Page 88 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Good news?” Lexington’s hopeful, happy expression kills me.

“Yeah.”

She waits for more, but I can’t give it to her. That’s not in her best interest. Not today.

Watching her face fall at my evasive answer isn’t much better. She tugs my hand, pulling me off the table, an eye on the wall clock. “I’d like to see the temple before my speech at five. Do you have time this afternoon?”

I force myself to answer. “I’m manning the company display at the architecture gallery for the festival opening, then I’m free.”

“Perfect. Once things are up and running, I should be able to slip out for an hour. Let’s meet here at two, vote on the bet photos, then see the pavilion before my speech this evening.”

“Spoken like a true event planner. It’s a date. Good luck today, Lexington.”

I move toward the door. I kissed her senseless last night, and now I’m walking out with that dry goodbye and a cheesy thumbs-up. Awesome progress, Mark. That’s not going to confuse the girl at all.

“Are you sure you’re not ... disappointed in the painting?” Her voice cracks on the question.

I love Reena Brooke’s art, but Lexington’s devotion is even more extreme, like it’s personal to her. I pull her into a hug and speak into her hair. “Lexington. I ... love it. Thank you for the preview.”

I press a kiss on her head and leave, just in time before I spill all the bad news she doesn’t need today.

Back to overreacting to Lexington Walker. Not that I ever stopped.

Forty-Seven

Lexi

I stand alonewith my mom’s painting for the last time. After tonight it will hang at a museum here in Rome.

I didn’t mean for my voice to crack, asking Mark if he liked it, but it feels like I’ve just introduced my mom to the man I’m falling for, and he barely said a word about it. I didn’t even realize how much I needed him to love it until I saw him standing therenot reacting.

My heart clenches. I throw the fabric back over the frame and lock up the room. Mom’s paintings aren’ther.She will never meet Mark.

The whole viewing was disorienting, like I’ve been flipped upside down. The location I’ve been searching for over the last year was just dropped in my lap. I should be ecstatic, but I’m on edge about the day, the speech, releasing Mom’s painting, the after-Italy plan. I feel fragile, like one misstep and I’ll fall to pieces.

The festival begins with Gia’s opening ceremony, and after I’ve triple-checked with all the volunteers at their stations that things are running well, I turn the walkie-talkie off and smooth my skirt down. My nerves are popping like hail on a sidewalk. I’ll see my mom’s temple soon.

Mark walks in just then but freezes, arrested by the sight of theReena Brooke painting nearest the door. I watch him staring at Mom’s art. It’s her Spanish Steps painting, the staircase deserted, just before sunrise. The whole feeling of the piece is one of secret joy, waiting arms wide for the dawn, for the full bloom of whatever goodness is happening in life right then. It used to remind me of those school days when I knew that the minute the last bell rang, Mom would be waiting to take me off on a weekend adventure. Now when I look at it, I see the gossamer-thin moment betweenlikeandlove.

Mark’s posture as he studies the picture is almost ... squirmy.

Before I can guess at the meaning for that edginess, he turns, and I catch the full effect again of Mark in a suit. That isnotgoing to get old anytime soon.

“Ready?” he asks, holding out his hand.

I nod. His warm palm against mine grounds me, dissolving my suspicions from this morning and my unease at his twitchiness. I trust him. His stilted behavior earlier could be from having to wear his dreaded suit and his dislike of crowds, plus our professional roles putting us on different footing. He’s slow to open up, and work is a new topic for us. We just need more time.

Which is the one thing we don’t have.

Thrusting that thought from my mind, I step with Mark onto the decorated street choked with happy festivalgoers. Ribbons tied to lampposts flutter in the slight breeze, banners flap between street buildings, and music dances on the air. I wave at a few festival staff members milling around to help answer questions. I take a deep, satisfied breath and get garlic, tomato, and basil.

My steps slow. “Where is that divine scent coming from?”

Mark points to a booth selling bubbly-crust, scissor-cut pizza squares and pulls out his wallet. “I’ll buy you a piece. It’s called pizzaal tagliobecause—”

“I know.” He hasn’t treated me like a clueless tourist in days. Maybe we’re both just hungry, but his mansplaining hits me in the gut and feels a lot like an ominous, baffling setback.

He buys us a few pieces, and we walk as we eat. Between overanalyzing Mark and me, and the transporting taste of this pizza in my mouth, I don’t even notice that we’re one piazza away from the building where Mark’s architecture and our bet photos are displayed. I nudge his arm. “Are you ready?”