Page 39 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Mariella turns to me. “Are you okay? You seemed in a hurry all of a sudden.”

I trace a smooth cobblestone with my shoe. “I’m sorry. I had a great time, but I have a lot to do and only a few days here.”

She searches my face, then pulls out her phone. “Let’s exchange numbers. In case you need anything while you’re here or maybe you can hang out with me and my friends sometime.”

I would love to get to know her, and I consider asking if she knows the temple I’m looking for, but it’s too risky. I just met her, and what if she leaked the image onto social media before the unveiling? That would steal all the excitement from the festival’s climax and diminish my mom’s moment of homage.

Plus, part of me is afraid to insert myself any more into Mark’s family. He clearly doesn’t want that. No. More. Mark.

The distant honks, voices, and buzz of Vespas is a reminder that we’re tucked away in a major international city. I’m reluctant to give up this quiet corner, but lunch took longer than expected, and I missed my prepaid tour of the Sistine Chapel in St. Peter’s Basilica.

Choosing between people I meet in Italy and my schedule was never on my radar of possible issues. I key in Mariella’s number, then text her so she has mine. “Thank you for inviting me. It was amazing meeting you and your family. And thanks for keeping it under wraps that I’m Reena Brooke’s daughter. To me, she’s Mom. I like to keep that separate from her fame.”

“Of course. And get to know people on your own terms, not under her shadow, I’m sure.”

I bite my lip. Her fame isn’t the shadow I have to live with every day.

She hugs me, and I speed-walk to Vatican City, ignoring the temptation to stop and peruse the artwork for sale along the tree-lined avenue by the rushing river. That’s what I would have done with Mom. She would disapprove of the way I’m letting my schedule cut the wonder out of experiencing Italy, but I can’t change the way grief has intensified my need for control.

Besides, I stepped out of the plan for a few hours and ended up flirting with an engaged man and nearly broke into tears at the loss of Mom’s lira on my necklace. So clearly that lunch was a bad idea.

Inside the busy, fortified city, all the signs on the tour company placards say SOLD OUT. The massive square is filled with lines of people who already hold tickets for the rest of the day’s tour times, or who have been standing in the hours-long line to view St. Peter’s Basilica for free.

I let loose an “agh” with my outside voice, but the square is so loud with animated tourists that no one notices. “That’s just peachy. More rearranging.”

Muttering under my breath and rolling my tight shoulders, I pull out my itinerary. I’m running out of alternative times, squeezing activities into shorter slots. I add the Basilica tour to Thursday afternoon, after a visit at the Pantheon that will have to be a dash-through. The only font size that fits my new addition in the tiny space is six point, which I can’t even read without squinting. “And that’s with Arial Narrow!”

At my outburst, a startled woman nearby gives me the you-crazy look and widens her path around me. I don’t blame her. If Arial Narrow can’t even do its job, we’re all in trouble.

Rushing through sites isnothow I wanted to experience Italy, and the bet is adding extra stress. It shouldn’t matter, but I can’t let go of the need to justify my trip, to prove to Mark that a week is long enough in a city to understand its soul.

I cross the spacious square and take a picture of the Basilica. It’llhave to be enough for now. I spin to face Aventine Hill. Someone could be looking right at me through that magical view at the scuffed door’s keyhole.

When I wished for my luggage and then received it hours later, it was easy to brush off. But stumbling onto Mark’s green door after wishing to find it . . . I’m having a harder time not connecting that to my wish at Trevi Fountain.

I don’t know what’s going on here, and even entertaining the thought that the fountain grants wishes puts me on the wrong side of the sanity train tracks.

All questions of if I’ve officially lost it aside, supposing the fountaindoesgrant wishes ... I could use it to find the heart of Italy.

Twenty-Two

Mark

That millisecondlooking deep into Lexington’s gray eyes at the restaurant—I was fine. Completely unaffected. It’s not like I was scared and ran away. It’s that I thought of some urgent business.

I do have pressing work for the palazzo bid, but instead of heading back to the office, I call Nonno for a personal favor.

No one is allowed in Trevi Fountain or to take money out except for the city workers who collect the coins every morning. So there’s not much chance Lexi’s lira is still there, but I have to check. I don’t believe in losing artifacts. This hasnothingto do with the fact that she defended me to my cousins.

When Nonno answers, I ask, “Are you still friends with that policeman?”

“Carlo? Sure. Why?” Cars honk in the background. I guess he’s not at the office either.

“I need permission for something slightly illegal.”Please don’t ask questions.

“Is this about the American?”

Agh. Like Luca, Grandpa’s first question leaps over all the logical ones to the only one I really don’t want to answer.