Page 100 of The Roman Holiday Rule

It’s me. All me.

My heart pumps like I’ve been running at a full sprint, sharp warning pricks that it’s having trouble handling the load. I catch a sob from breaking free.

The largest picture in the center is me perched on the blue Vespa in front of my hotel. My cheeks are chapped by the wind, and my hair is a tangled mess. The fountain behind me is classic Rome, but what makes me clench my fist to my mouth is the way I’m smiling at the photographer.

It’s the open, radiant happiness of a woman looking at a man who loves her. His heart of Italy.

Mark’s parting words after our fight ring in my memory.“Goodbye, Lexi.”

And that’s when, finally, I break down and truly cry my eyes out. I’ve lost the man who once made me laugh and feel seen, and that pain isn’t going away. Not in a month, not ever, because I love Mark.

Like Mrs. Gallo said, love happened. It didn’t wait for a convenient timeorplace. And it stinks.

Even if I said yes to this job and eliminated the geographical distance separating us, the lines we drew in the sand are etched onto my soul. There’s no plan I can make to change that.

Fifty-Six

Lexi

Over the nextfew days, the Ninth King of Rome pesters me about the vote results. Sure, closure would be good, but unless I break radio silence and contact the man who made it clear that his past means we can’t be together, I’m not going to know who won.

I swivel in my desk chair, staring at NKR’s fourth message nudge. It’s time to shut this down.

I lost contact with the other guy in the bet with me.

Surely not permanently. His heart is clearly taken with you. I saw the pictures.

I inhale sharply, then read the rest of his message.

If you give me his name, I could do a little digging from my end. See if I can find out from him who won.

Wow. You really can’t let this go, can you?

Hey. You handed this persistent dog a bone. Good luck prying it out of my teeth. ;)

That old-fashioned wink again. I find myself grinning for the first time in days. I imagine him as a sixty-something-year-old man, maybe a bit puffed up with his photography skills in naming his account the Ninth King of Rome, yet behind the times with technology and social media. Maybe he’s itching for some excitement to fill his retirement days.

He’d be looking for Mark in the Italian equivalent of the white pages. Cyberstalking is way beyond a punctuation-winky-user’s expertise.

Besides, it’s impossible to cyberstalk Mark. His internet footprint is nil. He told me he’s not on social media, but I checked anyway a few days ago, just to be sure. Like I said, useless tips for getting over a guy, available here.

Should I tell him? I would have given him Mark’s name anyway, if we’d used his IG account like originally planned.

Mark Russo. Architect.I stare at his name typed out on my phone for a beat too long, then hit send.

Thanks. Stand by.

How’s that for letting go? I’m getting my answer without Mark, without trying.

I slide my phone into a drawer, determined not to think about it for the rest of the day.

Let me tell you what you’ve already guessed, folks. That plan does not work, even filling my weekend schedule with a hike with friends and a movie in the theater.

How do you shut off love?

By Monday morning, I’m fidgeting, looking for something to do. A client canceled at the last minute and I absolutely can’t sit with nothing happening or I’ll startfeeling.

A young couple comes into the office. Julie is picking out flowers for a formal gala event, so I stand. “Welcome to Flair Events. I’m Lexi Walker.”