Page 68 of The Roman Holiday Rule

She glances up from her phone, and her twinkling grin is a mirthful acknowledgment of all our sparring and subtle wordplay this evening. That smile lights a match and holds it a little too close to the kindling.

Her Uber ride pulls up to the curb, and I open the car door for her. She slides into the back seat.

Hand on the door, I dip my head to meet her eyes. “Sleep well. Big day tomorrow.”

“Ditto. Don’t choke.”

I shut her car door, grinning. I told Luca I’m using my head. But what I’m actually doing is playing with fire.

Thirty-Eight

Lexi

I can’tsleep.It’s not you, jet lag, it’s me.

I re-fluff the pillows propping me up in bed where I’m sifting through all the shots I’ve taken on my phone. Narrow cobblestone streets with flowers spilling out of window boxes. Water sparkling in the sun at Trevi Fountain. The blurry keyhole on Aventine Hill. The Colosseum against a bright cloudless sky. The wide Spanish Steps leading up to the church. I think of Mark’s eyes turned on me with all that latent mischief behind his half-smiles. Tingles run through my body and I stretch, letting them run their course.

“It’s different with you. It was always easy with you,from the first moment.”

“All this time, you thought I was engaged?”

“I think this belongs to you, Lexington.”

“Like I told you,I got your back.”

Focus, Lexi.

I need to havesomethingready for the bet. The heart of Italy could be anything, which is proof I haven’t figured it out.

Around three in the morning, I settle on a picture of the Basilica from St. Peter’s Square in Vatican City. Iconic Rome, the heart of theCatholic Church, and it’s one of my better shots. I spend an hour editing until it’s as gorgeous as I can make it, but I’m not confident at all. I might get votes from religious Italians or points for a good shot, but this isn’t the heart of Italy. I feel it in my bones.

A building is not an experience, no more than Mark’s scowls are his heart.

But I’m out of time and this is all I’ve got. Better brace myself for losing.

I drift off just before dawn and wake to Julie pounding on my door at eight a.m. Regret that I gave her my room number sits on my tongue, foul and stale.

Oh, nope. That’s actual morning breath.

Groaning, I stumble to the door and unlock it, then head to the bathroom as Julie breezes in. “Someone stayed up laaate,” she singsongs, way too cheerful for having flown overseas yesterday.

“Editing the photo for the bet,” I holler through the door. I pop my head out and talk around the toothbrush in my mouth. “It’s on my phone—tell me what you think.”

When I emerge, showered and clothed in my favorite V-neck dress of white crochet lace, Julie is typing on her own phone.

“Did you open the picture? The last one in the album?” I drop my folded pajama shorts and silk camisole in the drawer.

“Mm-hmm.” She nods but doesn’t look up. “It’s good.”

That’s the same mediocre reaction I had, andI’mthe one who worked on it. I flop faceup on the bed, arm across my face. I have the margin to be a little dramatic around Julie because nothing I could ever do will come close to her levels. “I’m not going to win the bet.”

“So? Is it that big of a deal?”

I sit up. “Yes.I want his pictures.” It’s a lot more complicated than that. I want to know Mark more through his pictures. I want to win, but more for bragging rights than proving something to him.

“But now you’re friends, you could justaskfor his pictures.”

“I’m not sure we’re that kind of friends.” It’s been barely ten minutessince we’ve had all our misunderstandings cleared up. Seven days since we met in Boston. I don’t know what we are.