Page 79 of The Roman Holiday Rule

He slides his phone into his jeans pocket and grabs a bouquet of plump pink roses and a fighter-pilot style jet helmet waiting by his feet. He holds one in each hand, wide apart. “Take your pick of thank-you gifts. Roses and goodnight, or one of the best meals you’ll likely ever have?”

I blink. Mark holds in an amused smile at how slow I’m processingwhat he’s saying. Which is a little unfair, since it’s one hundred percent his fault for taking me by surprise while being devastatingly distracting.

He tilts his head in the direction of the helmet, shaking it, encouraging me to choose the drive and dinner.

I am out of my depth here, and frankly, it’s a little scary how much I want to say yes to him. It’s all well and good that things worked out for Mom and Dad when they met in Italy, but I’ve seenRoman Holiday. I’m leaving in three days to return to my real life.

This is why I plan things out. If I’d stuck to my schedule I never would have fallen—I never would have gotten so sidetracked.

The smart choice, of course, is roses. I’m becoming addicted to a stimulant I can’t have after tomorrow. I need to start preparing for that, start saying no.

But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. I twist the strap of my bag, stalling. “I need details. What exactly is this?”

He raises an eyebrow at the bouquet in his hand, as if suspicious. “No pesticides used. Pink. Homegrown. Freshly picked without my grandma’s permission.”

“Stop,” I say on a gurgle of laughter. “I mean about the dinner. What’s in Monte Migliore?”

“It’s my birthday, and the whole family will be there for the dinner party.”

“What? Happy birthday! If I’d known, I would have gotten you—”

He takes a few steps toward me. “You gave me a way to get to my own party. My family will be overjoyed to have you join us. Trust me. And if there’s one thing that’s true about my Italian family, it’s that there will always be enough food.”

I swallow. This is bigger than I thought.Family.I want that. I know he’s not offering his family to me, but even being among them, meeting more of Mark’s people, makes me feel so desperately vulnerable and hopeful that my knees weaken.

“So if I choose the drive, what happens to the roses? You can’t drive a Vespa with roses in your hand.”

“Ah, the lady is strategic. Play your cards right and you could get both.” He grins, raising and lowering the two choices as if they were on a scale. “What’ll it be?”

I reach over and touch the helmet. Guess I’m not taking the smart choice. “On one condition.”

He dips his chin and gives me a long-suffering look. “This is a thank-you gift. There are no negotiations.”

I fold my arms, tap my foot, and wait.

“Okay, fine. What is it?”

I pull the flowered helmet from my head that I forgot I was wearing. I flush at how oblivious to everything else Mark makes me. “You wear this one and I wear the normal one.”

He recoils, and it’s all I can do to keep a straight face.

“You’ll come with me only if I wear that monstrosity?”

“That’s the deal.” I want to know how badly he wants this. Wants me.

He looks right into my eyes, shoves the roses into my free hand, and grabs the ridiculous helmet without hesitation. “Done. Now run the flowers inside and let’s go.”

Beaming, I hurry to my room, plug the sink and fill it with water, and set the roses there.

As a dressier shoe choice for a party, I change into my espadrilles—last chance for redemption, girls—add a silver bracelet, and run a brush through my hair. Like that will matter once I put the helmet back on.

My ticket for the night tour of the Colosseum sits on the desk. I couldn’t care less. No schedule is worth missing Mark’s birthday meal with his family.

By the time I return to the street, Mark has wheeled the Vespa to the front door and is wearing the cool helmet.

“Hey.” I point at his head. “We made a deal.”

He shrugs, not even trying to hold in his satisfied smirk. “Didn’t fit. Safety first.”