Page 87 of The Roman Holiday Rule

Gia rushes past, tapping an imaginary watch at her wrist, reminding Lexington of her scheduled duties.

I clear my throat. “Okay, the painting. Today is about the art. I’m over the moon to see a Reena Brooke original. Totally eclipses the joy of seeing you.”

Her eyes twinkle up at me, and she leads me down a few hallwaysto a storage-type room. She keys in a code to unlock the door and flicks the light on. “Shut the door behind you.”

The easel in the middle of the room is covered with a red velvet cloth, and I position myself in front of it. “Seriously, this is a huge privilege, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m a little nervous.”

She tilts her head. “What are you nervous about?”

I rub my hands together. “No idea. It’s just a big moment.”

She pauses, looking shy herself, then turns all official on me. “Mark Russo, I present to you Reena Brooke’s painting.Three, two, one.” She pulls on the fabric, and it falls to the ground. “This is the site of Reena Brooke’s first kiss with the man she ended up marrying.”

I stand, shocked, drinking in the scene before me. I would have known it as a Reena Brooke painting at first glance, and I can’t take my eyes off it.

It makes me feel turned inside out, as if everything inside me is brought into the light. Vulnerable, honest. A deep, healing breath of air and breathlessness at the same time. It’s exactly what I felt last night.First kiss.

Its beauty and genius are indisputable, worth the wait and the mystery. Reena Brooke’s fans in Rome will love it, will want to know where this pavilion is, and will want to see it.

Except it’s the structure in the Gallos’ palazzo garden slated for demolition.

Lexington sidles up to me and looks between me and the painting. “Do you like it?”

Anxiety laces her tone. Now I feel like a jerk. She set this whole reward up, a huge treat and privilege, and I haven’t even responded.

“Of course I do. She was so, so good. It’s perfect.” I lean in, memorizing every detail. Brushstrokes that seem so casual and innocent but drive the whole painting to an intense feeling of singular focus on a lovely, timeless pavilion in springtime. Which is actually decrepit and unsafe. “Too ironic,” I mutter.

“What’s ironic?”

Shouldnothave said that out loud.

Maybe I should tell her. Except she’ll be disappointed in the pavilion’s fate. Upset. I can’t do that to her today, of all days.

I run a hand through my hair. “Nothing.”

“Mark, tell me.” Those irresistible, pleading eyes again, only this time for real. I glance away, afraid I can’t refuse her, even though it’s for her own good. She’s too invested in this painting with her speech about Reena Brooke tonight, with the festival, with me.

I have to give her something. “I know that place, that’s all.”

She whirls to stand in front of me, chin lifted, eyes feverish. “You know where this is? You’ve seen it?”

Guilty, I shift away from her excitement and perch on the edge of the cluttered table. All this sentimental drama—is this what my sister loves about being in love? It’s uncomfortable. “It’s on the Gallos’ property. Behind the palazzo I’m hoping to renovate.”

“Thatisironic. I’ve been looking everywhere for it. All this time, you had the answer.” She squeezes her hands together. “Can you take me there?”

I hesitate, but force myself to answer. The last thing I need is her questioning me because there’s no way I’d ever lie to her. “Sure. Maybe tomorrow evening after the festival is over?”

Before she can respond, my phone rings, and I glance at it. It’s Paul Lanzi from the Italian Heritage Society in Boston. I’ve been waiting for the investors’ call all week, but this is the worst possible time. “Sorry, Lexington, I have to answer this for work. One second.”

I pace a few steps away and answer. “Hi, Paul, this is Mark.”

“Mark, I’m calling early to make sure and catch you because I have good news. We love your plans for the palazzo. This is the kind of project we want to support. We voted last night, and it was unanimous. The society will be investing in the palazzo renovation if you get the bid.”

“That’s great, I’m so happy to hear that. Thank you.”

We set up a time to discuss the details, and I hang up.

What do you call something amazing that’s actually awful? It’s probable now we win the bid—we’re local, and with the investors’ funds, we can negotiate better subcontracts. And that means my dad is finally returning to Italy. But if we’re hired, that means it will bemyblueprints that cause Reena Brooke’s pavilion to be torn down, even though I fought for restoring it and was overruled.