Page 7 of The Roman Holiday Rule

He registers my wide eyes and shifts in his seat. When he speaks, his voice is rougher, like the unpaved section of a less-traveled road. “Look. All I’m saying is, visitors come to famous cities with expectations, oblivious to the truth of a place. When they arrive, they end up disillusioned with reality and then leave without a thought for the mess left behind.”

My jaw drops. He has a moral issue with tourism? “I don’t litter.”

“That’s not the type of mess I’m talking about.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, as if there’s something bigger than a picture of Rome at stake here. I wonder why this is such an issue for him.

“Listen.” I angle toward him. “What’s your name?”

“Mark,” he offers, with zero enthusiasm.

“So, Mark, are you suggesting no one travel?” The most attractive man I’ve met in years has a fatal flaw completely misaligned with my goal, which is fine because this is not a good time for me to fall for anyone. Those things need to be scheduled in. After Italy.

“No, but touring a city doesn’t lead to knowing and understanding a place.”

I’m not going as a tourist, but the sentiment still needs defending. “I beg to differ. I’m already well on my way.” No one could match my level of Italian knowledge or have a more personal reason forgettingItaly. I even have the map of Rome’s city center memorized in my head. “There are one hundred-and-thirty-five steps on the Spanish Steps. Visitors throw over a million euros into the Trevi Fountain every year. The unreinforced concrete dome in the Pantheon is the largest in the world.”

He shifts toward me, and ... is thatpityin his eyes? The nerve.

“That’s not Italy. That’s Wikipedia. Do you know the difference between how the sunshine hits the hills in June versus September? Do you know how the Via del Corso smells early in the morning? Do you know which day the train employees are most likely to go on strike?” He shakes his head and takes in my cropped jeans and tailored, boatneck shirt. “Roman Holiday?”

I tug the hem of my shirt. There’s nothing wrong with a classic Audrey Hepburn style. And it was my mom’s favorite movie—she used to say her own whirlwind romance in Rome was the flip side of Hepburn’s fated love story. She got lucky. It’s a reminder—not that I need it—that unplanned romance on a trip is a nonstarter. “I know it’s just fiction. I don’t expect to ride around the city with a hottie on my Vespa.”

He gives me a knowing half-smile. “But youhavelined up a Vespa rental.”

I grit my teeth. Making sure this trip goes as planned doesn’t make me a clueless tourist with unrealistic expectations. “Of course I did. It’s high tourist season and I have ... an assignment outside the city.”

He drops back in his seat like his neck can’t hold the weight of his thoughts. “I’m sorry. I just—whatever you think this week will look like, there’s no way it will. Travel ends up bringing heartache at some point to someone.”

Heartache? I don’t know what’s happened to him that he thinks this, but it’s wrong. In normal situations, I would try to comfort his pain or understand where this warning is coming from, but this is too personal. Without travel, my parents never would have met and fallen in love. I wouldn’t exist.

I sit up straighter, twisting toward him. “Travel brings fulfillment.” His mouth opens, but I’m not done. I poke his arm and ignore the firm bicep under my fingertip—that isn’t the point right now, Lexi.He’s a cynic, he’s popping my happy, optimistic balloon, and he needs schooling. “This trip will be exactly what it needs to be for me. I have a plan.”

He’s facing me, watching me get all worked up as if I’m in charge of his bungee jump gear and he’s not convinced I’m qualified. “I hope so, but I’m telling you from experience—that’s not enough.”

Something sparks in me. I’m so sure he’s wrong, so eager to put him in his place, that the words fly out of my mouth. “Want to bet?”

Four

Lexi

Sure,I said I neededto get away from this guy (and it’s not my fault we’re seatmates) yet here I am locking myself into a bet and furthering our acquaintance. Despite his humor, excellent listening, eye-contact skills, and other intriguing features (his face, I mean his face), I’m safe now. Because of that whole #TouristsAreTheWorst thing.

Mark angles closer to me, his voice eager like sparks on dry wood. “You’re on, Lexington.”

I meet his stare, though I feel the sudden prick of unshed tears. I go by Lexi, and only my mom called me Lexington. How did Mark even guess my full—oh, my passport.

“Hey.” His voice is a whisper, and his eyes search mine. “Are you okay?”

I’ve missed hearing that name so much. I want him to say it again.

But it won’t bring my mom back, even if it felt like home.

I clear my dry throat. “It’s Lexi. I go by Lexi. So how do I prove I’ve seen the real Italy?”

The cabin lights flicker and dim, an airline-imposed bedtime. Half the passengers are snuggled under their blue, static-machineblankets in cramped positions, trying for at least a few hours of sleep, the other half zombied out with their movies and music, noise-cancelling headphones in place.

Mark passes me the water bottle from the netted pocket in front of me and lowers his voice, matching the atmosphere of the dark cabin. “We’ll meet a week from today, and you tell me what the heart of Italy is.”

I take a drink, grateful we’re back to the bet. “The heart of Italy? That sounds vague and open to interpretation.” And poetic. In the shadows, I scan his features again, looking for a hint of artistry. His strong jawline and stormy eyes belong to someone with his jaded outlook on travel, but the laugh lines and riot of curls tell a different story.