Page 8 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“I’ll know if you have the wrong answer.”

Oh, the smugness. “Whether I do or not, what’s to keep you from telling me I’m wrong so you win?”

He pulls back, frowning. “You think I’d lie?”

“I don’t know you at all.”Keep it that way, Lexi.I think of the stock photo that started all this, and I know how to win. “Let’s have the world decide. We’ll post two pictures on social media and ask for a vote based on who has captured the heart of Italy. Best photo wins.”

“I’m not on social media. It would be all your friends picking your version.”

I snap my fingers. “We can ask Ninth-King-of-Rome to run the contest. It’s an anonymous Instagram account of Rome photography that I follow. Whoever it is has about twelve-thousand followers. I’ve had a few interactions with the creator. This would be right up Ninth King’s alley.”

He stills, brow furrowed.

“Ninth king because they call Francesco Totti the eighth king of Rome. He’s a soccer—”

“I know who Totti is.”

As a foil to his stiff annoyance, I flash him my most chipper smile.“Okay, well, so do I.” See. I know cultural stuff too. That wasn’t from Wikipedia. “What are the stakes?”

“If you lose,” he says, his voice so close to my ear that I shiver—with annoyance, it’s annoyance—“every tourist picture you take of Rome this week needs my approval to stay on your phone.”

I cough on another sip of water. “You’re crazy.” I don’t care how sure I am I’ll win, I’m not about to risk losing a record of my time in Rome. And the fact he thinks whatever pictures I take will be ill-used, exploited, and mistaken because I’mjust a touristis maddening. “What’s to stop me from uploading them to the Cloud?”

He dips his chin. “Honor system. I trust you.”

Well, that takes all the fun out of loopholing him.

“And if I lose,” he continues, “I AirDrop every picture I have of Italy onto your laptop, including permission to use, edit, print, or sell.”

Whoa.

Wait, speaking of loopholes. “Do youhaveany pictures?” Not that I’m agreeing to these stakes.

He nods. “I’ve lived in Rome for six years. I’m an architect and part-time photographer. There are over ten thousand pictures in my Italy folder.” He gives me a self-conscious smile. “Admittedly, a quarter of them are close-ups of architectural details. But the rest are shots of all my best memories there.”

Against my will, I’m impressed. Think of the banners, invitations, and backdrops I could create with a boatload of professional photos at my disposal, especially if we take our company international. No more paying for subpar graphics or stock photos to capture the European aesthetic clients love. It doesn’t faze me at all that he’s professional-level. He obviously won’t be Photoshopping his submission for this bet since he’s so againststagingandfilters, and his type of raw photography is not going to win votes in the twenty-first century.

He must think by my silence I don’t believe him. He pulls his phone back out and before he opens his photos, I catch a glimpse of his boarding pass.

First class. Why is he sitting here by me in economy? While he scrolls through his pictures, I examine his profile, like that would give me a clue as to who this man is who doesn’t believe in travel but trades out his first-class seat, who scorns the gorgeous picture of Rome but who loves photographing Italy, who invited me for a bite to eat but who gave up his name like it pained him to relinquish it.

“Are you supposed to be in first class?”

He pauses, his finger hovering over his phone. “No.”

“I saw your boarding pass.”Caught you lyingis what I mean.

He sighs, glances at me, then returns to running through pictures on his phone. “There was an old man.”

“What does that mean?”

“He had long legs. If that were my grandpa—” He shakes his head and mumbles the rest without looking up from his phone. “He’ll be more comfortable up there than crammed into these seats.” Mark’s own knees graze the seat in front of him.

“So you offered to switch with him?”

Instead of answering, he clicks open a picture and gives his phone over for me to inspect it.

I pull it close, ignoring the brush of our fingers at the transfer. Despite his irritating opinions and blunt answers, there’s something complicated and arresting about what he’s revealed, as if a closed door cracked open and let out a shaft of light.