Page 30 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

Only to halt along with me.

When I realize there are no booming leather bootsteps following us.

I pivot back around. What’s the dude’s holdup, especially when he was all but sucking the back of my neck a second ago? “You heard the mademoiselle, Sir Hotness. Let’s go.”

Max’s gaze narrows. “You are going out?” he snaps. “Like that?”

“Like what?”

“In your pantaloons?”

I look down. Back up. “My ‘pantaloons’ are Lemaire. And they’re both wearing Valentino.” I swing a finger between Raegan and Drue. “Believe me, we’re dressed just fine for this rodeo.”

He answers with stillness. The unnatural kind, like what a guy reserves for the moments after hearing “I’m pregnant” or “I faked it.” Since neither of those is true, I’m left wondering what’s wrong—and landing back in a puddle of unnerved. Trying, yet again, to define the element that can’t be defined about the man. The strangeness I’ve felt ever since he popped out of that wardrobe…

He sweeps a hand out. The gallant motion dips his shirt enough that one etched pectoral and rugged shoulder are exposed, showing off the flawless man beneath his lost-youth aura.

“Very well then, my lady. Let us depart to this…ro-de-o.” The last word is made of broken syllables, as if he’s never spoken the term.

As soon as it’s out, Drue and Raegan shoot me pointed glances and mouth out their feedback.

So cute, Rae says.

So hot, Drue says.

More of that feminine glow floods through me, though this time I fight a bizarre ache along with it.

Really bizarre.

I don’t want him to leave the château. As if the moment he leaves, his beautiful, half-insane brain will remember he’s really not some lost prince from hundreds of years ago.

A spell I’m not certain I want to break anymore.

A Maximillian I don’t want to give up.

Which now makes me the insane one, right?

Not. Acceptable. I’ve got too much to do. Too many goals to reach. Blogs to post, people to impress, dreams to shoot for, magic of my own to make. No golden eyes, fantasy hair, prince-perfect bodies, or achy goodbyes allowed on that grid.

And no insanity either, damn it.

MAX

Insanity is not acceptable.

The thought first set in after I woke alone in bed, tangled in sheets smelling of spun sugar and dark fruits.

Sheets that smelled of Alessandra.

After reaching that recognition, and thanking all the powers of heaven that she is real, I dismissed the insanity explanation. I did imagine that she had somehow disappeared into the wardrobe with the same terrifying swiftness I had—fears given life by my dozens of theories about exactly what happened after I drowned in Kavia’s hexed flames.

Kavia had simply put me to sleep and then convinced the mob I fled the castle.

There was a trap door in the wardrobe, and Kavia told Alessandra how to spring it.

Kavia truly possesses dark powers and had rendered me invisible.

Or Kavia has the knowledge of angels and can conjure love and beauty.