Page 9 of The Roman Holiday Rule

The cynic has a noble, tender spot.

The phone is still warm from his hand, and I gaze at the picture, my breath hitching.

There’s a little girl, white summer dress billowing out as she spins in a courtyard, head back in laughter. Her dark hair is falling out of pigtails, a clear indication of a day well lived. Behind her, a pale building with two green paneled doors, the paint scuffed, is draped in ivy hanging over the building’s corners. The glee on the girl’s face and the way the late afternoon sunshine hits the door behind her ... it’s sharp and soft in all the right places.

I swallow around the lump in my throat. Whatever about thisplace has captured the girl’s excitement, it’s clear the pregnant woman off to the side is focused on her daughter. It’s the same expression of satisfied joy my mom used to give me on our cheap adventures—corn mazes, yard sales, covered bridges, the library.

She always made places magical, and I want to follow in her footsteps. Starting with wherever this is. How hard could it be to find a green door set in a cream-colored building with ivy? I scout venue locations and notice details for a living.

He lifts the phone from my hands and stares at it for a second, his eyes softening.

He shoves his phone back in the seat pocket again. His expression shutters, and that shaft of light goes dark.

“Is that your family?” The question pops out before I can stop it.

“Yes. My cousin.”

A plan hits me. He said we would meet in a week, me with my answer. My trip is ten days. If by some wild chance I lose the bet and he vetoes any of my pictures, I have another few days to retake any shots I want. But I won’t lose, because Mom raised me to love a place I’ve never been.

“Deal,” I say before I can change my mind.

I offer my hand, and he shakes it. He was right about one thing. (Andonlyone.) My stock photo is cardboard compared to the tangible Italy he captured with his camera, though it wasn’t a recognizable tourist destination.

But I’m not worried. He’s going to pit his raw photography against the daughter of a famous artist who has prepped for this trip for years and yearned for Italy her whole life? This guy has no chance.

“Trevi Fountain. At noon,” he says.

Out of nowhere, turbulence shakes the plane. A violent dip in altitude has me grabbing the closest stable thing, which happens to be Mark’s wrist on the armrest. Without—and I can’t stress this enough—thought or premeditation.

He raises an eyebrow at me, so I panic-quote. “‘You’re my last hope.’”

I really need to get that weird impulse under control.

He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Onlyhope.” Then, after a slight pause, that trademark half-smile appears. “‘Attachment is forbidden.’”

I snatch my hand away, my nervousness gone. He chuckles in the dark, too satisfied for my sense of justice. HisStar Warsquote doesn’t fit the situation, so it’s not as brilliant and funny as he thinks.

I rest back against the seat, plotting his demise.

I’ll prove him wrong, and I’ll get his pictures.

Five

Mark

Confession:I likeRoman Holiday. I like Audrey Hepburn’s style, and I like the fact that the movie breaks everyone’s hearts becauseyou can’t fall in love with someone who lives somewhere else andexpect a happily-ever-after.

Six

Lexi

I’llbe honest.When Mark conks out super fast, I’m tempted to scope out his photo album labeled ITALY. It’s right there, two feet away, still lit and unlocked. What harm could a quality inspection do? Like blueberries. It’s negligent to not check the container for bruised ones before you buy them.

Okay, honestly-honestly? No. I can’t.

I’m not that snoopy, privacy-invading jerk we all hate. But if my hand brushes against it on accident while I’m trying to bend over and adjust my blanket, and the photo app opens, I might happen to glance in that direction and enjoy the view.

His legs are so long, they press into the seat in front of him. I bend over, reaching for the end of my blanket. He shifts with a soft sigh, and his knee pins my hair against the seat pocket.