Page 43 of The Roman Holiday Rule

“It was nice meeting you.Addio per sempre.” Goodbye for good.

His face is full of mischief and amusement as he corrects me. “Goodbye for now.”

After several thick slices of pizza margherita for supper, I sit on my balcony in the twilight with the paperback I brought. I rereadSense and Sensibilityevery summer, and I’m sorry, but even Italy isn’t going to break an eleven-year Jane Austen streak.

With the floodlights on the buildings, the city below and beyond glows orange and gold, like an ancient myth of fire and kings. I’m relaxing in the lounge chair with a glass of Prosecco when I turn the page and find a faint, penciled note in the margin. I know this well-worn copy inside and out, and though I’ve underlined a lot of my favorite lines, there shouldn’t be any notes in the margins. I squint at the faint writing, strong block letters I’ve seen before but can’t place.

I’ve underlined the paragraph with Elinor’s qualms about her sister putting too much stock in her time spent with Edward, with the quote “to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.” The handwritten note on the side reads,Rebellions are built on hope.—Rogue One

A laugh bursts out at the thought of a rebellion in Elinor’s genteel world.

Rogue One. . . wasn’t that one of theStar Warsmovies? Who in the world wrote aStar Warsquote in my Jane Austen novel?Sense and Sensibilitylives on the bookshelf in my apartment bedroom. During this trip, it’s been in my bag with me the whole time.

No, wait. I fell asleep reading it on the plane, and when I woke, it was in the seat-back pocket with a pencil.

Mark. That’s where I’ve seen this handwriting—the luggage forms in the Rome airport.

I flip through the book, searching for more.

Where I underlined “...it is very fatiguing to him! For he is forced to make everybody like him,” he’s jotted a quote fromThe Empire Strikes Back:You like me because I’m a scoundrel.

That one hits a little too close to themark.

If he wrote these on the plane, it was after I poked him and called him crazy and forced him into a bet. He deliberately left a ping-back to our effervescent first meeting in the airport when I quotedStar Warsout of relief in a raw unguarded moment.

I flip through the pages, grinning. His margin notes are only at the places where I’ve underlined things that made me smile or swoon, and finding his additions is like a treasure hunt.

The one that makes me cackle out of control is on the page where Marianne cries that she hates herself. He’s written,Let go of your hate.—Return of the Jedi.The clashing of the two worlds, the thought thatStar Warscharacters have something to teach Austen’s characters (okay, maybe with Marianne there is some merit in that) gives me a fit of the giggles, and I almost spill my wine.

I should be angry he defaced my favorite copy of my favorite book, but he’s written it in pencil. It would take seconds to undo his work if I wanted. I don’t. Maybe he meant to school me onStar Warsafter I misquoted it, but notes in a paperback are similar to texts sent at all hours of the night, a look across a crowded room of strangers, a joke cracked just in time to save someone from an emotional outburst.

Offers of friendship.

Which I ruined by snapping at him during the reception, throwing accusations at him in our luggage exchange, and rudely running away in the middle of our lunch.

This isn’t who I am, clinging to a tiny offense, shooting from the hip, and responding with my emotions instead of a polished reply, but Mark has a way of turning me inside out.

And in distracting me during this trip, he’s threatening the only thing I want.

So fine, yes. He really pays attention andseesme.He quietly steps in to help others and loves his family fiercely. He’s hilarious and incredibly attractive. Good for his fiancée Katie. But I can’t afford his friendship.

Twenty-Four

Mark

My phone is buzzingwith messages in the family’s group chat, but I toss it onto my bed and leave the room. After the prank Nonno and Carlo played on me yesterday, during which I wasfingerprintedby the Italian police buddy who was in on it the whole time, the family can stew in worry and unanswered apologies.

So, so funny.

But hey, I got the coin.

In the kitchen, I start the moka pot on the stove, pour a bowl of granola, and sip at a cup of orange juice. Despite Nonna’s best efforts to mature me into eating a real adult breakfast of sweet bread and espresso, my American habits take over when I’m alone.

I carry my breakfast to the table in the living room where Lexington’s lira waits. With the morning sun streaming in, I examine it as I eat. One side sports a woman’s profile, and on the other the mark of 100 lire is engraved between a bird, a dolphin, and a head of wheat. I rub my thumb over the symbols and the hole for the necklace chain.

She’s not likely to give me the time of day after I split from the restaurant yesterday, not to mention share where she got it and whyit’s so important, so I turn my mind to plotting how to get it back to her anonymously.

Nothing brilliant comes to me before I have to leave for a meeting on the other side of the Tiber River. I roll up the palazzo blueprints that the cultural preservation center needs to sign off on, slide them into a canister, and take the metro across town.