the way my mom did. He’s just using her passcode.

This interaction has to stop. I fold my arms and turn to the flight screens, ignoring his chuckle.

“Interesting reveal. You play things safe.”

Groans from the jostling crowd stop me from a hot retort. I peerover the shoulders in front of me and locate our Rome flight listed on the screen.

Canceled.

“Weather.” Mark’s voice is so low it comes out as a growl.

“So, what do we do now?”

We,Lexi?Has a little tiredness erased your memory?We’re rivals. He’s the one who thinks my trip to Italy is doomed.

His gaze drops from the screens to me. He doesn’t smile, but mischief covers every inch of his face. “Spots on the next flight are first come, first served. We race to the airline desk.”

Then he takes off jogging down the hall, chip bags flapping. To his credit, he’s not running full speed, expecting me to hustle after him. Still, no way could I keep up with his long-legged strides, especially with my carry-on, low energy, and these shoes. Which are not nearly as cute as when I left my apartment yesterday. We aren’t even on speaking terms anymore.

As soon as Mark is out of sight, I open the airline app. In ten minutes, I’m rebooked on the next flight to Rome without breaking a sweat. Ha, take that, Dasher. Brains over brawn. (Not that I’m paying attention to the brawn.)

Except now I’m sweating at the lost time buffer. The next flight is tomorrow and I’ll arrive only a few hours before the receptionI’min charge of.

An hour of standing in line at the airline desk later, voucher in hand, I head for the hotel shuttle, gripping my carry-on handle a little too tightly. Mark was right, I do play it safe. I’m not good with situations out of my control. I had enough of that to last me a lifetime when Mom’s cancer returned. This is how I have to live my life. No randomness. No unplanned experiences, and no unscheduled relationships, even if it’s engaging with the enemy.

This delay, Mark, and even the weather can’t derail me. I’ll get on the plane tomorrow, open my mom’s letters, and forget Mark except for the ten minutes he’s penciled into my calendar a week from now at Trevi Fountain.

Seven

Lexi

Twenty-one hours later,I pinch myself on the arm. I’m finally inItaly.The two things standing between me and Rome are my checked suitcase and a real cup of coffee, then I’m off to the Eternal City.

The varied suitcases ride around the luggage carousel like bored kids on a subpar fair ride. I’ll recognize mine right away—a brand-new blue suitcase sporting a bright turquoise scrap of fabric around the handle.

The other travelers lug their bags off the carousel. Fewer and fewer suitcases make the rounds. Mine isn’t here. Probably took off for a vacay in Fiji at the first sign of delay in Frankfurt.

At least we shipped Mom’s painting ahead of me.

Thanks to my obsessive precautions, I have tonight’s outfit in my carry-on—my gold sequined skirt, white silk blouse, and heels for the formal, private function to welcome the festival artists and rehearse the main events. Everything runs smoother when people know where they’re supposed to be and when.

But if I don’t get through luggage claims in time, I won’t be there at all.

I spin toward the lost baggage office and find a familiar tall, dark-haired man in the doorway.

You havegotto be kidding me.