Page 11 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Yaaay, Crémant.

Bolstered by that perfect rah-rah, I let Drue pour me a third glass of the fruity bubbles. Why not? The shit is beyond delicious. More importantly, life is too much of a beautiful buzz right now. No deadlines to meet. No video scripts to prep or rough footage to edit. No designers waiting to be interviewed. Right now, my world is just a canopy of emerald trees overhead, a carpet of lush grass underfoot, the cool waters flowing over my bare feet, and the freedom to speak whatever the hell springs to my mind.

“So I’m not saying that everyone on earth should burn every poncho in their closet, but…”

“Er, girlfriend?” Drue finishes with a frown, apparently struggling with a knot in the daisy chain she’s constructing. But I’m not spot-on sure about that, since the ripples make her fuzzy too. “That is essentially what you’re saying.”

“But what about rain ponchos?” Rae inserts from where she lounges in the grass a few feet away. “Like the souvenir ones they gave us on the Niagara Falls boat?”

Raegan giggles. I do too—but not for long. This is an important subject.

“The last person who made a poncho look good was Peggy Lipton.” Since there’s only silence from them both, I reward myself with my own laugh. “Okay, maybe Goldie Hawn. After the Laugh-In days but before the rom-coms. And Jacqueline Smith, who could make a sandwich bag look good…”

Before I can think of a classier act than Jackie Smith, Rae sits up and looks at her watch. “Well, at least you went an hour without talking shop this time.”

Drue spills with a mock gasp. “Oh, that’s got to be a new record.”

I glower at both of them over the rim of my glass. “Didn’t know you two were keeping track.”

Drue lobs the expression back at me. “We’re not and you know it.”

“Let’s keep track of something else!” Raegan reaches into the satchel and then hoists the third bottle high. “Like, let’s say, a certain butler-bellhop hunk who was eyeing our birthday girl like his next scoop of crème brûlée?”

I lower my glass and raise a brow. “You have a strange obsession with dessert today, girlfriend.”

“Stop evading.”

“What? You don’t want to talk about dessert?”

“And you don’t want to talk about sneaking to Christophe’s room and climbing him like a greedy little monkey?”

That’s it. No way can I hold off my eye roll any longer. “First off, that ‘tree’ was probably just being nice and acts that way with all the birthday girls who come through the château. Second, even if that’s not the case, he’ll be the one doing the sneaking, not the other way around.”

Drue does nothing for a moment but take a thoughtful sip from her own glass. Damn it, I hate it when she gets thoughtful.

“Sometimes you have to put in a little effort too, Allie. Believe it or not, it’s worth it sometimes.”

“Believe it or not, huh?”

Resulting in me having to smack back with sarcastic stabs like that.

“Well, it’s clear which option you’ve set to default,” Drue murmurs.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You already know that answer.” She jogs up her chin. “You’re playing judge and jury on every man who crosses your path, Allie. They’re all automatically stamped guilty and then thrown into some theoretical dungeon…”

“Ohhh, dungeons can be fun sometimes. You think Christophe might have a kinky streak?”

And how are Drue and I supposed to ignore a Raegan zinger like that? Neither of us try, and I’m glad about it. As soon as our laughter subsides, we turn toward the wide walking trail back to the castle.

During the short walk, our argument points are left behind in the glade. I no longer rant about ponchos, and Drue ditches the effort to make me open up about my Prince Charming allergy. The quest is impossible, and we all know it. Talking about my past isn’t going to change my issues about it. Mom was doing the best she could with the emotional tools she had, which weren’t many after Dad decided he couldn’t “do the relationship thing.” My head understands that now. In many ways, my heart gets it too.

Except when it comes to adding true love songs to my soundtrack.

Not going to happen, kids.

Even after we arrive back at the château, deciding to bypass dinner in favor of sweet wine and a platter of handmade desserts, I fling a glower at Raegan when she clicks to “Broadway Love Songs” on the sound system. With a snicker, Drue passes me the remote. “Yacht Rock” for all tonight.