Page 93 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“No, but—”

“Then let another company get the bid.” Tears fill my eyes and I blink. “Don’t do this to me, Mark. Don’t be the one who tears down the site of Reena Brooke’s painting. Don’t take this job.”

His face crumples, and he runs a hand through his curls and down his neck. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he rasps.

But I do.

My mother-daughter trip is finished. All my letters are opened. I’m losing the painting to Rome.

I’m asking him to not be who destroys the last tangible piece of my parents’ relationship. It’s not just an old temple or the site of their first kiss. It’s knowing there’s a piece of her here. It’s seeing that painting come to life. It’s breathing the air where my parents stood together. I have nothing left of them but memories that are loosening with every passing day.

The temple won’t bring my mother back. But it can’t be Mark who erases that piece of her, not if there’s any future with us.

“Don’t do it,” I plead again.

He takes a half-step toward me, and for a split-second, he looks like he’d give anything to say yes. But then his gaze lands on something in the exhibit behind me and his face closes. “What does it matter? Italy isn’t a staged photo or a painting frozen in time. It’s real life, where cars break down, people break up and move on, fathers miss their estranged sons every minute of every day, and where structures don’t pass code. We all have to follow the rules, even when that’s the last thing we want to do.”

His voice breaks, and I close the distance between us, grabbing his hands, trying to understand why he’s pulling us back into the disagreement we had on the plane, why he’s referencing what happened with Zoe, almost as an excuse to push me away. “You’re not restoring the past—you’re letting it dictate your future. I’m not sure how this—” I point between the two of us—“would even work, but I’m sure that if you take this bid and the temple is destroyed under your supervision, there is nous.” Almost afraid to ask, I whisper, “Is that what you want?”

His gaze sears me—longing, regret, and determination—as he pushes his next words out. “My dad promised he’d come to Italy if we get the job. It’s the only thing I’ve wanted for the last five years.”

The knockout punch. It takes everything in me to stand still and upright. “Oh, Mark.” I let his hands fall from mine. He told me about Santino’s health issues, the ticking clock on reconciling his dad andgrandfather. I understand wanting something so much you’d give anything to get it. He won’t give up the bid, even for me, and I can’t let go of the temple, even for him. “Then we’re at an impasse.”

We stare at each other, breathing hard and nearly spent. I don’t know where to go from here.

But I’m certainly not getting on a Vespa with him to see the temple he’s going to tear down.

I can’t look at him or I’ll break down and not be able to deliver my speech. I turn away but hear Mark’s quiet response, “Goodbye, Lexi.”

His final words suck the air from my lungs. I reach for the lira hanging on my necklace like a lifeline, glad I’m not facing him or I would lose the tears I’m barely holding in.

My shoes click on the marble floor as I exit the museum. There is something in this moment that makes me feel lonelier than I ever have in my life. Maybe it’s that I’ve opened all Mom’s letters and there will never be anything else she says to me. Maybe it’s that I’m leaving our Italy in two days, knowing her temple won’t survive.

But I think, more than those things, it’s that Mark just called me Lexi for the first time. The public name that everyone calls me. He’s undone the secret rapport we established and announced that there’s nothing special between us.

I push the doors open and walk away.

Fifty-Two

Mark

“You’re notrestoring the past—you’re letting it dictate your future.”

Lexington’s words ricochet in my head. They won’t stop echoing, and at every reverberation, I flinch again.

Of course it’s true. I’m protecting myself, as I should. It’s called learning from your mistakes.

But blast, it hurts.

I wander down a few streets, lost in my thoughts, and then arrive at the Reena Brooke gallery a few minutes late for the unveiling. All the chairs are full, and Gia is addressing the attentive crowd. I slip along the back wall, the same spot where I waited for Lexington earlier, so hopeful and excited.

A lifetime ago.

Gia finishes her introduction and calls Lexington up to the stage. For the second time in a week, Lexington Walker has switched from distressed to composed at the drop of a hat. Her movements are smooth and graceful, stepping up and crossing the stage, adjusting the microphone and settling her notes on the podium. Her posture is upright and relaxed, her smile soft and calm. But I know hurt lies underneath that mask.

Which she confirms by shooting me a quick, distraught look before returning her gaze to the massive crowd.

With a deep inhale, she glances at the velvet-covered easel to her right as if drawing strength from it, then speaks into the microphone, her voice low and sweet.