Page 89 of The Roman Holiday Rule

He nods. “Bring it on. You might want to concede when you see my picture.”

I laugh. Finally, the Mark-Lexi spark is back. “I might be so grateful you’re showing me the temple in person that I let you win.”

His smile twists into a grimace. “You’re that excited about it?”

“A year, Mark. I’ve been looking for it for a year. It’s the number one thing I wanted to see in Italy.” I still haven’t told him Reena Brooke is my mom. I wanted him to experience seeing her last painting bias-free. I’ll surprise him with that news at the temple as a thank-you.

He squints at the sun and tugs on his shirt collar. Is he hot, or is something else bothering him?

We start to cross the long piazza where the Orpheus Band will play. They aren’t on stage yet, but fans scream and shove their way forward. The chaos is made of sweat, wild excitement, and summer.

We’ve stepped too close, and like a black hole, the mass of people swarms around us, sucking us into the pulsing crowd. Mark’s warm hand grabs mine and holds it tight. So far, that’s been the most reassuring thing I’ve felt all day.

“We have to get to the other side,” I say, but in this ear-splitting, pulsing chanting, there’s no way he can hear me.

Before we can move, the band appears and the noise doubles. Mark’s hand tightens around my fingers as he bushwhacks a path against the current.

If we don’t hurry, we’re going to lose my window for seeing the temple.

The Orpheus Band plays the opening notes to “Turno di Notte,” their newest song. Two thousand people in the square scream at thetop of their lungs and surge forward. Bodies are pressed against us on all sides. Someone knocks against my shoulder, and my hand is ripped out of Mark’s.

I shout his name, but the space where he was, right in front of me, is a sea of strangers.

Forty-Eight

Mark

Inthe two secondsof distraction when I shot an uneasy glance at the ancient buildings lining the ground-shakingly-loud square, Lexington’s hand slipped from mine.

I reach to reconnect, but the crowd has already swallowed her. I scan the strangers around me. “Lexington! Lexington!”

My words are snowflakes in an avalanche, but I keep yelling for her anyway, pushing through the people around me, scanning faces.

There’s no way I’ll find her. I need to get out of the crowd and text her.

I’m ten feet down a side street off the square, phone out, when I hear my name. That was easier than I thought it’d be. Arms wide, I spin, beaming, then freeze.

It’s Zoe Richards, back in Rome, ladies and gentlemen.

“Mark. Wow, hi.” She gives me a quick hug. “I wondered if I’d run into you.”

“Hey, Zoe. Welcome back to Rome.” My words are autopilot responses, buying myself time to adjust.

Her ginger hair is cut shorter, but she’s still trim and professionalin a black dress and fancy shoes, suave and formal. Not the type to quote space opera movies or argue with a stranger on a plane or laugh about a fine for sitting on the Spanish Steps.

That’s when I see Lexington, her back to us, two meters away, phone to her ear. I release a relieved breath.

In one stride, I’m at Lexington’s side, tucking her against me and dipping my head to graze her hair with my mouth. “I lost you.”

“Mark! That was a madhouse.” She drops her phone into her bag. The moment she notices Zoe moving into our conversational space, she turns a curious eye on me. “Did you run into someone you know?”

Most loaded question ever. I blow out a breath. “Yeah. Lexington, this is Zoe Richards. She’s one of the bidders for the Gallos’ palazzo restoration. I ... knew her years ago.”

Peeling her eyes from my clenched jaw, Lexington steps out from under my arm wrapped around her and shakes Zoe’s hand. “Lexi Walker. Nice to meet you.”

“You too. You’re an American?”

Lexington doesn’t return to my side. The three of us are equidistant from one another, and her cool, composed Lexington-mask slides into place. “Yes, I’m here helping run the Art Festival.”