Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Mark
The Piazza di Trevi at a quarter to noon is a madhouse.
Wary of pickpockets, I cling to the messenger bag slung across my chest with my expensive camera inside it.
I enter the fray, looking for Lexington.
I’m early, but I spot her as soon as I reach the steps down to the water, despite the crowds pressing for a good spot. She’s early too.
As if an invisible string is stretched between us, she lifts her head and waves at me. We exit the mass of people until we’re standing face to face on the edge of the square.
She looks fresh, tan, and merry in a knee-length, loose white dress. The lira on her necklace rests at her throat.
It’s been a mere fourteen hours since I last saw her, but I drink in her smile and the way her playful eyes squint up at me in the sun.
I have a sudden wish to know Lexington in winter too, to study how she cuddles and wraps up to stay warm, to learn if her cheeks or nose redden in the cold, to watch her reading her Jane Austen by the fireplace.
The strength of that wish almost scares me. Whatever happens with us today, I can’t let the bet signal the end.
We’ve been staring at each other so long it’s almost awkward. Except nothing with Lexington has ever been awkward. “You look a little familiar. Have we met?”
She holds in her smile and tilts her head. “Maybe? Were you the guy drooling in his sleep on the plane with a first-class ticket last Thursday?”
“No, that couldn’t have been me. I was back in economy where some lady fell asleep on my shoulder and I had to just sit there and not move. Didn’t sleep a wink. Have you ever had a run-in with the police? It might have been your mugshot I’m remembering.”
“Never had my mugshot taken. Sorry.”
I scratch my head. “Or it could have been a bad passport picture?”
“Oh, you know what?” She snaps her fingers and points. “I know where I’ve seen you. You hang out at tourist sites all day every day, right? Trevi Fountain, Spanish Steps, the Colosseum? You’re like . . . a professional tourist.”
“No, definitely not that.”
She folds her arms and points her chin toward the Trevi Fountain behind us.
I shrug. “Yeah, I’m just here to sort through—and delete—amateur tourist photos on someone’s phone. It was an easy meeting spot.”
She glances around, pretending to look for someone. “Weird, I was supposed to meet someone here too. To get ten thousand photos AirDropped onto my phone.”
“Oh, the free boatload of pictures from a fairly decent photographer because of your winning personality? I heard that ridiculous myth.”
We grin at each other. I could stand here and trash-talk with Lexington all day. “Are you ready?”
She scrunches up her nose, then gives a sassy shrug. If this girl is playing Adorable Bingo, she’s covered all her squares. Total blackout. “Are you?”
I chuckle at her deflection. She’s not ready, which is good for my game.
The game I’m about to flip upside down. “Show me your picture. I have an idea.”
She lifts her phone from her tiny purse, swipes and taps, and clutches it against her chest. “Hey, get yours ready too. On a count of three we’ll share.”
“Just show yours to me. I have a theory.”
She shakes her head. “Play fair.”
“I am. I’m trying to give you a fighting chance.” I pull her hands toward me and pry her fingers off the image so I can look. It’s St. Peter’s Basilica, and a very good shot, if a little over-filtered. But it’s . . . sterile. “Ummm.”
She takes the phone back. “That bad, huh?”
“It’s a nice picture, but it’s not going to win points as showing the heart of Italy.”
“So we post the contest on the Instagram account and you win all the votes. I can handle losing.” She turns deliberate puppy-dog eyes on me, so woebegone and sad that I almost pull her into a hug without thinking, even though I know she’s playing it up.
I grasp her shoulders. Keep her at arm’s length. “Stop it, you cheat.”
“What? I’m saying you win. I concede.” Again with the pouty lips and pretend, innocent doe eyes.
I shake my head, laughing, and spin her around until her back is to me. “I can’t talk to you when you do that.”
Her profile turned to me is only marginally less distracting, especially with that cheeky, knowing grin on her face that shows she’s discovered exactly how to turn me into putty in her hands. “So what’s your big idea?”
Hands still on her shoulders, I steer her in front of me down one of the streets leading away from Trevi Fountain. “First, I propose we get out of this crowd and go somewhere quiet. Then I’ll reveal my new plan.”
I let go and fall into step beside her.
She arches her eyebrows. “You think you get to just announce a new plan to a professional event planner?”
I wink. “Or we can post the pictures and watch yours go down in flames.”
“Cocky.” She bonks my shoulder as we walk and pesters me about what the new plan is all the way to my favorite street.
She tries tickling me, pinching my bicep as hard as she can, and even resorts to misquoting every famous line of Star Wars she can think of, baiting me.
I watch her, my lips pressed tight, out of the corner of my eye—because I have to stay strong—as her desperation to cause a reaction in me grows to outrageous levels.
“This is a long walk to wherever we’re going. Too bad you couldn’t just beam me over, Scotsman.”
My nostrils flare involuntarily. “That’s Star Trek, not Star Wars.”
A sly, roguish twinkle lights her face, and she very deliberately pronounces her death wish. “Same thing, right?”
Lucky—very lucky—for her, we turn at that moment onto Via dei Coronari.
The cobblestoned pedestrian street is lined with antique shops and historical buildings and, best of all, out of the way and mostly untouched from its Renaissance days.
Walking down the long, straight street, I can squint and pretend I’m in the sixteenth century.
She grabs my arm, gasping at the aged ambience. “Ooh, you showed your cards a little soon. This is the heart of Italy, right?”
“No, it’s lunch. Come on.”
I lead us a little way down the street and pull open the door of a tiny supplì restaurant.
There are people eating at the four-seater tables and a couple on the red love seat, but a few spots remain at the narrow bar-table running the length of the right sidewall.
I seat her on a stool under the massive mirror and set my messenger bag on the other seat.
I order several flavors of fried, breaded rice and cheese nugget-balls and then join her with the loaded paper plates.
“Wow, these smell like cozy comfort food.”
“Messy and greasy, you mean?” I show her which is which and let her make her choice.
She pulls the matriciano one in half, releasing spicy tomato-scented steam and gooey, melted mozzarella.
After a few bites, I swivel my barstool to face her. “So, about our bet. I propose we up the ante. Extend the bet and raise the stakes.”
“How?” She takes another huge bite from her ball of rice and cheese and watches my reflection in the mirror.
“You need an insider’s perspective. Hang out with me and let me show you Rome.
I won’t give you the answer, but we’ll play a game that will help with your away-team disadvantage.
Then at the festival, we both put up a picture and have the voting live.
People can put their votes in all day and we tally the points at the close of the festival on Sunday. ”
She wipes her hands on the paper napkin. “If they vote with coins, we can use it as a fundraiser for the arts. There’s room between the cinema display and the architecture gallery where we could do that. Live voting would be fun. So what about the higher stakes?”
A new customer squeezes into the last spot on my left, crowding me, so I scoot my stool closer to Lexington, facing her. There’s so little room, my thigh brushes against her knee.
“Winner gets . . .” I pause, waiting for her to look at me. “Whatever they want. Within reason.”
Her mouth opens, not that I’m watching it. “What does that mean? Like what?”
I will myself to not look at her lips as I shrug. “Money, pictures, information. I don’t know.” I lean close and breathe my question into her ear. “What do you want, Lexington?”