Page 82 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“Mark said you were just visiting Rome, but you speak Italian?” Alba, the grandmother of the large family, is short, her gray hair is pulled into a bun, and her welcome smile is open and accepting.

“Coming here has always been my dream.”

She hands me an apron and a wooden spoon. “Then you should learn how to make this sauce. Keep stirring and tasting. I need to watch my noodles. The pasta has to be perfect tonight.”

And with that, they’ve folded me into their group with the ideal mix of including me and asking questions, but not putting me in the spotlight. I’m justherewith them.

I have friends back home, but I’ve never experienced much in the way of family. My mom was enough. But with these women—steamfrizzing their bangs, chatting over one another, hollering to the kids to stop swiping the bread on their way through the kitchen—a longing washes over me.

“It’s so exciting that he brought you,” one of the younger aunts says to me when she comes to the sink to wash a few dishes. “We thought Mark would never recover.”

“Recover from what?” I have the feeling I’ve missed something. I run through her Italian words again, making sure I’ve translated correctly in my head.

The women exchange significant glances.

“Why would he mention Zoe to her? That’s well in his past.” Stella (I think?) turns back to me. “Mark is very un-Italian in that he doesn’t open up to people very quickly.”

“I picked up on that.”

She giggles at my dry tone and starts cutting tomatoes.

Who is Zoe?

“He was so upset about her leaving I think he forgot to eat. She was the whole reason he moved to Italy—she talked him into it, then up and walked away right after he committed to an apartment lease and everything. If I could wring her neck...”

“Stella, we’ve moved on and forgiven, remember?” Alba sprinkles chopped fresh basil into the sauce over my shoulder. “It all worked out for the best.”

“Without a thought for the mess left behind.”Mark’s warning on the plane makes sense now.Hewas the mess a tourist left behind. Compassion floods me, and I want to hug him, or go back in time and redo my reaction to him on the plane.

A door slams somewhere, and then a familiar voice calls out from the hall. “Mark brought a girl?” Mariella rounds the corner into the kitchen. Eyes wide, she rushes to hug me with a tiny squeal. “Lexi? What in the world?”

I squirm. Mark should be the one explaining this. “There was only one Vespa.” I give a short version of the day—to an audience of every woman in the family. Trust me, it’s as awkward as it sounds.

And Mariella pounces oneverydetail. “So you gave him the address of your hotel, and—?”

“Well, he already knew from when we filled out the luggage forms—”

“You’re Luggage Girl?”

“Yeah, our luggage got switched, so it was good we’d already exchanged phone numbers for this stupid bet we—”

“You’re Bet Girl?” Her voice gets louder and louder, and she has her fingertips pressed into her scalp like she’s trying to hold her brains in. “I’m going to kill him. He deliberately let us think there were multiple American women, and that he met you for the first time at Luca’s restaurant. He is so dead.” She hugs me again—guess she doesn’t care that I played a part in the deception. “Ooh, this is great. You’re perfect for him.”

Whatever she thinks is going on here, she’s wrong. Mark might be a strong possibility and give me all the feels, but the geography and timing are off.Wayoff.

Mark is a very off-limits cookie jar. Put that cookie jar in a box tied with string on top of the fridge.

Before I can set her straight, Alba calls out, “Al dente!” and the chaos shifts seamlessly to the table out on the backyard patio. The girl I recognize from the photo on the airplane squeezes in next to Mark and peers up at him, adoring. He tugs her ponytail absently and smiles at me across the table with a question in his eyes.You good?

My whole body responds to his smile. I just need a ladder and scissors and that cookie jar is mine. Forget willpower. I want those cookies.

I force myself to look away before I make a fool of myself in front of his whole family. The gaggle of women are starting to separate into individuals. I’m trying to make sense of which man is married to which woman when I glimpse the elderly man at the head of the table.

I do a double take, he winks, and my jaw drops.

“Santino?”

His face breaks into a grin and he holds out his hands as if to say,And here we are.