Chapter 58
Fifty-Eight
Lexi
I stop walking. I’m ten feet away from Mark’s Italian grandfather and Kathryn just called him Nonno. Kathryn. Katie.
“Mark—” The word shudders out of me, half-whispered.
“Yes?” a low, gravelly voice says to my right.
I inhale sharply and turn. He’s here. Damp curls, black T-shirt, and sandals. Mark in Boston.
No words come. I just gape at him, taking him in. His eyes are intent, hopeful, and a tiny bit playful. He’s waiting—maybe for me to push him away or draw him to me—but I’m too messed up right now to do anything but blink.
And blurt out the most nonessential question out of everything I’m processing right now. “Are you the Ninth King of Rome?”
“Yes.”
“You said you weren’t on social media.” All those messages, and I was texting Mark?
I need hours alone to rehash everything we wrote in light of this new information.
Mark was the one helping me win the bet?
He was keeping contact with me even after our diametrically opposed goals brought everything crashing down?
His heart is clearly taken with you. Mark wrote that about himself.
I’m so busy processing, wishing for the thousandth time things had ended differently, that I almost miss his answer.
“I wasn’t. Mariella set up the account last year to showcase my photography, gave it that pompous name as a joke, and was running it for me until you told me you’d interacted with the Ninth King.
I downloaded the app, took over the account, and changed the password as soon as we landed in Frankfurt.
” He dips his head and glances back at Santino and Katie watching us, all eager and nervous. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”
I nod, but before we leave, I run to Santino and give him a tight hug.
He whispers in my ear, “I told you it’s not over until this world passes away. Did you forget?”
Kathryn steals a hug too, then apologizes, but her eyes have that Russo sparkle that tells me it’s all spunk behind her smoke screen of shy timidity. “I’ll hold your umbrella,” she says and does something weird with her eyebrows, like she’s waggling them but also trying not to.
Mark and I walk deeper into the park, and he glances behind him before speaking.
“I wanted to meet you alone, but I couldn’t get rid of them.
I’d told Katie my plan and the interfering little stinker went to hire you as her wedding planner.
She just couldn’t resist.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head with a deep rumble in his throat. “Well, you know my family.”
“What plan? What, exactly, are you doing here?” Whatever his reasons, it’s not helping my Post-Mark Recovery Plan. With this setback, I’m not going to make it to stage two by next week.
He runs a hand through his hair. “I was going to use the Ninth King messages to get you to the fountain at noon. I had this whole thing—” He breaks off, blushing. “You know, it’s a little intimidating to plan something for an event planner. This is not my area of expertise.”
He’s so adorably vulnerable, I have to stop walking, close my eyes, and regroup. Focus on what should matter most. “Tell me one thing, Mark. Is the temple gone?”
There’s a long pause, and I resist opening my eyes because he’ll unravel my self-control with his focus and half-smiles.
“Yes, but—”
I put up my hand, stopping him, and squeeze my eyes harder against the image of Mark’s blueprint instructions, against a bulldozer scraping the bits of rubble into a pile, against the empty spot where it once stood.
When he showed up in Boston, I’d hoped for a minute that he had changed his mind. That he had erased his line drawn in the sand.
And for a second I wonder—should I change mine? Can I drop my ultimatum and forget what he’s done?
If he had called me and explained, braced me, kept helping me work through it, not let my grief be the loudest thing in the room, maybe. But it hurts that he bulldozed over my request without any communication or apology.
Mark’s fingers graze my elbow. “I saved something for you.”
I open my eyes.
He pulls a small piece of intricately carved stone from his pocket.
I’d recognize the decorative top from the temple’s column anywhere.
How often had I gazed at every detail in Mom’s painting while chatting with her in her room?
How many times had I seen her soft, wistful expression whenever the painting caught her eye? A sharp pain tears through my chest.
“It’s the only part that I found intact after the—” He clamps his mouth shut. At least he finds it hard to say the actual words. I’m touched that he saved me a piece, but it’s too little, too late.
Isn’t it?
I’ve clung to this temple, to my grief, for so long, it feels like a part of me. I have to be strong and push him away out of guilt for Mom’s memory and self-preservation.
But why do I want to preserve my misery? Does losing Mark—again—help my heart, lessen my grief?
Or triple it?
“I’m touched, thank you. But—” My throat closes up. I don’t know how to reconcile what I want with the hurt and loss.
I take the piece he saved from his hand, keeping my eyes trained on the stone and not Mark’s face. It’s lighter than I expected.
This piece of rubble is dead, I realize. I’m grateful to have it, but it reminds me of how I felt, standing at the site of my parents’ first kiss.
Mom captured one moment in time, but that moment is gone and there’s no holding on to it.
Like the paintings Mom decorated on the envelopes that showed up in Italy, the magic isn’t on the flat, static, tangible leftovers, as artistic as they are.
It’s in the living, breathing life in front of me.
In the bouquet the hawker offered, in Ms. Accardi’s used apron while she restored artifacts, in the Gallos holding hands as they walked, in the Russos’ orange villa full of love and family.
Maybe that was the point—to take my eyes off my grief and loss and notice the world around me.
I want to let go of this rock too. To hold on instead to the man standing in front of me, who saw me so clearly, down to the scrap of fabric tied on my suitcase. And it seems, as strange as the envelope art manifesting in Rome was, that Mom would want that too.
“I know it’s painful for you, Lexington. But I thought—” He frowns and dips his head until I have to meet his gaze. “You asked me not to be the one to tear it down,” he says slowly.
