Page 31 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Absolutely not. I bobble my expensive camera, dodging his greedy, curious fingers. “Hey. Not cool.”

Luca dips his chin and stares at me, his long hair covering all of his face except his eyes glittering in the dark. “Do you have a secret?”

“No.” Would I rather he not know about Lexington? Yes. But rivals don’t count as secrets.

He holds out his hand. “Then let me read it.”

Does anyone in this family understand privacy? There’s no more hiding unless I want Luca jumping to massive, inconvenient conclusions. Fingers crossed this isn’t an incriminating response from Lexington, I pull out my phone and open the text under Luca’s prying gaze.

No such luck.

I’m narrowing it down. Found lots of places that aren’t the heart of Italy.

There’s an attached photo. It’s a daytime picture of my apartment building from the street.

Nineteen

Lexi

IttakesMarkseveral minutes to respond to my picture. But when he does, his response is an all-caps drama-fest. My one regret is that I can’t witness his reaction in person.

AGED BUILDINGS ARETREASURES.

IT’S NICEINSIDE.

WHEN AND WHY WERE YOU AT MY APARTMENT BUILDING?

I wait for radio silence before writing him again.

Relax. I wasn’t.

Another text from him dings.

Then how did you get that picture?

I send him one word.

Google.

The guy who isn’t on social media and is against filters might disdain Google Maps street view and the editing software I used to update the season to summer, but at least I’ve shown him how effective those tools are. That should earn me a bit of respect for what I do. Not sure why I care.

Well played.

He texts again.

And game on.

His words conjure up an image of that heart-stopping, reluctant smile he uses and the almost constant hint of mischief in his blue eyes. Grinning into my pillow, I drift off to sleep. Pranking Mark is my new favorite cure for jet lag.

The first thing I notice in the morning is my shiny new suitcase. I jolt up in bed with one blindingly clear thought—Trevi Fountain gave me what I wished for.

I can only blame Mark (and probably the crispy, delicious cannolo) for not connecting the two yesterday.

I shower and don a fitted cotton shirt with scalloped sleeves, a black twirly skirt, and canvas sneakers. Now that I’ve been awake for more than two minutes, it’s clear. Of course the excellent airline customer service was responsible for the delivery of my luggage, not an old fountain. That was a ridiculous thought.

So ridiculous that after I pull out cash and stop to purchase a pastry andcaffè schiumatofrom thebarnear my rooms, I head to Trevi with the change jingling in my pocket.

I’ll debunk the wish theory—the old man told me to return today, anyway—and get back on schedule.