Page 69 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Julie is way too amused by my statement. “Uh, yes you are. You are the kind of friends where you can get away with anything. The kind of friends who will be kissing within...” She checks her Fitbit. “The next forty-eight hours.”

I scramble off the bed. “Why would you think that?” The idea has my heart prancing like an eager dog who thinks he’s going on a walk. Julie hasn’t met Mark yet, there’s no way her prediction is accurate. Calm down, pup. “What happened to gathering more intel before deciding about Mark?”

Julie puts her phone on the desk and yanks open the curtains at the balcony door. She spins, backlit by the morning sunshine, hands on her hips. “I did. I saw the picture he took of you on your phone when I was looking for the bet photo.”

There’s her intuition again, drawing massive conclusions from little material. She’s almost always right, but what if this is the one time she’s wrong?

“How’d you get all that from one picture?” Mark and I have barely even touched, and the subject of Us is taboo.

“It’s all about you, like he’s oblivious to anything else going on. Spanish Steps, one of the most famous Rome sites? Blurry. Other people? Blurry.”

I pull up the picture on my phone. “The pigeon and little boy aren’t blurry.”

“Lexi, the kid’s face is turned away and all the bird and boy do in the picture is highlight your enjoyment of people.” She takes my phone and peers at it. “See how he angled everything so that streak of sunlight lands right at your feet? Either he’s the best photographer I’ve ever seen, or he likes you a lot. This is what happens to artists when they love someone—their art reveals their heart way beyond their talent.”

I stand there, mouth open. Julie isn’t usually the eloquent mystic.

She tosses my phone and it lands on the soft bed. “So start looking for airline deals.”

I attempt a lighthearted laugh, and it comes out awkward and horsey. Unconvincing. “Don’t you think it’s a little soon to be thinking like that? I’ve known the man for aweek.”

I need her to talk me down from this ridiculous hope, not fuel it. But clearly the emotional half of my brain is emperor over the land because I keep talking, almost begging her to show me there’s a way. “Our whole acquaintance is based around this bet, and I don’t want it to end today.”

She shakes her head, smirking. “It won’t. Trust me.”

I giggle, my insides fizzy and full of eager energy, and grab my sunglasses and phone. “Julie? You’re hilarious. All that confidence from one picture. Let’s go, we’re due at the Pantheon in an hour.”

Her eyes snap to my sandal choice, simple black flip-flops that give my blistered heels the day off. “You’re not wearing your espadrilles? They’re perfect for that outfit.”

I screw up my face. “There’s aesthetically perfect, and then there’s friendly. You have no idea how badly those shoes have treated me.”

We stop at my regular coffee shop and then I lead the way across town to the Pantheon.

“Slow down.” Julie is ten feet behind me in the piazza, gold-rimmed sunglasses propped on her head, taking selfies in front of almost every building.

I can’t slow down. I’m bouncing on my toes, running into people, checking the time, and rushing through the Pantheon, which should clue me in on my mental state.

The truth is, I’m a little nervous. Not nervous I’ll lose. (I will.) Not nervous Mark will delete my tourist photos off my phone. (He won’t.) I’m nervous I’ll get carried away. Flirt too much, hope too much, forget too much.

I don’t trust myself around Mark. He breaks my plans, cracks open my defenses, and changes the mother-daughter Italy I always imagined into something new. Something even closer to my heart than my mom’s temple painting.

Honestly? I’m here for it. And that’s what spooks me.

Thirty-Nine

Mark

The Piazza di Treviat a quarter to noon is a madhouse. Wary of pickpockets, I cling to the messenger bag slung across my chest with my expensive camera inside it. I enter the fray, looking for Lexington. I’m early, but I spot her as soon as I reach the steps down to the water, despite the crowds pressing for a good spot.She’s early too.

As if an invisible string is stretched between us, she lifts her head and waves at me. We exit the mass of people until we’re standing face to face on the edge of the square.

She looks fresh, tan, and merry in a knee-length, loose white dress. The lira on her necklace rests at her throat.

It’s been a mere fourteen hours since I last saw her, but I drink in her smile and the way her playful eyes squint up at me in the sun. I have a sudden wish to know Lexington in winter too, to study how she cuddles and wraps up to stay warm, to learn if her cheeks or nose redden in the cold, to watch her reading her Jane Austen by the fireplace.

The strength of that wish almost scares me. Whatever happens with us today, I can’t let the bet signal the end.

We’ve been staring at each other so long it’s almost awkward.Except nothing with Lexington has ever been awkward. “You look a little familiar. Have we met?”