Page 47 of The Roman Holiday Rule

She smiles and returns to her workstation, leaving Mark and me alone in the dim hall.

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s still holding my arms and looking at me like I’m a math problem that doesn’t add up.

I can’t seem to fill my lungs in this narrow corridor. “Are you here working with Ms. Accardi?”

“No.”

“So you’re here for Keats’ poetry?”

“No.”

Fine, if he doesn’t want to talk about himself, I can at least drill him about the museum. Maybe there’s something about my mom or her artwork here she wants me to find. Because there isno wayshe sent me inside so I would find Ms. Accardi’s apron. “Are there any paintings here from modern artists?”

He shakes his head.

I guess we aren’t having a conversation right now. This is the most cagey and impossible I’ve ever seen him. He’s getting less and less communicative the longer I’m in Italy. That’s how it goes with tourists, I guess. Just blips on the periphery.

“Okay. See you around, most likely, the way this massive city seems to squash us into the same space every three hours.”

He blows out a quick breath and steps back, as if only now realizing he’s still in rescue-fainting-girl position. “Right.”

“Bye.” I spin on my heels and head down the stairs. If I’m not going to get answers, I might as well get some air.

Twenty-Six

Mark

Lexingtonislikea frayed wire you know about and try to ignore. Then one day you touch it in a moment of distraction andzap. You’re lit up, tingling, and surprised, even though you knew that would happen.

I’d seen her through the window on the steps reading a letter, but instead of turning away, I took her picture. She was framed perfectly, I couldn’t help it.

Then she came into the museum and I froze, even with all that time to prepare.

I forgot to give her the lira.

Frankly, I forgot everything, including how to talk. Which she apparently took for rudeness.

I jump into hyperdrive. I need damage control. Now.

With a quiet thanks to Professor Accardi for her advice about the marble floor design, I swing the blueprint canister’s strap around my chest, take the stairs to the ground floor two at a time, then step out onto the piazza. This late in the morning, tourists swarm like locusts. I scan the faces for Lexington.

Either she went up the steps, or she headed down to the streets lined with flagship fashion stores.

Up or down?

I choose the literal higher ground—that’s always the advice grown-ups gave me when I had fights in school. Wrapping my fist around the coin in my pocket, I lunge up the steps. They’re shallow and easy, but there are a lot of them.I pause, catching my breath, and check the milling crowds below me. A familiar, slim figure in cropped jeans and bun, with a light, bouncy gait moves up the steps on the left side. Gotcha.

I stride across and grasp her elbow. That seems to be a favorite spot for my hand. “Lexington.”

She turns, one step above me. We’re at eye level, and today her gray eyes are misty with confusion. I should have thought through what I was going to say.

“Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude in there.” I release her arm and rub the back of my neck. “It’s ... been a day, and you caught me off guard. You might have already guessed I’m not a quick adaptor.”

“Plus you spent the night in a jail cell, right? Or did they release you yesterday?” She folds her arms, eyebrow raised, ready for battle, but her expression has already softened into the comfortable teasing we had at the restaurant.

I give an exaggerated grimace. “You saw that?”

She nods, smirking. “The picture I took of you being carted off by the police is—” she clasps her hands to her chest—“my personal heart of Italy. Expect a framed copy for Christmas.”