Page 70 of The Roman Holiday Rule
She holds in her smile and tilts her head. “Maybe? Were you the guy drooling in his sleep on the plane with a first-class ticket last Thursday?”
“No, that couldn’t have been me. I was back in economy where some lady fell asleep on my shoulder and I had to just sit there and not move. Didn’t sleep a wink. Have you ever had a run-in with the police? It might have been your mugshot I’m remembering.”
“Never had my mugshot taken. Sorry.”
I scratch my head. “Or it could have been a bad passport picture?”
“Oh, you know what?” She snaps her fingers and points. “I know where I’ve seen you. You hang out at tourist sites all day every day, right? Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps, the Colosseum? You’re like ... a professional tourist.”
“No, definitely not that.”
She folds her arms and points her chin toward the Trevi Fountain behind us.
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m just here to sort through—and delete—amateur tourist photos on someone’s phone. It was an easy meeting spot.”
She glances around, pretending to look for someone. “Weird, I was supposed to meet someone here too. To get ten thousand photos AirDropped onto my phone.”
“Oh, the free boatload of pictures from a fairly decent photographer because of your winning personality? I heard that ridiculous myth.”
We grin at each other. I could stand here and trash-talk with Lexington all day. “Are you ready?”
She scrunches up her nose, then gives a sassy shrug. If this girl is playing Adorable Bingo, she’s covered all her squares. Total blackout. “Areyou?”
I chuckle at her deflection. She’snotready, which is good for my game.
The game I’m about to flip upside down. “Show me your picture. I have an idea.”
She lifts her phone from her tiny purse, swipes and taps, and clutches it against her chest. “Hey, get yours ready too. On a count of three we’ll share.”
“Just show yours to me. I have a theory.”
She shakes her head. “Play fair.”
“Iam.I’m trying to give you a fighting chance.” I pull her hands toward me and pry her fingers off the image so I can look. It’s St. Peter’s Basilica, and a very good shot, if a little over-filtered. But it’s ... sterile. “Ummm.”
She takes the phone back. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s a nice picture, but it’s not going to win points as showing the heart of Italy.”
“So we post the contest on the Instagram account and you win all the votes. I can handle losing.” She turns deliberate puppy-dog eyes on me, so woebegone and sad that I almost pull her into a hug without thinking, even though I know she’s playing it up.
I grasp her shoulders.Keep her at arm’s length.“Stop it, you cheat.”
“What? I’m saying you win. I concede.” Again with the pouty lips and pretend, innocent doe eyes.
I shake my head, laughing, and spin her around until her back is to me. “I can’t talk to you when you do that.”
Her profile turned to me is only marginally less distracting, especially with that cheeky, knowing grin on her face that shows she’s discovered exactly how to turn me into putty in her hands. “So what’s your big idea?”
Hands still on her shoulders, I steer her in front of me down one of the streets leading away from Trevi Fountain. “First, I propose we get out of this crowd and go somewhere quiet. Then I’ll reveal my new plan.”
I let go and fall into step beside her.
She arches her eyebrows. “You think you get to just announce a new plan to a professional event planner?”
I wink. “Or we can post the pictures and watch yours go down in flames.”
“Cocky.” She bonks my shoulder as we walk and pesters me about what the new plan is all the way to my favorite street. She tries tickling me, pinching my bicep as hard as she can, and even resorts to misquoting every famous line ofStar Warsshe can think of, baiting me. I watch her, my lips pressed tight, out of the corner of my eye—because I have to stay strong—as her desperation to cause a reaction in me grows to outrageous levels.
