Page 64 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Lexi

Ispendthe afternoon in the area around the Bocca della Verità. There are several temples nearby, and I’m hoping it’s some kind of “temple district” and that my mom’s will be here too.

But all I see is Mark’s face, the look in his eyes when he folded the lira in my hand or when he found out I thought he was engaged. Sweet vulnerability and intense hope.

I’m a fairly positive person, but for the last year, I’ve felt like a light in me was on half-dim. Now, whenever I think about Mark, it’s like the dimmer has been nudged up. Like my future has promise, like dawn is coming.

I avoid the Mouth of Truth, the marble mask in the portico of the church. I don’t need to pay two euros to put my hand in Oceanus’ mouth and get my fingers bitten off to find out I’m lying to myself, even if Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn stood in that exact spot.

Late in the afternoon, Julie sends me an urgent text to meet her ASAP at Hadrian’s Temple. All of Julie’s missives sound life-or-death, so I’m strolling in that general direction when she texts me again.

It’s about Mark.

I hurriedly arrive at the imposing pockmarked columns lining an ancient facade and mentally check it off my schedule as done. Not when and how I planned, but I’m so behind on my tourist spots I count this as a win.

Julie waves me over like her day job is on the airport tarmac. She holds her phone to her chest with one hand, and grips my arm with the other, bracing me. “I found Mark Russo and asked him some questions. You need to watch this. I’m sorry.”

I’m more curious than worried, but I nod gravely. She flips the phone around and hits play.

“You filmed yourself drilling this guy?”

“Shhh, just watch.” She turns the volume up, but I still have to lean in to hear above the pigeons and tourists wandering around the small square.

It’s not Mark. I mean, it must beaMark. Russo is a fairly common last name. But it’s notmyMark. I watch enough to hear a very confused rando tell my zealous friend that yes, he’s been dating a woman for years and plans to propose soon.

“Jules, this isn’t him. And I found out this afternoon that Mark is single.” I recap the DTKR (Define the Katie Relationship) talk I had with Mark and she deletes the video with a flourish and a wide grin.

“So we’re a go on dating Mark. I’m so happy for you, Lexi!”

“Slow down, missy. No one said anything about dating.”

She gives me a narrow-eyed stare, then slowly raises one eyebrow. “We will discuss this after I meet him.” At my snort, she adds, “I know your penchant for overthinking things. You won’t listen to your heart but you dang well better listen to me.”

Before I can respond to that zinger, my phone buzzes with a direct message notification that I read out loud to Julie. “Ninth King wrote me back already about my request to let us use his IG account—he agreed to host our bet. Even offered to help.”

She leans over my shoulder to watch the conversation unfold. “Oh, find out who he is and why he stays anonymous.”

“I’m not pushing my luck.” I type,

Thank you so much. Any advice that wouldn’t be cheating?

Honorable. I like that. Maybe I’d say that the heart of Italy isn’t a place.

My thumbs fly over the letters.

That’s a pretty big hint.

Meh, I think you’re fine. He doesn’t need to know. You’re cutting it quite close if you need to post a picture tomorrow. ;)

I smile at the old school punctuation-winky face, a relic from pre-emoji days. “So Ninth King isn’t under forty-five years old,” I murmur, oddly satisfied.

“Which explains the total lack of marketing on his account. It’s just pictures. No links to purchase, no website, nothing.” Julie has scratched her head at this for months and it drives her crazy.

I type,

I know. I’m definitely not going to win, I just don’t want to make a fool of myself.

You might, but I doubt it.