Page 36 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Luca tilts his chair back, reaching for the stack of menus behind him on the bar. “Lexi, I usually have our group eat whatever’s not selling as much, but I can grab you a menu so you can order what you want.”

She smiles. “No, I’m sure everything here is amazing.”

“Because it’s Italy, right?” Luca expects her to give the impersonal blanket compliment to all Italian food, with the assumption that every chef is equal by virtue of lineage. We all expect it. Mariella is waving down a waiter, only half listening.

“Because your sister said this was the best.”

Luca’s chair drops back to the ground and he zeros in on Mariella. His polite chitchat amiability is replaced with such obvious hope that Mariella puts her arm down and gives him a small nod. Luca gets flack all the time for not following in his father’s footsteps, for walking away from the family business, for switching careers midstream. He doesn’t complain because he avoids conflict, but I haven’t heard him receive praise for his cooking skills or choice of work from his family.

And now in thirty seconds, Lexington has given him this gift, a salve on his wound.

Because that’s what Lexington does. She finds a person’s emotional paper cut and does what she can to soothe it. For everyone but me, thanks to our disagreement on the plane.

She’s fingering her necklace and must forget the lira’s gone, because she gasps and feels around the chain.

“Is something wrong?” Mariella asks.

“Oh.” Her shoulders drop and she frowns. “No, I had a coin on my necklace someone gave me. It meant a lot to me, and I forgot for a second I’d taken it off.”

Iknewit. The second I saw her at the fountain yesterday, the way she was looking at the water as if she’d just lost everything, the way her eyes misted when I asked if she’d thrown it in, the way she dropped her defenses with me for a brief moment before that hawker selling flowers interrupted us and broke the connection.

I don’t love how compelled I feel now to make her laugh and ease her regret. All while keeping it secret from my cousins that she’s my competition in a bet. I’m walking a very thin line.

The waiter brings us a bottle of wine and then our first course, plates of pasta zinging with the delicious tang of ricotta and lemon.

Lexington hums with pleasure at her first bite. “This is amazing, Luca. I would be a changed woman if I had food like this every day.”

“What’s a normal lunch back home?”

“I have a smoothie, but there are, if you can believe it”—her eyebrow arches in exaggerated astonishment—“people who grabthreebags of chips. Without a single thought to flavor or health.”

While Mariella and Luca echo her shock at this barbaric behavior, Lexington smiles at me. This woman is trouble.

“I bet they have good reasons, though,” I add. Weak, but I’ll have my opening for a comeback soon.

“And what could those possibly be?” She’s batting her dark lashes in an innocent-Bambi move that makes me almost lose it.

“Travel emergencies.” I drum my fingers on the table, shooting for nonchalant but hitting weird and random instead.

Her face contorts, trying to hold in a burst of laughter.

Luca gives a quick shake of his head, and I know he means,Be normal, dude.He’s used to me either being comfortable enough with family to let out my weird, or the silent guy in public, so my behavior with her must confuse him.

He asks about Lexington’s plans while she’s in Italy.

She lights up and explains her itinerary, which is pretty much all the popular tourist sites.

Luca looks impressed. “Sounds like you’ve been planning this for a while.”

“You have no idea.” Lexington takes a sip of wine.

“Good thing you didn’t lose your passport before getting on the plane,” I murmur behind my glass. “It happens, and then people are left hoping a hero comes along to save the day.”

She has to twist her head away for a moment so she doesn’t lose it, then turns back, narrowing her eyes with aget readysparkle. “Heroes are overrated. They’re always so die-hard about movie quotes.” Before Luca and Mariella can question what in the world she means, she says, “Speaking of passports, were you all born and raised in Rome?”

Mariella nods and tilts her fork toward me. “Except him. He’s only half-Italian and grew up in Boston.”

“So I have a question for you and Luca.” Mirth and mischief bubble in her voice, and I sit up straight. Here it comes—she’s up to something. “What would you say is the heart of Italy?”