Page 25 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

I flash my amused glance toward Drue, who follows our Tigger from two cautious steps behind. “Well, who needs coffee now?” she drawls.

“Speak for yourself.” I wrap a protective hand around my cup. Damn, do the French know how to make coffee that can peel paint. Just the way I like the stuff.

“Suppose I will.” Drue settles in opposite me with movements as serene as her tone, which sets off my internal alarms at once. The resident Eeyore of our Hundred Acre Wood trio is usually more dismal than me before her morning caffeine. “Because it sure looks like someone needs it more than I do.”

“You really going there? Because you two have only yourselves to blame.” I narrow my gaze. “And with that out in the open, I’m officially issuing the birthday girl’s mandate for a day of rest.”

“A day of—” Raegan openly gawks. “No, no, and no. It’s time for the castle tour. Look. It’s on the itinerary.” She yanks out her smart pad and jabs a finger at the screen. “Besides, Henri has already ordered the car.”

I lift my head and narrow my gaze. “The…huh?”

“You heard me,” she rejoins. “The limo is already on its way. The off-property attractions are included as part of the package I booked with the De Leons.”

“And the on-property attractions?”

My snark instantly earns me a pair of confused stares.

“What?” I snip. “Come on, girls. The birthday wench has a right to know. Did Henri and Pasca throw in the Marquis de Multiple Orgasms to the package, or was he an extra amenity?” I take a big gulp from the cup in front of me. “Either way,” I croak past the caffeinated motor oil sliding down my throat, “I sure as hell hope the plan for the day calls for several ibuprofen breaks. My head and vagina will need them.”

The humor doesn’t go over quite as I expected.

From Raegan, several wide-eyed blinks.

From Drue, the opposite—a hard crunch of a glower, a slow tilt of her head. “Okay, hold that hem right there,” she orders. “Are you saying your kill-me-now look is a post-shag crash and not a creamed-by-the-Crémant hangover?”

I clank my cup down. “And are you saying you seriously don’t know that answer?”

They fall into silence and then lean in, examining me like a pair of seamstresses actually eyeing the metaphoric hemline. I glare back, fighting to keep my face from heating.

Massive. Fail.

“King. Louis. Wept,” Rae finally blurts. “You really are post-sex and not post-booze. Oh, my God!”

My blush feels like fire. Not that Drue and her saucy smirk even care. “Daaayyyum, wench. Who was it? How was it? Most importantly, is he coming back tonight? And can he bring a friend?”

A shrill laugh escapes as I surge to my feet. I flatten a hand over the space between the bottom of my bra and my belly button, hoping to calm the churning turmoil in that space.

Holy.

Crap.

“Okay,” I say slowly, horrific comprehension finally dawning. “You two really didn’t hire that guy to come to my room last night?”

Rae plummets into a chair. “Wait. There really was a guy? Honestly?”

I hike both brows. “You remember the part where I mentioned multiple orgasms? Mindless, mattress-ripping ones?”

“We drank a lot yesterday. Did you maybe just dream him?”

Drue dabs a finger on the air. “And how come you didn’t lead with the ‘mattress destruction’ part?”

I push to my feet. “Can we get back to the subject here?”

Like how the hell Maximillian What’s-His-Face got into my room? And why?

Because if they really didn’t hire him, why was he there? And where did he come from?

My questions go abysmally unanswered.