“Right.” I lift the stone, as if he needs reminding that he did, in fact, destroy the temple.
If Santino is here in Boston, that means Mark’s plan worked.
His dad must have flown to Italy to be on the reconstruction team and reconciled with Santino.
Mark got what he wanted, and I’m happy for him, truly, even if my heart’s broken.
I put on a brave smile. “Congratulations, by the way. Mariella told me the news.”
“What news?”
“That you were hired for the palazzo reconstruction.”
He huffs. “Is that all she told you?” He clenches his teeth, looks away, and mutters under his breath.
“Isn’t that true? The Gallos offered you the job?”
“Yes, but I turned it down.” He folds his arms and frowns at me. “You thought I bulldozed the pavilion against your wishes and then presented a piece of it to you like some kind of trophy for being a callous jerk?”
Wait—“What?” I hold up the rubble. “This wasn’t you?”
“No. I asked the Gallos to let me know when it was done and dashed over before their construction crew carried it off.”
“You let another company have the job? Why would you—I thought you had your heart set on it.”
His frustrated expression softens as he takes a step toward me. “Yeah, well, I realized my heart was set on something else.” He grasps my elbow and guides me to the shade of a large maple tree.
The feel of his touch again after nearly two weeks sends tingles all the way to my toes, as my brain tries desperately to make sense of what he said.
It wasn’t him who tore the temple down. The last wall keeping my heart from Mark falls with it, and I bury my face into his chest. His arms wrap around me, and I hear the burr of his voice against my ear.
“I didn’t need the palazzo job. Nonno came with me to Boston and started the long road of reconciling with my dad, which was the main point of getting that project.
And I couldn’t lock myself into a renovation that kept me in Rome for three years.
I wanted to keep my options open in case I need to . . .”
He pulls back, just enough to lock his gaze with mine, so intense I can’t fill my lungs.
“Need to what?” There is nothing in my life I need more than the rest of that sentence.
“In case I need to move to Boston. Last time, I let the girl walk out of my life, which worked out for the best. This time, though, I’m not letting a little ocean separate us.”
My breath hitches. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It took me a minute to realize I don’t have to stay put and watch you leave. Then Nonno couldn’t find his passport and we had to turn his house upside down looking for it. I didn’t write you because I wanted to prove to you in person that I’m willing to be wherever you are.”
“Meanwhile, I was desperately trying to get over you by reminding myself of why we started the bet in the first place.”
His eyes fill with regret. “I’m sorry I took my ache out on you when we first met.
I said some stupid, hurtful things on the plane.
Moving to Italy was the most exhausting, heart-wrenching thing I’ve ever done, and I was jealous of your na?ve excitement, and also nervous for you.
That your dream Italy would be crushed under the reality. ”
I place a hand on his chest and feel his strong heartbeat. “You didn’t know. I didn’t tell you about my mom.”
He covers my hand with his own. “That doesn’t excuse how hard I pushed the point, though.
Because I was also nervous for myself. I was afraid of falling for someone who would leave me heartbroken in Rome again.
So I tried to push you away, but I couldn’t get you out of my head.
The way you cheered up the airline employee and laughed at my puns.
How you pushed my suitcase right back at me and shared the Vespa with me.
Bolstered the little girl’s courage at the airport and complimented Luca.
You chase after life with gusto and refresh the hearts of those around you. ”
I’m staring, afraid to move a muscle, afraid to breathe.
He clears his throat. “Speaking of chasing—Lexington, I would chase you to the ends of the earth if you let me.” He lets go of my hand and gestures between us. “Can we see where this goes?”
I’m all for encouraging this line of thought. “I bet it does go somewhere.”
“I bet you’re right.” He settles his hands on my hips. “What’re the stakes?”
His eyes drop to my lips, so I say, “A kiss.”
The corners of his mouth lift as he moves us two steps to the left. “Look at that. We went somewhere. We both win. Game over, time for the prize.”
He pulls me in close, hovering right at the edge until the air itself becomes impatient and whimpers.
Okay, that might have been me.
Finally, hands on the back of my neck, he closes the distance, and his lips meet mine. I can feel his smile in the shape of his mouth, but then he deepens the kiss, intense and urgent, making all sorts of bets and promises.
Finally, he draws me into a tight hug, and it feels like home for the first time since I lost Mom.
“Mark?” My voice is muted, my face snuggled into his collarbone.
“Hmm?” He’s twisting my hair around his fingers and I’m struggling to think straight. But we have unfinished business.
“Who won the most votes for the heart of Italy?”
He chuckles, and I feel the rumble in my chest. “You won’t believe me.”
“Did we tie?”
“No. You won. Must have been all that excellent training I gave you. And then you went and distracted me until all I could see or think about was you. So, Lexington, per our terms, what do you want from me? Anything within reason.”
I have my answer. My answer’s been ready for a long time, I just didn’t think it was possible. “I want Italy. With you in it.”
He rolls his eyes. “I can’t give you a whole country. We said anything within reason.”
“No, I mean Gia offered me a job. I know it’s not something you’re giving me, but if we’re together, I’m definitely telling her yes and moving to Italy.”
He pulls back, disbelief washing his face as his eyes search mine. “What? You’ll live in Rome?”
I nod, biting my lip to hold in what I’m sure is a dopey, lovestruck smile.
He dips his head and says, low and gruff, “Tell me it’s really true. Tell me you’re not just saying that because you’re angling for more kissing.”
“Well, I am an event planner. But yes, it’s true.”
And the “event” goes off without a hitch. Every. Last. Swoony. Detail.