Page 84 of The Roman Holiday Rule

I nod. “Like the pattern on an apron.” I lower my voice. “This villa. Down to every detail.”

His eyes widen. “Here?”

I nod again. “I can’t fathom how it’s happening.”

“Well, I can’t answer that. The only thing I can say is that I don’t believe in magic, I believe in miracles. Maybe they’re pointing you to something.”

“But what? I’m going crazy trying to figure this out.”

“I don’t know, Lexi. Wait and see.”

I bark out a cynical laugh. “I’m not very good at that. And I’m out of envelopes. That chapter is over.”

He gives me a wry half-smile that reminds me of his grandson. “You don’t know that. Anything is possible. Nothing’s over until this world passes away.”

Advice for both of us, it seems.

Mark comes and stands in front of me, holding out his hand to pull me up. “We should get back. Big day tomorrow.”

We say our goodbyes, and by the time we walk down the drive to the waiting scooter, I’ve been hugged or cheek-kissed at least ten times. It’s a kind of soul satiation that I haven’t felt since I lost my mom, and when I climb behind Mark on the Vespa, I rest my head against his back, thankful for the helmet and the ride to get my emotions under control.

We drive home, silent. There’s so much to ask and process, but I sense us both waiting, letting the evening sigh and close before we dive into ... whatever is next.

Mark pulls up to my hotel and parks the Vespa. We both take our helmets off and turn toward each other, faces shadowed under the lamplight.

“How do you feel about tomorrow? Is everything ready?”

“Mostly. We should send our bet photos to the printer so he has time to get them mounted.”

“Right. I warned him they were coming and he said he’s fine with a rush order.” He points to the general area of my bag. “Send meyours and I’ll upload them to his page. I already have an account with him.”

I pull my phone out and scroll through my photos, but hold the screen close to my chest. “So you’ll see mine and I won’t see yours?”

Mark’s face is smug. “Home team advantage. Just kidding. I won’t open it.”

“I’ll have a volunteer pick up the prints and take them over to the photography gallery in the morning.”

I can’t believe I didn’t even have time to edit my photo, but even crazier is how little I care about that right now. Once it’s sent to him, he slips his phone in his pocket and studies me for a moment.

Is this goodbye? The next two days are going to be wild and full. The biggest days of my career. My mom’s art dedication. This is the calm before the storm, and I want to soak up every moment of it.

“Happy birthday, Mark.” That came out a little flirtier than I intended. I blame the lingering memory of Mark’s spicy-clean scent after clinging to his back all the way into the city.

“Do you want to take a walk?” His rough voice rumbles low, like faraway thunder on a summer’s night. Distracted for a second by that smooth, kissable spot at the edge of the curls at his temple, I almost miss his question.

It’s late, but it doesn’t occur to me for one second to say no to Mark. I have even less self-control than I did five hours ago. “Yes,” I whisper.

He locks the helmets into the seat compartment, and we head toward the park. Cicadas chirp, or whatever cicadas do. The air smells like lavender and freshly cut grass and late-night secrets.

“Your family is great.” It hits me again—I just met Mark’s family.

He shoots me a quick smile but doesn’t respond.

“Your little cousins adore you.”

His chuckle is barely discernible over the night sounds, but he takes my hand.

I peek up at him, at his furrowed brow and near-scowl that aweek ago I would have thought meant anger. But now I know he’s shy, and his thumb is rubbing circles on my palm.