Page 58 of The Roman Holiday Rule

He chuckles and winks at me, and there’s something familiar about him. “I know, but you’re so cute when you’re riled up.”

She reaches up and grabs his chin, wiggling it. “It won’t be so funny when we tally points at the end of the day, will it?”

He lifts her other hand and bends to kiss her knuckles.

I hadn’t noticed in the folds of her full, flowy shirt that they were holding hands.

Just like on the envelope.

I press my palm to my forehead. “Whatisthat?”

This is the fourth time an envelope scene has unfolded before my eyes. It’s absolutely not possible that my mom painted predictive pictures on the Rome envelopes, but the alternate theory is that I’m going insane. Those are the only two choices. Period.

“Dear, are you okay?” The woman reaches for my arm.

I peek an eye open, dizzy with the implications. The couple is staring at me like I just dumped my water bottle over my head. They have the same coloring and body shapes as the painting on the envelope, right down to the wobbly bun on her head.

“Just starving.” Like an always-backs-you-up friend, my stomach growls right then.

She pats my arm and they wander off. But I’m not letting go so easily this time.

Sure, it’s creepy to follow them, butI’mcreeped out, and it’s time to do something about it.

Thirty-Four

Mark

Mr. and Mrs. Galloare stiffer than I remember from when we first toured their palazzo. They came into the restaurant laughing, but now it’s all business. Maybe it’s the flashy, upscale atmosphere. Maybe because it’s hot (turns out the air conditioning isfinito).

Or maybe it’s me.

Now that Dad has promised to come if we get the bid and Nonno’s vertigo has me wondering how much longer he can work, so much is riding on this interview. Unhelpful pressure, but that’s the thought that keeps knocking around in my head as they question my opinions on Rome’s architectural history and future.

Bottom line—it’s not going great. And we’ve only ordered our food so far.

Mr. Gallo checks his pad of paper he’s set next to his glass. “Mr. Russo, can you tell us about your favorite building in Rome?”

Best insymmetry? Piazza di Sant’Ignazio.Best in Renaissance architecture, the Palazzo Senatario. Best Baroque ... The question is too broad. I have twenty favorites. I feel the quicksand of time sucking my thoughts under. “I don’t have one.”

Mr. Gallo shoots a furtive glance to his wife. I begin a slow sink into my seat.

The restaurant door opens, and Lexington Walker steps in wearing loose, cream slacks, black sandals, and a black sleeveless shirt.

I’m screwed. And she looks so good today.

Those are my first two thoughts. Not in that order.

No idea what she’s doing here, but man, she looks good.

I sit straight, clear my throat, and take a large gulp of Aperol to delay consequences. A classic hack from childhood that is more survival than professional. A man does what he has to.

The waiter seats her at a table behind the Gallos, facing me. Great, thanks, man. Good thing Italian waiters don’t expect tips. Metaphorically speaking, she’s been a distraction for days, but this is worse—I can’t even look at my potential future bosses without Lexington in my sight line.

Mr. Gallo is still waiting, eyebrows raised. “No favorite building in the whole city?”

Are they expecting me to say their palazzo? It has potential, but no offense, it’s not the best.

“I have categories of favorites.”