Page 6 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Minute’s up, Mark.My scrutiny hasn’t blunted my initial impression. Those leaves are now even crunchier.

“Sir, the line is moving.” The man behind me grips his carry-on, ready to move forward.

“Sorry.” I step toward the jet bridge.

If the Italian Heritage Society I pitched to here in Boston decides to invest, my last hurdle is to win the bid for the restoration project. A project that will tie me to Rome for at least the next three years, giving me the chance to restore the other wreckage that matters more. Dad and Nonno’s relationship.

The very last thing I need is interest in a woman named Lexington. I’ll ignore that crackle. I live in Italy and she doesn’t, even if she is wearing old Italian currency around her neck as if it’s her prized possession.

Only a fool doesn’t learn from his own personal history.

But instead of deleting the picture, I pull up my boarding pass and get on the plane.

Three

Lexi

I’m heftingmy bulky carry-on to the overhead bin when I hear a familiar deep and adorably scratchy voice say to the flight attendant, “Yes, this will be fine, thanks.”

I freeze and half-turn. It’shim. On my plane. At my row. I stuff down that tiny thrill. No distractions during Italy.

He reaches above my head and hoists my luggage to the compartment, then tucks his messenger bag next to it.

“Thanks. Again.”

An impatient teenager squeezes by us, forcing Mr. Curls to press into my back for a moment. He smells like ... baseball. Clean-cut grass and leather. As pure as childhood and as manly as a uniformed player, which I would name if I knew any. I’m more of a soccer girl. Anyway, you get the point.

“Sorry,” he mumbles near my ear. “There was an aisle miscalculation, but I got yourback.”

I hold in my amused snort. I have to stop laughing at everything this guy says.

He steps away, and my back feels the loss of his warmth. I slideinto the middle seat and he follows, folding his long legs into the aisle spot right next to me.

Two seconds later, an elderly woman with various loose layers of clothes points to the window seat. We both stand to let her in. She makes herself comfortable with a senior’s right to claim the armrest, pulls the shade, and settles in for an eight-hour nap.

With the woman’s arm spilling across the zone line, I’m either knocking into her elbow or brushing up against this guy’s shoulder. I fold my arms across my chest and make myself as small as possible, but every time I move I make accidental contact. Or not accidental, hard to tell with me.

I open my novel. As long as I stay busy, I can ignore this man. He’s in my life ten days early.

After dinner, I settle the blanket around my legs and open my laptop. There’s always work researching venues, reviewing rental contracts, and creating branding graphics, especially with Julie headed out tomorrow on an NYC shopping trip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my seatmate checking out my uncluttered desktop. My screen wallpaper is a stock photo of a European fountain. It’s edited to perfection, though not quite as thrilling as the view to my right.

“You’re headed to Rome too?” It was only a matter of time before he opened conversation. He’s purposeful and unhurried. And he found the one thing I can’t resist talking about.

“Yes. Italy is magical,” I gush, then clamp my mouth shut.Don’t ask why he’s going. Don’t ask anything.

“You’ve been before?” His warm voice cracks and his eyes sparkle, as if I’d admired his puppy.

“No. It’s in my blood, though.”

“You’re Italian?” He takes in my dark brown hair and gray eyes.

“No. My parents met in Italy.” A thought strikes me. “How did you know this picture was Rome?” It could be any European fountain.

“I live there.Notin Boston.” So he’s settled on an answer to myquestion from the airport, and for whatever reason made it complicated, it’s now also making him stiff. He nods toward my computer screen. “Just to warn you, the Italy from most staged, filtered photos isn’t anywhere close to reality.”

I stare at my laptop. A protective instinct kicks in at his analysis. I don’t need anyone raining on my Italy parade before I get there. “Touching up photos is called putting your best foot forward. Marketing. Finding the beauty.”