Page 73 of The Roman Holiday Rule

We walk the length of the square, and I spot a girl in stitches at the guy she’s with, who’s holding an empty cone, a pink splatter of ice cream at his feet. “There’s a story.”

He takes the shot, the corner of his mouth lifting. “That’s better, Lexington. A bit cliché, but progress. I’ll grant you a half point for that.”

I scoff in mock offense. “Go ahead and make up the rules as we go along. That’s totally fair.”

He laughs, leading me down a street off the square that’s choked with tourists. Clumps of shoppers outside souvenir stores, sidewalk tables at tiny restaurants, and large meandering groups force Mark and I to walk close together. He holds onto his camera at all times, ready for a shot and also shielding it. His other hand brushes against the back of mine when our strides line up. The third time it happens, his pinky links loosely for a second with mine until a toddler runs ahead of his parents toward us and I have to dodge and we aren’t in step anymore.

It’s a good thing Mark doesn’t call Bet Shot for a while, because all I can think about is that trace of his touch. Not random, but so casual and natural that it takes my breath away.

After another half hour, we stop for a snack, and I convince Mark to try the pomegranate and black currant San Pellegrino soda. We’re sitting at an outdoor table on a semi-busy street, Mark’s legsstretched out and under my chair. (Maybe it’s a small table and his legs are very long, but I think he enjoys tapping my chair leg with his toe anytime he wants my attention.)

I hold out grabby fingers, gesturing for him to give me the camera he’s laid on the table. “Let me take some shots. If you can part with your baby, that is.”

He passes it to me. “I trust you. Despite your taste in soda flavors.”

It’s heavy and has a lot of buttons. He stands and moves behind me, pointing out the options on the digital display over my shoulder. I absorb exactly nothing of what he is saying because he smellssogood. Spicy and clean and something manly that reminds me of his deep, raspy voice.

I swivel in my chair to face the street. “Stand over there and let me get you in the shot.”

He obeys, because holding the camera makes me the authority, which I could get used to. I place him and shift him and pose him, getting bossier and bossier, bolder and bolder from my director’s chair.

For five minutes.

Chuckling, he strides over and takes the camera from me, waiting while I pull the strap from around my neck. “All right, that’s enough. I don’t think you’re ready for this responsibility.”

I untangle my hair from the buckle and toss the leather band to him. “Oh, that’s rich from a man who couldn’t resist making me sit illegally on the Spanish Steps for his picture.”

He grins and pulls his chair next to mine, thumbing through the pictures with me. He selects a few of the bad ones.

“No, don’t delete those. Send them to me.”

“Well some are—”

“Even the blurry ones.”

“You can’t even see—”

“You’re being snobby again. Not every picture has to be perfect. I can make that shine.” I lean closer to see the grid of pictures, enlarging one. “That one, for instance, I can fix all that mess in thecorner, scrub the graffiti out, and adjust the lighting so it doesn’t look so harsh and—”

Yikes. With a sharp inhale, I pull back from Mark. I didn’t mean to go there, to the topic that made him so upset on the plane. Making Italy look different by editing the photos. Setting Rome up to be something it’s not. Seeing only what we want to see.

“—orangey,” I finish lamely.

I watch him, waiting for that frustration again, but his eyes soften. “That’s what you do. You make everything...”

He’s going to say I make everything shine, and I’m seconds from melting into a puddle at his feet.

He puts a palm on my cheek, staring into my eyes with almost over-the-top smolder. “...less orangey.”

I collapse into giggles and decide I like laughing as much as melting. Maybe even more.

He grabs our empty cans, drops them in the recycling bin inside the shop, and we resume our wandering.

“Okay, score is twenty-three to two-and-a-half. Good luck, Lexington.”

The way my full name has always come out of Mark’s mouth so natural and casual, it’s like he’s sliding the key to my soul into the slot. One flick of the wrist and everything I’ve locked up inside lays open every time he uses it. I hope he’s unaware of that because I’m wholly incapable of stopping him.

The alley soon opens onto a wider street. Two policemen stand watch in front of a government building, and a Vespa rounds the corner and buzzes too close, startling me. Without a word, Mark takes my hand.