Page 61 of The Roman Holiday Rule

We head out, walking shoulder to shoulder on the narrow sidewalk lined with a tall brick wall.

“So is everything for the festival ready to go?”

“There are always last-minute details, but overall we’re on schedule. I heard you won the private preview for Reena Brooke’s painting.”

I steer her into the gelateria, and we both stop and let out a sigh at the drop in temperature before moving to the glass counter to choose our flavors. “Yeah, I’m over the moon about that. She’s my favorite modern artist. I have her work framed all over my apartment. It’s going to be a highlight of my life and career.”

Lexington freezes and raises her eyes to mine. Drumming her fingers on the glass top, she studies my face so long it’s unnerving. Her words fizz with mirth. “Well, you’re in for a surprise with the painting.”

I can’t read her expression or tone. What could possibly be amusing her? Is there something wrong with the painting? “A good surprise?”

“I think it is.” She raises her eyes to me for a second before perusing the flavor choices under the glass.

The man behind the counter is waiting with an ice cream scoop.

I lift a finger with an apologetic grimace and turn to face her. “Hang on. You’ve seen it?”

“Gia and I both have.”

This woman holds the knowledge every art lover in Italy is dying for, and she’s debating between hazelnut or raspberry gelato like it’s the most important decision in her life. I growl at her casual indifference and her cheek dimples with a suppressed smirk.

“What is it?” I haven’t even noticed that I’ve moved closer until she faces me and I see the tiniest scar under her left eyebrow.

She gives me the flirtiest, most mischievous smile I’ve ever seen. “Uh-uh.” She makes a slow zipping motion across her lips and tosses the invisible key over her shoulder.

The last bit I only know thanks to my peripheral vision because I haven’t taken my eyes off her mouth.

Her expression turns into something serious and warm and soft. She leans closer until she’s four centimeters from me. A curse of measuring spaces daily for work—I’m hyper-aware of how far Lexington is from me at all times. “Lexington,” I rasp, reaching for her arms. She smells of lemons and sunshine.

Her head tilts up further, her parted lips releasing a quick, impatient breath.

The door clangs open, and a large tourist group of senior citizens barges into the small shop. They are a loud sea of orange shirts and bucket hats.

Lexington jumps back and clears her throat. “Could you order a raspberry in a cone for me, please?”

The second I nod, she bolts. “I’ll be outside.”

What just happened?

The ones that stick, Mrs. Gallo? Doesn’t seem like Lexington fits that bill.

Thirty-Five

Lexi

I pace downthe street and around a corner, away from Mark in the gelateria, unable to slow my racing heart. Mom said Dad thought raspberries were too seedy, so I took his word for it and never tried them, and I’ll absolutely deserve it if I hate this ice cream.

That should not have felt so intense. I shouldn’t have wanted what was happening.

All our playful enemy tension has shifted into another type, the way coal turns into diamond. Only a whole lot faster.

The type of tension that is very bad when he’s engaged.

I stop under a brick archway, breathing in the summer air. My hands shake, and I grip the wall.

What do I do? Skip our meeting tomorrow at Trevi Fountain and drop this whole bet business? Cut off all contact, including Mariella? That might be the smartest thing.

The thought sends me spiraling. I love Mark’s cousins and seeing their family interactions.