Page 56 of The Roman Holiday Rule

She sips her espresso. “It was so much fun surprising you. I can’t believe I got you to scream.”

“Squeal.”

“Scream.” She folds her hands on the table and leans forward. Here we go. “So, tell me about Mark.”

I feel my face flush. I really need to have a talk with my eyes and skin. It doesn’t seem to me that I’m in charge of them like I shouldbe. “He focuses on things, on me, and makes me feel seen. He has the corniest sense of humor—”

Julie groans. “Puns? Ugh. I guess for you that’s a good thing. Fine, I’ll allow it. Go on.”

“He’s a bit stiff, but there’s this spark of mischief in his eyes all the time—his family are pranksters—and he’s slow to open up to people. But with his family he’s the most loyal, most loving guy.” I give Julie a miserable smile. “At least I thought he was loyal.”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. So when am I meeting him?”

I shake my head. “I’m not calling him up and arranging a meeting. That would be impossible.”

She dips her chin and gives me an admonishing look. “Nothing is impossible.”

I toss my hands up. “What would I say? ‘My friend wants to meet you and see if you’re a jerk or a Green Flag Ambassador’?”

Julie shrugs like,why not?

I twist in my seat, ready to run. “We’ll discuss it later. I’m opening a letter this morning at the Colosseum and want to try to beat the crowds. Are you coming?”

“No. I won’t horn in on opening your Mom’s envelopes. That’s your time with her.”

I swallow around the immediate lump in my throat. My “time with Mom” is running out. “So what are you going to do?”

“Dig a little. What’s his last name?”

“Julie,” I warn, standing and pushing in my chair.

“Never mind. I’ll find his full name on the invite list for the reception you had earlier this week. I’m not going to take him out or hire the mafia, just ... remove him from the situation if I decide he’s not good for you.”

“You scare me.”

She slides her sunglasses down on her face and stands with me. “I know. That’s why you screamed.”

Thirty-Three

Lexi

I limp onmy blistered feet into the city center, mind churning. In one hand, I hold a hazelnut maritozzo from my usual bar, and in the other, I finger the coin on my necklace.

What if Julie proves Mark is engaged? What if she finds out he’snot?

Either way, he deserves a better thank-you for retrieving my lira than the measly text I sent. I’m just not sure what I could give or do for him yet.

I take another bite of pastry. Its cloudlike whipped cream and dusting of crunchy nuts on the top are next-level goodness. So far, hazelnut flavor wins, hands down.

Win. Huh. I could let Mark win our bet as a thank-you.

A hazelnut goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough. Uh, no.

This pastry is making me too soft and mellow. There’s gratitude, and then there’s plain stupidity.

Because as much as I’m beginning to tolerate Mark, he’s still wrong about travel. My mom found something in Italy that changed her life. This is more about proving that to him than it is about getting his pictures of Rome.

I dodge the leafy vine hanging over the high wall running parallel to the sidewalk and finish the pastry, then dust my hands off. Surrendering is out of the question.