Page 3 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Forget the ginger ale, you traitorous blue book.

I dodge a toddler chasing a ball and then a team of jerseyed teenage guys crossing the lobby. Before a suitcase runs over my toes, I jerk to an abrupt stop. Someone slams into my back. We both let out anoof, and I’m on the verge of apologizing when I catch a glimpse of what he’s holding.

He’s tall, but right at eye level is my passport, open to the page of my least photographic moment ever.

“Is this yours?” He’s out of breath and his voice is scratchy and deep.

With a gasp, I swipe it, blurting, “There you are,” like I’d lost my child. Worse, my pitch lowers to James Earl Jones level and I say, “You have failed me for the first time.”

“Was that ... aStar Warsmisquote?”

Yes, yes it was. I’ve gotten so good at holding in my quirky habit and always weighing my words before I speak. The quick switch from panic to relief must have short-circuited my brain. I close my eyes and exhale. Let’s move on. “I can’t thank you enough.” I stare at my name, double-checking that the passport belongs to me. Lexington Rose Walker. “Where was it?”

“Near the coffee shop.”

I glance up at him for the first time and register a few quick facial details—glasses, deep blue eyes crinkled by his kind half-smile, a five o’clock shadow on a strong jawline, and a mass of dark curls. My stomach flips. If his face were an event, I’d say it was planned to perfection. Plus, he’s the reading guy from check-in, the only one in line not occupied with his phone, which I admire. And I know this sounds bizarre, but the gray, green, and white stripes on the canvas strap of his leather messenger bag remind me of the balloons on Mom’s envelope painting.

I force my attention away from those familiar lines. I can do normal, with a bit of effort. “That makes sense. It must have slid out when my purse fell over.”

The words come out shaky, but everything’s fine now. Nothing can stop me from flying to Rome. This was a close call. “How did you find me?”

One corner of his mouth lifts, and he points at the passport still gripped in my hand. “I was looking for the person from the picture on my way to hand it over at the information desk. You ran right past me like you’d lost something urgent, so I chased after you. Your picture was a little misleading, though.”

I laugh. I hope he means my long, layered dark hair is an improvement on my bad-decision-bangs mugshot. “It’s nine years old.”

“It’s been a good near-decade.” His eyes roam over my hair and face, then catch on the pendant necklace from my mom I always wear—an old pre-Euro Italian lira coin threaded on a silver chain. Besides her paintings and my dad, this scrap of metal was her only souvenir from her trip to Italy.

His features soften, and he holds my gaze a beat too long, as if he’d found something he was looking for.

My cheeks warm. Hiding my flush, I bend and slip the passport into my purse, tsking. “I need a leash for her. So wayward.” See? Short-circuited. For whatever reason, my brain decides this man gets the raw, unfiltered version of Lexi.

“Nine years old, you said?” He leans in close, his hoarse voice lowered to share a secret. “Flightyandturbulentis normal for the preteen years, I’ve heard.”

I can’t help another laugh from spilling out. Did he use an airplane punandfollow my weird penchant for personifying objects?

Head tilted, crooked smile, focus lasered on me, he’s standing with his hands in his back jeans pockets, his bag slung across his chest, relaxed as if he had nothing at all to do and nowhere to go. In my world of solve-it-now, not many people look at me this way. No urgency, no agenda, no bustle and push. It’s ... nice.

I finger the coin at my throat and something settles in me.

“So, do you live in Boston?”

I nod. “You?”

“No. Yes. No.” His playful smile fades.

“You’re not sure?” I want to know what in his life makes this a complicated question.

I don’t take my eyes from his, though I have a dim sense that I should be through security by now. This moment feels like time has paused, like the lone raindrop before a deluge.

He flicks his gaze to my bulging carry-on. “Hey, do you want to ...we could grab a bite to eat on the other side of security. I’ll keep an eye out for flighty passports.”

Oh, I want that. Yes, please.

Wait. No. I release a tiny huff of frustration.

Bad idea.Not now.

He glances at his watch and groans. “Wow, sorry, it’s later than I thought. I have to run.” He takes a backward step away from me. “It was—”