Page 4 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Lexi!”

I twist toward the harried voice. Julie’s rushing toward me.

“I asked at the information desk. I checked every bathroom stall.” She shudders. “You owe me for that one. I went to the check-in counter—”

I pat my purse and talk over her. “I’ve got it. We’re good.”

“Oh, sweet relief.” Julie hugs me, effusive. “Where was it?”

I give her the rundown, finishing with, “He saw me all frantic, matched me from the photo, and handed it over.”

“Who?” Julie asks, looking around.

I thumb behind me and turn, but Mr. Lifesaver is already halfway through the security line. He wasn’t lying about being in a hurry.

I force a bright expression through the unexpected rush of loss. That’s the nature of an airport, passing people I’ll never encounter again in my life. “Never mind. Rome awaits.”

Ten minutes later, I’m lifting my carry-on onto the conveyor belt at security, eager and fluttery. This is it. I’m finally going.

I mean, I will be as soon as I unlace the long straps twisted across my ankles. My lira necklace set off the scanner, so now I have to remove my shoes and jewelry and run through it again. Espadrilles were an impractical shoe choice for travel, but they’re perfect for a Mediterranean trip, even if they hold up the line. The line I amnotscanning for dark curls.

I yank my attention back to staring straight ahead. Eye on the prize, Lexi.Italy.

Two

Mark

Airports are like Kleenexes.You hate needing them, but you’re grateful they exist.

I prop myself against the window in the corner of the gate area, away from the buzzing crowd. After multiple trips from Europe to visit my immediate family in Boston over the last six years, the magic of flying has dried up. It’ll all be over in twelve hours, though, and at least I have my book to shield me from the sea of strangers.

Except for the tanned blonde wearing flip-flops and a loose, deep V-neck black jumpsuit thingy, who raises her eyebrows at me during her scan of the full seating area. I’m sure I don’t know her. Or haven’t seen her before. She’s coming toward me, though, twisting the gold bracelets at her wrist. I should have taken my sister’s advice to join the twenty-first century with noise-cancelling, people-deterring headphones.

“Hi,” the woman says, smiling up at me. “You look as bored as I am. I’m guessing this isn’t your first time flying to Europe?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I travel for my job—sonar research—and love it. So far, Barcelona is my favorite. You can’t beat those beaches.”

A city full of Gaudí’s iconic Catalan Modernism architecture and this educated woman loves it for its generic sand? To each her own, I guess.

She digs out a gum pack from her leather purse. “Flying kills my ears, though, especially takeoff. Want one?”

This is a lot of personal stuff for one minute in. “No, thanks.”

Beach girl pops a piece in her mouth, waiting for me to say something, but it takes a lot more than mint gum to open me up.

She raises an eyebrow, starting to grasp I’m a tough shell to crack. But she presses forward undeterred. “Sooooo.” She draws it out like it’s fishing line while fluffing her long, streaked hair. “Why Germany?” She glances at my jeans and blue T-shirt. “Business trip?”

“No.” I force myself to add one tiny piece of information so she doesn’t think my lack of chitchat skills means I’m intentionally rude. “Frankfurt is a layover.”

“Same here.” She elbows me, like that’s a wild enough coincidence to make us pals.Mistaken on both accounts, Sandy. “I’m headed to Greece. I can’t wait to get on a boat and soak in the sunshine.”

I toss her a slow ball to see if she’ll catch it. “And visit Athens and Thessaloniki?”

“Thessaloniki is the world’s fifth-best party city.” She purses her lips and shrugs. “It could be a fun contrast after a day testing on the water, but I’m not into the city scene.”

Beaches over buildings. Makes sense for her line of work, but since I’m an architect, I’m not sure how to respond.