Page 75 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Rose and Aurora, my younger cousins in Monte Migliore, are chattering in the background. Luca, Mariella, and their parents must already be there.

A pleasantly pungent smell hits the back of my nose when I enter my apartment building. Signora Capozzi must be cooking for her son again. He comes over almost every weekend, and I think his pores must be clogged with garlic. “Nope. The car’s dead in Naples. Go ahead and say it.”

“I told you so.”

At the top of the stairs, I unlock my door and walk inside. “Did that feel good?”

“Yup. What now? Uncle Beppe and Aunt Stella are already here. I saw on the newsfeed the trains are on strike again.”

“Well, it’s Friday, so no surprise.” I toss my keys onto the table and kick my sneakers off. “Guess I’ll look for a car rental.”

Luca lets out a cynical snort. “Good luck with that. We’re in high tourist season.”

“Someone will have a vehicle.”

“Call me back when you’re ready for another ‘told you so.’”

“You’re hilarious and overconfident.”

“Ditto.”

We hang up, and I start making calls, sipping on a cold glass of water and pacing the living room while I make my way through the list. Five, ten, twenty rental places—no available vehicles. One guy says he has a Vespa still on the premises, but it’s reserved. I keep calling until I’m out of rental companies. Freaking tourists.

I call a few friends who have cars, but all are out of the countryon vacation or unavailable. Nonno and Nonna have been staying several days out at Monte Migliore. There’s no one left.

I set my cup in the sink and lean against the kitchen counter. The company with the reserved Vespa looks like my last shot. I call the guy back. “Me again. Any chance they don’t show up for their reservation?”

“That doesn’t happen often.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. The sun is coming in strong through the kitchen window like a do-or-die sword, a reminder of the fading afternoon. My window of opportunity (pun intended) to solve this and get to my own birthday party is shrinking by the minute. “What time is the reservation for?”

“One.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and check the time. Twenty minutes. “Thanks.”

I hang up and dash for my shoes and wallet. If whoever has this reservation doesn’t turn up, I can swoop in to rent the last Vespa. Otherwise, I guess I’ll be begging a tourist for mercy.

Which is not my forte. On my way out, I check the Uber prices to Monte Migliore. Yikes.

At the tiny rental office, the empty row of scooter parking spaces in front mocks my lack of planning.

I pull open the door and step into the bare-bones shop. The employee looks up from his desk. The guy can’t be more than twenty years old. “Can I help you?”

The last scooter rests against the wall, key dangling from the ignition. Okay, we’re all thinking it: In the movies the guy would hop on the Vespa, rev it while the panicked tween fumbles with the phone, and then bust through the glass walls and save the day.

I sink into the cheap customer chair. I am not that guy, and the scooter is only a step above an e-bike. Plus, it’s painted baby blue and the helmet hanging from its handlebars has hippy flowers painted on it. Not the getaway vehicle of my dreams. “Hi, I called earlier. Do you mind if I wait here and see if the renter shows up for that thing?”

He shrugs. “Sure, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. She called to confirm a few days ago.”

I grimace. If I had a week to prepare my case, work out how to approach a stranger with this request, this might be only a mild disaster. In a few minutes? I’m doomed. I pull up the Uber app again.

Yeah. Three hundred euros out to the villa is worse. Barely.

“Could I—”

The door opens and I hear a familiar voice. “Mark?”

I whip my head around. Lexington. She’s wearing a dark green, sleeveless linen jumpsuit with loose, wide legs and black sandals. Every time I see her, I feel like I’m standing on top of the tallest building in the world. Exhilaration and goose bumps.